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  ‘What do you want, Julian?’

  ‘For you to be Chairman, of course.’

  ‘What do you want?’ repeated Alexander, his voice rising with every word.

  ‘I thought a little break in the sun while you’re moving up a floor. Nice, Monte Carlo, perhaps a week or two in St Tropez.’

  ‘And how much do you imagine that would cost?’ Alexander asked.

  ‘Oh, I would have thought ten thousand would comfortably cover my expenses.’

  ‘Far too comfortably,’ said Alexander.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Julian. ‘Try not to forget that I know exactly how much you’re worth, and that’s without the rise in salary you can expect once you become Chairman. Let’s face it, Phil, it’s far less than the News of the World would be willing to offer me for an exclusive. I can see the headline now: “Rent Boy’s Night with Chairman of Family Bank”.’

  ‘That’s criminal,’ said Alexander.

  ‘No. As I was under age at the time, I think you’ll find it’s you who’s the criminal.’

  ‘You can go too far, you know,’ said Alexander.

  ‘Not while you have ambitions to go even further,’ said Julian, with a laugh.

  ‘I’ll need a few days.’

  ‘I can’t wait that long – I want to catch the early flight to Nice tomorrow. Be sure that the money has been transferred to my account before you go into the board meeting at eleven, there’s a good chap. Don’t forget it was you who taught me about electronic transfers.’

  The phone went dead, then rang again immediately.

  ‘Who is it this time?’ snapped Alexander.

  ‘The Chairman’s on line two.’

  ‘Put him through.’

  ‘Phillip, I need the latest figures on the Russian loans, along with your assessment of the McKinsey report.’

  ‘I’ll have an update on the Russian position on your desk within the hour. As for the McKinsey report, I’m broadly in agreement with its recommendations, but I’ve asked Godfrey Tudor-Jones to let me have a written opinion on how we should go about implementing it. I intend to present his report at tomorrow’s board meeting. I hope that’s satisfactory, Chairman?’

  ‘I doubt it. I have a feeling that by tomorrow it will be too late,’ the Chairman said without explanation, before replacing the phone.

  Sir William knew it didn’t help that the latest Russian losses had exceeded £500 million. And now the McKinsey report had arrived on every director’s desk, recommending that seventy jobs, perhaps even more, should be shed in order to make a saving of around £3 million a year. When would management consultants begin to understand that human beings were involved, not just numbers on a balance sheet – among them seventy loyal members of staff, some of whom had served the bank for more than twenty years?

  There wasn’t a mention of the Russian loan in the McKinsey report, because it wasn’t part of their brief; but the timing couldn’t have been worse. And in banking, timing is everything.

  Phillip Alexander’s words to the board were indelibly fixed in Sir William’s memory: ‘We mustn’t allow our rivals to take advantage of such a one-off windfall. If Critchley’s is to remain a player on the international stage, we have to move quickly while there’s still a profit to be made.’ The short-term gains could be enormous, Alexander had assured the board – whereas in truth the opposite had turned out to be the case. And within moments of things falling apart, the little shit had begun digging himself out of the Russian hole, while dropping his Chairman right into it. He’d been on holiday at the time, and Alexander had phoned him at his hotel in Marrakech to tell him that he had everything under control, and there was no need for him to rush home. When he did eventually return, he found that Alexander had already filled in the hole, leaving him at the bottom of it.

  After reading the article in the Financial Times, Sir William knew his days as Chairman were numbered. The resignation of Maurice Kington had been the final blow, from which he knew he couldn’t hope to recover. He had tried to talk him out of it, but there was only one person’s future Kington was ever interested in.

  The Chairman stared down at his handwritten letter of resignation, a copy of which would be sent to every member of the board that evening.

  His loyal secretary Claire had reminded him that he was fifty-seven, and had often talked of retiring at sixty to make way for a younger man. It was ironic when he considered who that younger man might be.

  True, he was fifty-seven. But the last Chairman hadn’t retired until he was seventy, and that was what the board and the shareholders would remember. It would be forgotten that he had taken over an ailing bank from an ailing Chairman, and increased its profits year on year for the past decade. Even if you included the Russian disaster, they were still well ahead of the game.

  Those hints from the Prime Minister that he was being considered for a peerage would quickly be forgotten. The dozen or so directorships that are nothing more than routine for the retiring Chairman of a major bank would suddenly evaporate, along with the invitations to Buck House, the Guildhall and the centre court at Wimbledon – the one official outing his wife always enjoyed.

  He had told Katherine over dinner the night before that he was going to resign. She had put down her knife and fork, folded her napkin and said, ‘Thank God for that. Now it won’t be necessary to go on with this sham of a marriage any longer. I shall wait for a decent interval, of course, before I file for divorce.’ She had risen from her place and left the room without uttering another word.

  Until then, he’d had no idea that Katherine felt so strongly. He’d assumed she was aware that there had been other women, although none of his affairs had been all that serious. He thought they had reached an understanding, an accommodation. After all, so many married couples of their age did. After dinner he had travelled up to London and spent the night at his club.

  He unscrewed the top of his fountain pen and signed the twelve letters. He had left them on his desk all day, in the hope that before the close of business some miracle would occur which would make it possible for him to shred them. But in truth he knew that was never likely.

  When he finally took the letters through to his secretary, she had already typed the recipients’ names on the twelve envelopes. He smiled at Claire, the best secretary he’d ever had.

  ‘Goodbye, Claire,’ he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Goodbye, Sir William,’ she replied, biting her lip.

  He returned to his office, picked up his empty briefcase and a copy of The Times. Tomorrow he would be the lead story in the Business Section – he wasn’t quite well enough known to make the front page. He looked around the Chairman’s office once again before leaving it for the last time. He closed the door quietly behind him and walked slowly down the corridor to the lift. He pressed the button and waited. The doors opened and he stepped inside, grateful that the lift was empty, and that it didn’t stop on its journey to the ground floor.

  He walked out into the foyer and glanced towards the reception desk. Haskins would have gone home long ago. As the plate-glass door slid open he thought about Kevin sitting at home in Peckham with his pregnant wife. He would have liked to have wished him luck for the job on the reception desk. At least that wouldn’t be affected by the McKinsey report.

  As he stepped out onto the pavement, something caught his eye. He turned to see an old tramp settling down for the night in the far corner underneath the arch.

  Bill touched his forehead in a mock salute. ‘Good evening, Chairman,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Good evening, Bill,’ Sir William replied, smiling back at him.

  If only they could change places, Sir William thought, as he turned and walked towards his waiting car.

  The Queen’s Birthday Telegram

  Her Majesty the Queen sends her congratulations to Albert Webber on the occasion of his 100th birthday, and wishes him many more years of good health and happiness.

  AL
BERT WAS still smiling after he’d read the message for the twentieth time.

  ‘You’ll be next, ducks,’ he said as he passed the royal missive across to his wife. Betty only had to read the telegram once for a broad smile to appear on her face too.

  The festivities had begun a week earlier, culminating in a celebration party at the town hall. Albert’s photograph had appeared on the front page of the Somerset Gazette that morning, and he had been interviewed on BBC Points West, his wife seated proudly by his side.

  His Worship the Mayor of Street, Councillor Ted Harding, and the leader of the local council, Councillor Brocklebank, were waiting on the town hall steps to greet the centenarian. Albert was escorted to the mayor’s parlour, where he was introduced to Mr David Heathcote-Amory, the local Member of Parliament, as well as the local MEP, although when asked later he couldn’t remember her name.

  After several more photographs had been taken, Albert was ushered through to a large reception room where over a hundred invited guests were waiting to greet him. As he entered the room he was welcomed by a spontaneous burst of applause, and people he’d never met before began shaking hands with him.

  At 3.27 p.m., the precise minute Albert had been born in 1907, the old man, surrounded by his five children, eleven grandchildren and nineteen great-grandchildren, thrust a silver-handled knife into a three-tier cake. This simple act was greeted by another burst of applause, followed by cries of speech, speech, speech!

  Albert had prepared a few words, but as quiet fell in the room, they went straight out of his head.

  ‘Say something,’ said Betty, giving her husband a gentle nudge in the ribs.

  He blinked, looked around at the expectant crowd, paused and said, ‘Thank you very much.’

  Once the assembled gathering realized that was all he was going to say, someone began to sing ‘Happy Birthday’, and within moments everyone was joining in. Albert managed to blow out seven of the hundred candles before the younger members of the family came to his rescue, which was greeted by even more laughter and clapping.

  Once the applause had died down, the mayor rose to his feet, tugged at the lapels of his black and gold braided gown and cleared his throat, before delivering a far longer speech.

  ‘My fellow citizens,’ he began, ‘we are gathered together today to celebrate the birthday, the one hundredth birthday, of Albert Webber, a much-loved member of our community. Albert was born in Street on the fifteenth of April 1907. He married his wife Betty at Holy Trinity Church in 1931, and spent his working life at C. and J. Clark’s, our local shoe factory. In fact,’ he continued, ‘Albert has spent his entire life in Street, with the notable exception of four years when he served as a private soldier in the Somerset Light Infantry. When the war ended in 1945, Albert was discharged from the army and returned to Street to take up his old job as a leather cutter at Clark’s. At the age of sixty, he retired as Deputy Floor Manager. But you can’t get rid of Albert that easily, because he then took on part-time work as a night watchman, a responsibility he carried out until his seventieth birthday.’

  The mayor waited for the laughter to fade before he continued. ‘From his early days, Albert has always been a loyal supporter of Street Football Club, rarely missing a Cobblers’ home game, and indeed the club has recently made him an honorary life member. Albert also played darts for the Crown and Anchor, and was a member of that team when they were runners-up in the town’s pub championship.

  ‘I’m sure you will all agree,’ concluded the mayor, ‘that Albert has led a colourful and interesting life, which we all hope will continue for many years to come, not least because in three years’ time we will be celebrating the same landmark for his dear wife Betty. It’s hard to believe, looking at her,’ said the mayor, turning towards Mrs Webber, ‘that in 2010 she will also be one hundred.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said several voices, and Betty shyly bowed her head as Albert leaned across and took her hand.

  After several other dignitaries had said a few words, and many more had had their photograph taken with Albert, the mayor accompanied his two guests out of the town hall to a waiting Rolls-Royce, and instructed the chauffeur to drive Mr and Mrs Webber home.

  Albert and Betty sat in the back of the car holding hands. Neither of them had ever been in a Rolls-Royce before, and certainly not in one driven by a chauffeur.

  By the time the car drew up outside their council house in Marne Terrace, they were both so exhausted and so full of salmon sandwiches and birthday cake that it wasn’t long before they retired to bed.

  The last thing Albert murmured before turning out his bedside light was, ‘Well, it will be your turn next, ducks, and I’m determined to live another three years so we can celebrate your hundredth together.’

  ‘I don’t want all that fuss made over me when my time comes,’ she said. But Albert had already fallen asleep.

  * * *

  Not a lot happened in Albert and Betty Webber’s life during the next three years: a few minor ailments, but nothing life-threatening, and the birth of their first great-great-grandchild, Jude.

  When the historic day approached for the second Webber to celebrate a hundredth birthday, Albert had become so frail that Betty insisted the party be held at their home and only include the family. Albert reluctantly agreed, and didn’t tell his wife how much he’d been looking forward to returning to the town hall and once again being driven home in the mayor’s Rolls-Royce.

  The new mayor was equally disappointed, as he’d anticipated that the occasion would guarantee his photograph appearing on the front page of the local paper.

  When the great day dawned, Betty received over a hundred cards, letters and messages from well-wishers, but to Albert’s profound dismay, there was no telegram from the Queen. He assumed the Post Office was to blame and that it would surely be delivered the following day. It wasn’t.

  ‘Don’t fuss, Albert,’ Betty insisted. ‘Her Majesty is a very busy lady and she must have far more important things on her mind.’

  But Albert did fuss, and when no telegram arrived the next day, or the following week, he felt a pang of disappointment for his wife who seemed to be taking the whole affair in such good spirit. However, after another week, and still no sign of a telegram, Albert decided the time had come to take the matter into his own hands.

  Every Thursday morning, Eileen, their youngest daughter, aged seventy-three, would come to pick up Betty and drive her into town to go shopping. In reality this usually turned out to be just window shopping, as Betty couldn’t believe the prices the shops had the nerve to charge. She could remember when a loaf of bread cost a penny, and a pound a week was a working wage.

  That Thursday Albert waited for them to leave the house, then he stood by the window until the car had disappeared around the corner. Once they were out of sight, he shuffled off to his little den, where he sat by the phone, going over the exact words he would say if he was put through.

  After a little while, and once he felt he was word perfect, he looked up at the framed telegram on the wall above him. It gave him enough confidence to pick up the phone and dial a six-digit number.

  ‘Directory Enquiries. What number do you require?’

  ‘Buckingham Palace,’ said Albert, hoping his voice sounded authoritative.

  There was a slight hesitation, but the operator finally said, ‘One moment please.’

  Albert waited patiently, although he quite expected to be told that the number was either unlisted or ex-directory. A moment later the operator was back on the line and read out the number.

  ‘Can you please repeat that?’ asked a surprised Albert as he took the top off his biro. ‘Zero two zero, seven seven six six, seven three zero zero. ‘Thank you,’ he said, before putting the phone down. Several minutes passed before he gathered enough courage to pick it up again. Albert dialled the number with a shaky hand. He listened to the familiar ringing tone and was just about to put the phone back down when a woman’s voice said
, ‘Buckingham Palace, how may I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to someone about a one hundredth birthday,’ said Albert, repeating the exact words he had memorized.

  ‘Who shall I say is calling?’ ‘Mr Albert Webber.’

  ‘Hold the line please, Mr Webber.’

  This was Albert’s last chance of escape, but before he could put the phone down, another voice came on the line.

  ‘Humphrey Cranshaw speaking.’

  The last time Albert had heard a voice like that was when he was serving in the army. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said nervously. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help me.’

  ‘I certainly will if I can, Mr Webber,’ replied the courtier.

  ‘Three years ago I celebrated my hundredth birthday,’ said Albert, returning to his well-rehearsed script.

  ‘Many congratulations,’ said Cranshaw.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Albert, ‘but that isn’t the reason why I’m calling. You see, on that occasion Her Majesty the Queen was kind enough to send me a telegram, which is now framed on the wall in front of me, and which I will treasure for the rest of my life.’

  ‘How kind of you to say so, Mr Webber.’

  ‘But I wondered,’ said Albert, gaining in confidence, ‘if Her Majesty still sends telegrams when people reach their hundredth birthday?’

  ‘She most certainly does,’ replied Cranshaw. ‘I know that it gives Her Majesty great pleasure to continue the tradition, despite the fact that so many more people now attain that magnificent milestone.’

  ‘Oh, that is most gratifying to hear, Mr Cranshaw,’ said Albert, ‘because my dear wife celebrated her hundredth birthday some two weeks ago, but sadly has not yet received a telegram from the Queen.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Mr Webber,’ said the courtier. ‘It must be an administrative oversight on our part. Please allow me to check. What is your wife’s full name?’