In Vino Veritas (3 page)

Gerry Davies took his time and spoke calmly. ‘So far, we seem to be immune from the worst effects of the recession. We are a specialist market with niche sales, which we all hope may not suffer the worst troughs of the economy. We shall know by the end of this year whether this is indeed so. Sales of our white wines have increased again, as they have done every year in the last ten – as in fact they need to do, since we are producing more dry and medium-dry whites every year. This remains the core of our business.'

Beaumont nodded slowly. ‘It does, but we are also producing more red each year. There seems to be a steady demand for it: a higher percentage of red wine from all sources is drunk in Britain each year, so we need to take account of that trend.'

Gerry Davies nodded. ‘So far, we are selling all the red we produce. However, we have to push the “rough but fruity and characterful” aspect rather more than I like to do, and we take a smaller mark-up on the reds than the whites. We could do with something to rival the Australian Shiraz. But no one as far north as us has come up with a vine to rival them so far.'

‘We should get some economies of scale on our reds from this year onwards,' said Beaumont. ‘I calculate that we should increase our production of them substantially over each of the next five years.'

‘Economies of scale will depend on us shifting everything we produce,' pointed out Davies. ‘We've had to work very hard to clear all the reds in the last couple of years.'

There was a tension between him and Beaumont which everyone in the room could feel. Beaumont was a man who didn't like to be challenged too openly or too far, whilst Davies for his part was not prepared to let anything go which might cause him trouble in the future. The Welshman now said, as though making a concession, ‘The new sparkling wines have gone quite well. Quality and flavour don't seem to be too important with sparkling wines.' He glanced up at the faces in the quiet room, wanting to see their reactions. ‘A lot of the people who drink sparkling wines don't seem to be wine drinkers at all, you see. It's used mainly to celebrate family or group achievements, and everyone has a glass or two.'

Beaumont knew that their latest champagne-type wines were better than that, but decided that he would not be insulted. ‘So long as we sell whatever we produce in the way of sparkling wines, we need not concern ourselves too much with what motivates the drinkers,' he said affably. ‘How is the beer we agreed to stock selling in the shop?'

‘The Dog's Whiskers pump? Surprisingly well.' Davies spoke eagerly, as if he too were anxious to move on from controversial ground. ‘The brewery gave us an astonishingly good margin because they were so anxious to get in here, so we couldn't really lose on it. Nevertheless, it's sold well. There are still quite a lot of real ale enthusiasts who come in here to buy our wines.'

Beaumont nodded. ‘We are talking about the heartbeat of our business when we discuss shop sales. Everything else is driven by the profits from the shop. Are there any comments from our financial director?'

Alistair Morton had spoken not a word throughout the meeting, confident that his expert view would be demanded if he bided his time. For better or worse, accountants controlled the finances and thus the policies of many businesses nowadays. He cleared his throat and said, ‘I think it's time we began to distinguish between the retail activities of the shop and the mail-order business, which is increasingly important. It may be a better indication of the way we should plan for the future than the changing week-to-week takings in the shop. In my view, it is the orders we secure for many cases of wines at our discount rates which are a better reflection of our progress than anything else.

‘There is now a steady take-up on our products from restaurants – not all of them local – and some of the specialist wine shops. As our production expands over the next few years, it is this wholesale trade which is essential to ensure that we sell in the quantities required.'

It was a long speech and a prepared one, but none the worse for that. People listened carefully because they expected considered, not spontaneous, views from people who advised about finance. Even dullness was allowed, if it made commercial sense; indeed, to some people, dullness was almost a guarantee of accounting respectability and reliability.

Beaumont nodded his agreement. ‘And what do you foresee for us in the next two or three years, Alistair? There are plenty of prophets of gloom and doom about, but I think we are better placed than most to come through a recession.'

Alistair Morton took his time. ‘No one can make reliable forecasts, because no one knows yet how deep or prolonged this slump is going to be. There are two key factors for us, as for any business: turnover and margins. As with any other agricultural crop, we have to be certain that each year we can grow and market a good harvest. Assuming we can do that, our success or otherwise will then depend on what profit margins we can maintain on those products. So far, we have managed to maintain our overall net profit margin at eleven to twelve per cent. Whether we can do that during the next two or three winters remains to be seen.'

Gerry Davies said a little mischievously, ‘But it's your view that we can do that?'

‘There are too many imponderables for me to say that. We shall have to see whether demand remains buoyant when most people haven't as much to spend on luxuries. Despite our increasing turnover, all the evidence is that English wines are regarded as luxury spending.'

Morton glanced at Beaumont at the head of the table. ‘So far, we have managed to keep a healthy margin on all of our wine sales. We shall have increased supply again this year – probably twenty to thirty per cent more in the reds and ten per cent in the whites, if we have a decent harvest. Whether we can continue to increase demand and keep sales buoyant during the biggest recession on record will be the great question for all of us in the next two years.'

Beaumont said, ‘I don't think times are going to be as bad as that, as far as spending power goes. We are a much richer nation now than in the thirties.'

Alistair Morton decided that as the supposed expert on the economy he would offer a little comfort. ‘That is certainly true. And the world seems to be determined to be less passive about this slump than the one in the thirties. More important, we are a completely new industry, which didn't exist in the thirties. We should be able to think on our feet and devise solutions for ourselves. I am encouraged to hear talk of economies of scale. It might be possible to reduce our prices per bottle over the coming decade, whilst keeping our overall profit margins the same.'

Beaumont nodded. ‘That should be our overriding thought, I think. It is something which none of us can achieve alone, but which we should be working for as a team. Unless anyone has any other urgent thoughts, I think we should leave it at that for this morning.'

He hastened to close the meeting on an upbeat comment. ‘I'd like you to reassure all our staff that no one's job is in danger at the moment. We have a good workforce. I want to keep it intact if I possibly can.'

Martin Beaumont sat for a while in his office after everyone had left. The meeting had gone well, he thought. No one had raised anything that was particularly embarrassing. He thought he'd succeeded in putting some important people on their toes for the year ahead.

He was much better at estimating his own performance than other people's reaction to it.

D
etective Sergeant Bert Hook was not usually nervous. The roughest young thugs of Gloucestershire and Herefordshire had often found that out the hard way when they had thought to intimidate him. Proficient batsmen in the Minor Counties competitions had found themselves hopping about on the back foot when they had underestimated his pace as an opening bowler.

Yet today Bert was uncharacteristically uncertain. He turned the white foolscap envelope over and over between his short, strong fingers. He decided several times to slit its flap decisively with his paperknife, yet each time desisted and went back to looking at his neatly typed name and address on the address label. He knew whence this missive had come and knew its purpose. Yet he could not bring himself to meet its simple message. It was one of those letters where you dearly wanted to discover the contents, yet at the same time feared to know them. If the human brain is a complex thing, the human mind is even less predictable.

‘It's come, then.'

He leaped at the sound of the familiar voice, as though detected in some criminal act. ‘I didn't know you were there,' he said accusingly.

His wife Eleanor smiled down at him as he sat at the kitchen table. ‘I do live here. And I didn't creep up on you. It's just that you were miles away.'

Bert resumed turning the letter between his fingers, as if he had been interrupted in some ancient and essential preliminary routine. ‘I knew it was coming, didn't I? Now that it's here, I almost wish it hadn't come. It's like being a child again. It brings back the Barnardo's home and having to open the letter with my GCE results.'

‘This will be as positive as they were.'

For a moment Hook was back in that boyhood world, at the long table in the office of the institution's principal, fingering that other envelope. ‘I enjoyed that day. They told me at the home that I'd done well enough to get into the police, if I could meet the other criteria. I felt as if I'd won the lottery, getting myself a job – any sort of job.' He could hear again the cut-glass tones of that well-meaning lady who had chaired the governors of the home, telling him on the day that he left that he had done well for himself, that he should continue to give thanks for the grace of the good Lord, who had seen fit to reward him for his rectitude.

At length he said abruptly, ‘I don't want to open this. I know it's silly and I wouldn't confess it to anyone else, but as long as I don't open it I can't have failed, can I?'

‘You haven't failed, you great lummox.'

It was a long time since Eleanor Hook had left her native north, but she retained the occasional colourful dialect word. There was a bump on the ceiling and the sound of childish admonishment from above. She said, ‘The lads will be down any second. Better to get it over without that sort of audience, don't you think?'

‘You know how to produce the ultimate threat,' said her husband glumly. Bert picked up the paperknife, slit the envelope decisively, and carefully drew out the single sheet within it.

Eleanor could divine nothing from his weather-beaten, impassive features. Only she knew how much effort he had put into his studies over the last six years. She was probably the one person to whom he would have admitted how much this meant to him, but marriage meant that these things did not have to be spoken. He stared for a long time at the notepaper with the Open University crest at the top of it. Then he looked at his wife and felt the smile creeping over his face. He handed her the paper. Eleanor read as unemotionally as she could: ‘Herbert James Hook is awarded the degree of Bachelor of Arts, with second class honours, division one.'

She paused for just a moment, to let the joy flood into her own face, then threw her arms round Bert. The kiss had relaxed into a hug and she was murmuring words of congratulation into his ear when a voice from the doorway said, ‘They're at it again, Jack!' and the two of them sprang automatically apart.

A noise as of approaching thunder from the stairs announced the precipitate arrival of their elder son, who studied the tableau before him, shook his head sadly, then announced to thirteen-year-old Luke, ‘You'd think they could control themselves, at their age and at this time in the morning.'

‘And in front of innocent children at an impressionable age, too,' said Luke with the despairing shake of his head which he had spent some time developing in front of his bedroom mirror.

‘There's nothing innocent about you two,' said Bert Hook sadly. ‘And you're about as impressionable as Genghis Khan. Sit down and eat your breakfast.'

They hastened to obey. ‘God knows what it's doing to us, being exposed to shenanigans like this at this time in the morning,' said Jack.

‘You wouldn't recognize a shenanigan if it got up and bit you,' said his father with feeling. ‘Do you want toast?'

‘Two slices, please, if you two can tear yourselves away from each other.'

‘That's enough of that,' said his mother, with all the sternness she could muster.

‘That's what we thought,' said Jack, with a benign smile at no one in particular.

‘Your father has some news for you,' said Eleanor seriously.

They caught a hint of her seriousness, and looked up expectantly from their cereals at Bert, who drew in a deep breath and said, ‘I've got my degree – the one I've been studying for over the last few years.'

Luke's thirteen-year-old eyes widened. ‘Who's a clever boy, then?' he said with his head on one side.

Like many a boy of his age, he did not quite know how to react when confronted with some serious issue in his parents' lives. It was left to his fifteen-year-old brother to say simply, ‘Well done, Dad!' Jack got up and came round the table and shook his father's hand, awkwardly but firmly. It was at once touching and slightly ridiculous, like a parody of adult congratulation, and it became more so when Luke followed him and solemnly repeated the exercise.

Eleanor, who was suddenly very much moved by the sight of the trio, said stoutly, ‘That's a very good degree, you know. And he's done it part time, whilst making sure we're all safe in our homes. I hope you realize now that your father is a man of many talents.'

‘We know that, Mum,' said Luke. ‘Billy Singh, our opening bat, has the top average in the whole league, and Dad bowled him middle stump in the nets last summer, didn't he, Jack?'