Free to Trade (8 page)

The afternoon passed pleasantly. Then, after she had come back from the kitchen with some more tea, she said, 'I do wish your father would write. He has been in Australia a while now. You would have thought he could write. I'm sure he has found a lovely sheep farm. I saw one on telly last week which I am sure would do for us.'

'I am sure he will write soon. Let's go out and see the garden,' I said, trying to change the subject. But it was no use.

'It really is inconsiderate of him, you know. All I need is a quick letter. I know it's expensive to phone from that distance. Have you heard from him?'

'No, Mum, I'm afraid I haven't,' I said.

Nor was I likely to. My father hadn't gone to Australia. Or Argentina, or Canada, as my mother had suggested over the years. He had died.

It had happened when I was eleven, and although I hadn't actually seen it, what I had seen would always remain with me. Something had caught in the combine harvester on our farm, and he had tried to free it. But he had left the engine on. I was kicking a football against the wall on the other side of the barn. I had heard a shout over the noise of the engine, which cut off abruptly. I ran round the barn to find what was left of my father.

Eventually I had come to terms with the shock. My mother never did. She had been devoted to my father and could not accept his death. She had created another world for herself, one in which he was still alive, and one in which she could be comfortable.

My father was the tenant of one of the largest farms on an estate, and was respected by everyone in the village. This had made the lives of my mother, my older sister and me easier. Lord Mablethorpe, the owner of the estate, had spent a lot of time on my father's farm, discussing with him ever more efficient ways to get the maximum yield from it. They had become firm friends. When my father died, Lord Mablethorpe had given us a tied cottage to live in, promising it to my mother for as long as she lived. My father had taken out a generous life-insurance policy which gave us enough to live on, and the neighbours were all kind and helpful.

My father was a good man. I knew that because everyone always said so. I remembered him as a big, fierce man with a strong sense of right and wrong. I had always done my best to please him and I had usually succeeded. On the occasions when I failed to meet his expectations, there was all hell to pay. At the end of one term I had come home from school with a report criticising me for playing the fool in class. He had given me a lecture on the importance of learning at school. I was top of the class the next term.

His death, and the effect it had on my mother, seemed so unfair, unjust. I was stricken by my inability to do anything about it. It made me angry.

It was then that I had started running. I ran for miles over the hills, pushing myself to the limit that my small lungs could bear. I would battle my way through the cold wind and gloom of a Yorkshire winter, seeking some solace in the lonely struggle against the moors.

I also worked hard at school, determined to live up to what I imagined my father would have expected of me. I had struggled into Cambridge. Despite spending so much time on athletics, I had managed a respectable degree. By the time I started my Olympic campaign, determination and the desire to win had become a habit. It would be wrong to say that I had driven myself to an Olympic medal just for him. But I secretly hoped he had seen me crossing the line for my bronze.

My mother had never come to terms with my ambitions. Whilst my father was 'away', she had wanted my sister to marry a local farmer, and me to go to agricultural college so that I could look after the farm. My sister had obliged her, but I had not. After the accident, I could not face farming. But, in order to make her world habitable, my mother had decided that I was studying at an agricultural college in London. At first I had tried to contradict her, but she hadn't listened, so I gave up. She had been proud of my achievements on the track, but worried in case they were interfering with my studies.

'It's a lovely afternoon,' I said, to try to change the subject. 'Let's go for a walk.'

We left the cottage and struck up the hillside. My mother was a regular walker and we soon made it to the saddle between our valley and the next. We looked down on to Helmby Hall, an austere mansion built at the beginning of the twentieth century by an earlier Lord Mablethorpe with the profits from his textile milling interests.

My mother paused for breath. 'Oh, I didn't tell you, did I? Lord Mablethorpe died last month. A stroke. Your father will be sad when he finds out.'

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,' I said.

'So am I,' she said. 'He was always very good to me. And to lots of people in the village.'

'Does that mean his moronic son has taken over Helmby Hall?'

'Paul, really. He's not daft. He's a charming young gentleman. He's clever too. He works in a merchant bank in London, I believe. I hear he is still going to spend most of his time down there. He'll just come up here at weekends, like.'

'Well, the less he has to do with Barthwaite, the better,' I said. 'Has Mrs Kirby met him yet? I wonder what she thinks of him,' I asked my mother innocently.

My mother laughed. 'I wouldn't put even that past her,' she said.

We got back to the cottage at about seven, tired but contented with each other's company.

Then, just as I was getting in the car for the drive home, she said, 'Now then, make sure you study hard, dear. Your father told me before he left that he was sure you would make a good farmer, and I am sure you can prove him right.'

I drove home as I often drove home after visits to my mother, sad and angry at the unfairness of life and death.

I was sitting at my desk early on Monday morning when Rob arrived, a huge grin on his face. I knew that grin of old. He was in love again, and things were going well.

'OK, what happened?'

He was bursting to tell me. 'Well, I rang Cathy yesterday and persuaded her to come out with me. She made all sorts of excuses, but I wasn't going to let her get away with any of them. She finally gave in and we went to a film she said she had wanted to see for years. It was some French rubbish by Truffaut. I thought it was extremely boring and lost all track of what was going on, but she was glued to the screen. Afterwards we had dinner. We talked for hours. She really seems to understand me in a way no other girl ever has.'

Or at least not since Claire last month and Sophie three months ago, I thought a little cruelly. Rob could get quite carried away when he poured his heart out to girls. The funny thing was, often they would get carried away too. But I wouldn't have put Cathy down as a push-over for Rob's technique.

'So what happened?' I asked.

'Nothing,' Rob smiled. 'She's a nice girl. She doesn't go in for that sort of thing on a first date. But I'm seeing her on Saturday. I'm going to take her sailing.'

'Good luck,' I said. This was shaping up to be like Rob's other affairs. He was at the pedestal-building stage, I thought. You had to hand it to him, though. He seemed capable of cracking even the toughest nut.

The light flashed on my phone board. It was Cash.

'I got a couple of things,' he began. 'First, are you coming to our conference?'

'Yes, I'd love to come. Thank you very much,' I said.

'Good,' Cash said. 'And I promise I will set up a meeting with Irwin Piper when he is over. Now, I have another suggestion. Would you like to come to Henley as a guest of Bloomfield Weiss? The firm has a tent every year, and I hear it's a blast. Cathy and I will be there. Bring someone from the office if you like.'

My heart sank. I had no interest in rowing. And I had no interest in this kind of corporate entertainment. It would involve lots of drinking with a crowd of people I didn't know, and didn't want to know. The only good thing was no one would be paying any attention to the rowing. I wanted to say no, but it was always difficult to say no to Cash.

'Thank you very much, I'll have to check whether I am doing anything that weekend. I'll let you know.'

'OK. Give me a call.'

I hung up. Effusive American meets polite Englishman, and neither is comfortable with the result, I thought, feeling slightly guilty.

'What's up?' asked Rob.

'I've been invited to Henley by Bloomfield Weiss, and I feel bad about saying no.'

Rob perked up. 'Bloomfield Weiss, eh? Will Cathy be there?'

'Yes,' I said.

'Well, I think you should go. And I think you should take me with you.'

I protested, but it was useless. The persuasive powers of Rob and Cash combined were too much for me. I rang Cash back to say I would be delighted to come, and I would bring Rob. Cash sounded pleased.

I was sitting at my desk watching the market struggle through the summer doldrums, ably assisted by Debbie. I was bored and irritated. Debbie seemed quite happy with the situation. I watched her work her way through the
Financial Times
crossword. I was struggling to keep myself busy. I scanned our portfolio, hoping for some ideas.

There were one or two bonds with NV after their name. That reminded me.

'Debbie.'

'Not now, can't you see I'm busy,' she said.

'Did you check the Netherlands Antilles issues? Do we have to worry about those changes to the tax treaty?'

Debbie put down her paper. 'Amazingly enough, I did.' She pointed to a pile of prospectuses. 'I've checked over all our portfolios, and we are all right. None of our bonds is affected. The only Netherlands Antilles bonds we hold are trading below a hundred, so we will make money if the issuer calls them at par.'

'That's a relief. Well done. Thanks very much for doing all that,' I said.

'Hang on a moment. We may be OK on the tax legislation, but I have stumbled across one bond that smells fishy, very fishy indeed.'

'Go on.'

'It's this one.'

She put a bond prospectus down on to the desk in front of me. I picked it up and looked at it. Written on the cover in bold was 'Tremont Capital NV secured 8 per cent notes maturing 15 June 2001', and underneath in slightly smaller type 'guaranteed by Honshu Bank Ltd'. Beneath that was 'Lead Manager Bloomfield Weiss'.

'Well, what's wrong with this?' I asked.

'It's difficult to say exactly,' Debbie began. Then she sat up bolt upright in her chair. 'Christ! Did you see that?'

'What?' I said.

'On Reuters.' She read from the screen in front of her,' "Gypsum Company of America announces agreed offer from DGB..." Who the hell are DGB?'

'It's a German cement company, I think,' I said. 'We were right. There was something going on.'

The lines began to flash. I picked one up. It was David Barratt.

'Did you see DGB has bid for Gypsum?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Reuters suggests it's a friendly. Any reason why the bid shouldn't go through?'

'I don't think so,' said David. 'DGB doesn't have any US operations, so there won't be any anti-trust problems.'

'What's DGB's credit like?' I asked. If DGB was a strong credit, then the risk on our Gypsum bonds would be much less. The bond price would soar.

'Double A minus,' said David. He was like a computer when it came to the details of even the most obscure companies. 'Hold on, my trader is shouting something.' I could hear a fair amount of noise in the background. 'He says DGB is paying for the acquisition with cash and a share placing. That shouldn't harm the credit.'

'Where are the bonds trading?' I asked.

'Hang on.' He was back a moment later. 'He's bidding
95.
Do you want to sell your two million?'

I thought for a moment. Ninety-five was too low. 'No thanks. They should be higher than that. Let me know if they move up.'

I put the phone down and shouted across to Debbie. 'What are you hearing?'

'Everyone is looking for these Gypsums. Bloomfield Weiss are bidding 97. I have got Claire on the line here. She is bidding 971/2.

Shall I sell?'

I tapped the buttons of my calculator. By my reckoning we should be able to get 981/4. 'No hold on.'

'Let's just take the profit,' said Debbie.

'No, these things are worth three-quarters of a point more.'

'You are so greedy,' she said.

We spoke to three more salesmen, but none was bidding more than 971/2
.
I was close to giving up when Karen shouted, 'Debbie, Leipziger Bank on four!'

'Who the hell are Leipziger Bank?' said Debbie. 'Tell them to go away, we're busy.'

Leipziger Bank? Now why would an obscure German bank want to talk to us, I wondered. 'I'll talk to them, Karen,' I shouted.

'Good-morning. This is Gunter here. How is it with you? It is a fine day here.'

'Good-morning,' I said. Come on, Gunter, get to the point.

After a little more polite conversation Gunter asked me if I had heard of an issue for the Gypsum Company of America.

'As a matter of fact, I happen to own two and a half million dollars of that issue.'

'Ah good. My trader is bidding 95. This is a very good bid, I believe.'

An appalling bid -- at least two points below the market! 'Listen very closely, Gunter,' I said. 'My colleague is on the other line and is just about to sell these bonds to an old friend of ours at 99
.
If you bid 991/2
right now, then I will sell them to you. Otherwise you will never see these bonds again.'

'Can I have an hour to work on that?' asked Gunter, shaken.

'You can have fifteen seconds to work on it.'

Silence. I looked at my watch. After thirteen seconds, Gunter was back on the line. 'OK, OK we will buy two and a half million Gypsum of America 9 per cents of 1995 at 991/2
.''

'Done,' I said.

'Thank you,' said Gunter. 'I look forward to doing a lot more business with you in the future.'

Fat chance, I thought, as I put down the phone.

'How on earth did you get him to pay 991/2? asked Debbie.

'The only reason I could think that an outfit like Leipziger Bank should be buying these bonds is if they are DGB's local bank. If DGB are desperate to buy the Gypsum bonds, then they can afford to pay up for them. Can you believe that guy only bid 95 when he was prepared to pay 991/2? Remind me not to deal with them again.'