Robbins Three Seasons

Three Stories of England in the Eighties
1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-0-9914374-6-7
Verlag: Third Rail
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 226 Seiten

In a South Coast port, a middle-aged trawlerman has one last throw of the dice. In the Thames Valley, property is booming. And the meek won't inherit the earth. In a Warwickshire vicarage the Master of an Oxford college must try to unite past and present. Three Seasons is about the Thatcher era in Britain, but it is not about politics. These three stories are portraits of a country and its people on the verge of change.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Robbins, Mike

Leseproben

II Summer From where he stood, Terry could see the whole of the atrium and the surrounding balcony, as well as most of the floorspace below. He stood leaning on the polished hardwood railing of the walkway that ran around the building’s central space, basking in a pool of yellow sunshine that spread patterns across the carpeted floor. Above him was the building’s glass-and-steel, high-tech roof. He tipped the ash off his cigarette into the potted plant beside him. There were numerous potted plants. They lined the balcony and popped up in all the empty offices, often the only object in those rooms, which had a smell of fresh paint and varnish and clean new carpets. Some symmetrical soul had placed all the plants in the same positions, in the corner and next to the powerpoint or telephone socket. In the entrance hall, on either side of the inner doors which led into the light-well below the atrium, two tall ashtrays had been placed; they stood guard, their polished metal cylinders reflecting any visitor as he walked towards them from the smoked glass of the outside doors. Terry heard the murmur of voices from the light-well below and peered over the balcony. After a moment two figures emerged from beneath the balcony across the well and started to walk slowly, talking, across the open floor. From above he could see the Chairman’s mop of silver hair and broad shoulders, the careful cut of his charcoal suit; and the balding head of the chief accountant, not quite as tall and clad in a lighter shade of grey. Something had struck Terry as missing when the two had followed him into the building. Now he knew what it was. Neither carried briefcases, giving them what he thought was a casual, unprofessional air. As they disappeared below the balcony on which he stood, he raised his own brown leather-covered case with its gleaming combination locks and placed it in front of him on the railing. He opened it, and then listened for footsteps on the stairs behind him. He heard the hiss of the door opening and the sound of a voice, unmistakeably the chairman’s, deep and rich, and, for some reason, a little diffident. “You meet quite a few of them nowadays,” he said quietly. There was a grunt of assent from his companion. Terry waited a second or two while the door closed and, choosing his moment carefully, snapped the lid of the case down into the locks, securing them with two sharp clicks. Then, and only then, he turned and smiled. “A beautifully-planned building, wouldn’t you say, Alistair?” He was addressing the Chairman. “It certainly has a remarkable, er, regularity,” said the chairman. “Do I mean that? What word do I want, Mr. Davis?” “Symmetry, perhaps, Chairman,” said the accountant. His own voice had a slight burr that might have come from the West Country. “Even the ashtrays. Did you notice?” “The ashtrays? Ah, yes, those two in the hall.” “The atrium is good, isn’t it?” Terry waved his hand vaguely at the ceiling over the light-well. “It gives a feeling of light and space.” “Surely there must be energy losses through that ceiling,” said Davis. “And doesn’t it become rather warm in that light-well?” “I should have thought it was, er, infernal on a fine spring day,” said the Chairman. “Oh, but one wouldn’t have people working in that space,” said Terry hurriedly. “It’s meant as a sort of promenade space.” “It’s still square footage we have to pay for,” said Davis. “And the price per square foot does seem rather high,” commented the Chairman, again with that slight diffidence that Terry found odd in one so powerful. “That reflects its close proximity to London,” said Terry. “And good communications.” “I had hoped to save a considerable sum of money on rental,” said Davis. “Otherwise it isn’t worth uprooting our staff.” “At least here they wouldn’t be too isolated from amenities,” said the Chairman. “But do we really need a promenade area? In Covent Garden they appear to find the pub quite adequate for that, especially with the new licensing hours.” Davis chuckled. “Quite so.” “Ah, but we have excellent pubs here in the countryside,” said Terry quickly. “In fact, let’s go and have a spot of lunch. It’s – ” He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly two.” The Chairman hesitated. “What do you think, Mr. Davis? I’d like to hit the Chiswick Flyover before the Friday afternoon holocaust.” He smiled slightly. “So would I, but it should only take an hour or so, surely,” said Davis. “It’s only seventy or eighty miles. Are you anxious to get back?” “No, not especially.” The Chairman made a move for the door. This threw Terry out of kilter. I’m supposed to take the lead, he thought, act positive. I shouldn’t have let them wander round the building on their own anyway, bad psychology. “In fact,” the Chairman was saying, “I should love an excuse to be late for dinner. My wife has invited some dreadful bore from the Arts Council. I expect he will spend the entire evening spewing fearful drivel about the shape of sculpture in the wake of socialist realism or something. Is this the way down, Mr. Malcolm?” “Eh? Oh, yes, er, straight down the stairs and across the lobby.” With fancy footwork Terry managed to take the lead again in the hall, having been frustrated on the stairs, which were too narrow. He led them towards the doors, which had brown-painted steel frames. Through the polarised glass the sky looked blue and white; as they emerged, blinking, into the strong sunlight, it reverted to a white summer haze. “Would you like a lift?” asked the Chairman courteously. “Or did you bring your car?” “Is he taking the piss?” Terry asked himself, but there was no hint of it on the Chairman’s face. Out loud he replied: “It’s the BMW over there,” and pointed to a white BMW of the smaller kind that was drawn up by the kerb a few yards away. “I’ll lead you to the pub. It’s only a couple of miles.” “Perhaps you would give us directions, in case we lose you,” suggested Davis. He had already guessed that the young estate agent’s sales psychology included a leaden right foot. “Oh, it’s quite easy,” said Terry, surprised that anyone would admit to not being able to keep up. “Turn right, then right again along the Basingstoke road. Follow that for a mile or so, then a turn to the left brings you to the village. The pub’s in the middle of it.” “Very good,” said the Chairman. “What sort of pub are we looking for?” “Oh, a nice pub,” said Terry, construing the question as social, rather than geographical. “It’s been done up very nicely. I’ll see you shortly, then.” The Chairman nodded. He climbed behind the wheel of the dark-green Jaguar and switched on. Above the gentle whirr of the twelve-cylinder engine he caught the revving of the BMW and a slight whiff of exhaust intruded over the wood and leather of his own car. He sighed softly, and followed the BMW out of the car-park. “What do you think of the building?” asked the accountant from the passenger seat. “I think it’s a bit soulless for a publishing company,” replied the Chairman. “We’ve been happily in organised chaos in Floral Street ever since my grandfather ran the firm. Really, John, I’ll be looking for quite substantial savings if we’re to move. I’m not sure that we’ll find them here.” “I don’t think so either, now I’ve talked to this chap,” said Davis. “He admits that the lessees would be looking for a premium. Moreover I rang Home Counties this morning and I gather that the head lease has been sold to an investment company. Apparently it was in Chartered Surveyor last week.” The Chairman smiled. “I see. So they’ll cream a little off the top. From us.” “More than a little,” said Davis. “According to Chartered Surveyor Weekly, they’ve been trying to find occupants for more than six months.” “Have they?” The Chairman glanced across at his companion. “That’s interesting. I thought this area was supposed to be incredibly sought-after.” “It is, but I feel the increase in rents has slowed just enough to worry some of the property companies. It’s become so competitive that they’ve all hacked their profit margins to the bone and they can’t afford to drop their rents by even a penny per square foot.” He thought for a moment. “It’s not obvious yet, Chairman, but with these rising interest rates the bubble’s beginning to wobble. Maybe all over the south-east. But not burst. Not yet.” “Hmm,” said the Chairman. He looked at the rear of the white BMW, fast disappearing in the distance. “Bad news for chaps like that. I suppose...