Chapter Thirty

CHAPTER THIRTY

‘I don’t care if you’re paying the “going rate”! What bloody good is the going rate if a man works sixty hours a week and still can’t afford to feed his bairns?’

Tom, sitting outside his mother’s office at Lassiter Enterprises’ main site to the west of Highbridge, glanced at his watch. Just after half-past four. He had achieved more since ten o’clock that morning than he had in the whole of the period since he graduated. That wouldn’t mean much if this meeting didn’t go well, however.

He could hear Constance’s reply just as distinctly. ‘Perhaps your union could do something useful in these “education” lessons of yours, and teach the men how to budget,’ she said. ‘I will not bankrupt this company or rob our shareholders because they waste their earnings in the pub. Three pounds and ten shillings is the going weekly rate for a machine worker. If your members don’t like it, they can leave. You know there are dozens of men at the gate every morning who’d be very happy to take what we offer.’

Tom looked around. His mother’s new secretary – a very smooth-looking young man – and the other clerical workers in the outer office did not seem to be paying any attention. Tom had to assume these sorts of confrontations were not unusual.

‘Want to keep your foot on our necks? That’s it? There will be a reckoning, Mrs Lassiter. One day.’

‘Are you threatening me? I would advise against it.’

‘Why? Because your friend Ray Kelly might pay me a visit?’

A couple of heads flicked up at that, then quickly down again. Tom had heard rumours, or the faintest breath of a rumour, that Constance and Edmund had got entangled with Ray Kelly in some way. Kelly, Tom knew, was king of the Highbridge underworld, lord of all the darkness that churned away behind the city’s elegant facades. Was the man right? Edmund had definitely been struggling with money at times before his accident, Tom knew that, and that Ray Kelly was a loan shark – or a captain of loan sharks – among his other sins.

‘Good day,’ his mother drawled. ‘So sorry we are unable to oblige you.’

The man flung open the door and stared round the office, his face flushed. Tom thought of Sally’s husband and felt a sense of shame creep over him, heavy and hot.

‘You know I’m right,’ the man said. ‘You all do.’

Then he stalked off with a quick, stiff-legged stride.

Constance appeared in the doorway behind him and watched him go, her arms folded across her chest.

‘Milner, see to it that man is fired today, please. And make sure the workers know why.’

‘Certainly, Mrs Lassiter,’ the smooth assistant replied. ‘And your son is waiting to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment.’

Constance noted Tom sitting by her door with his hat in his lap. She looked at him without warmth or enthusiasm.

‘Good afternoon, Tom. Give me one moment, I have to finish a couple of things and catch the post. Milner, bring in the Manchester contracts, will you?’

Tom nodded his agreement and waited. Fifteen minutes passed, then he was summoned in.

Constance had taken over the office which had been used by her father-in-law, Sir Barnabas Lassiter. Her son, Edmund, during his tenure as chairman of Lassiter Enterprises, had officially had use of it, but had spent most of his time at his club. After he was so badly injured in the fire which had destroyed the old Empire Theatre, Constance Lassiter had invoked the proxy he had given to her while he was serving at the front in the Great War, and moved in. She had now been in complete control of the running of Lassiter Enterprises for almost four years, and had seen the company move from the edge of bankruptcy to renewed profitability.

The office still retained its very masculine air. The walls were panelled in wood and hung with a portrait of the founder and a variety of hunting prints. The desk at which she worked was large, and covered in cracked green leather, but lent her authority, and though Constance Lassiter had never smoked, somehow the air smelt of cigars and money.

Tom sat down in the chair opposite her and waited for her to finish writing whatever was in front of her. She picked up a brass bell on her desk and rang it, and the smooth Mr Milner came into the room and took the proffered page without comment.

Tom waited patiently, familiar with his mother’s games. The message was simple. Her every moment was packed with important activity; his was without value.

‘What can I do for you, Tom?’ she said at last, taking another letter from the pile of correspondence beside her and beginning to read.

‘I have a business proposition, Mother,’ he said. She glanced up, very briefly, but said nothing. ‘I am going to make use of my capital, and enter into an agreement with Lassiter Enterprises. I shall take a lease on Shed Number Four at the north river plant. I know it’s empty at the moment. You’ll give me the lease for fifteen years at a generous discount, and lend me two thousand pounds for start-up costs. The interest rate will be fixed for two years at current base rates.’

She looked up at him now. ‘Will I? How generous of me. And what will you do in Shed Number Four?’

Tom knew Constance had always disliked Lillian, ever since her father-in-law Sir Barnabas had brought her home. Constance thought of Lillian as a usurper, and a gold-digger. That Lillian had proved a devoted wife through twenty years of marriage had only increased the animosity between them. Then Lillian, newly widowed, had outfoxed Constance and Edmund, taken over The Empire, and claimed Jack Treadwell as her son.

After the fire, Constance’s dislike for everyone associated with the theatre had deepened into loathing. The fact Tom spent his days there, and his nights at Lassiter Court, had only made her more bitter towards them, and contemptuous of him. Constance had only ever had enough love for one human being, and that person had been her older son, Edmund. He had her cruel streak, but, unfortunately, little of her intelligence. Tom was the cleverer son, but his more gentle, curious nature had earned his mother’s dislike before she’d even noticed that.

Tom kept his voice very even then. ‘I’m going into business with Lillian, Jack and a gentleman named Dixon Wells. We will produce, manufacture and sell gramophone records.’

Constance’s expression became an ugly sneer.

‘What utter nonsense, Tom. We will not lease you the building, nor lend you money to start off such a hare-brained scheme. Now do go away, I’m busy.’

‘Perhaps I shall ask Edmund.’

‘You are free to write to him, whenever you wish.’

Tom had written to Edmund on a number of occasions, and each time had received a typewritten reply with a scrawl at the end which could have been Edmund’s signature. It had made Tom suspicious, especially since Edmund’s letters to the board all seemed to support his mother’s plans for the company entirely. Perhaps a minor adjustment here or there, nothing more. The letters sounded reasonable, considered. Not at all like the selfish, bullying and impulsive brother Tom had grown up with. He had made enquiries.

Tom crossed his legs, and stared out of the window. ‘I thought I’d ask Edmund in person. It’s quite a trek, but I haven’t seen him since he left the hospital here. And I am his heir, after all, Mother. Now I’ve left university, I think I should take more of a direct hand in his personal affairs. You, Mother, naturally, would continue running everything here. You’ve been doing magnificently.’

Constance put down the page. ‘I am in constant communication with Edmund. Why would you feel the need to visit him?’

‘I know about your communications with Edmund, Mother,’ he said with a pleasant smile. It was his best card, and required a certain finesse to play it. ‘I don’t suppose you ever had any dealings with the fellow, but Darien Burnside, who worked in the theatre, told me he was planning a tour in that part of the world and I asked him to pay a visit to the sanatorium.’

Tom watched his mother and thought of a drawing of a snake in a children’s book, which had terrified him as a child. The caption – ‘a hooded cobra hypnotises its prey’ – had been one of the first sentences he had ever learnt to read.

‘And did he visit?’

‘Yes. Said it’s a beautiful place. Absolutely top rank. But . . . Well, let’s just say it left me eager to visit Edmund myself. If I could find the time.’

Darien might have been a terrible assistant, but he was not a bad chap, and he and Tom had grown friendly during his disastrous stint at The Empire. He had visited, and seen Tom’s brother. Sir Edmund Lassiter, Darien reported, would never leave the sanatorium, and was kept in a deep haze of opium. Darien wrote that, given his injuries, he hoped and believed that Edmund had been aware of very little since his accident. He was certainly not capable of dictating long letters to his mother, or the board.

Constance smiled. It was not a smile which suggested fondness, let alone love, but Tom could tell that this was one of the rare moments of his life when he had impressed her.

‘You might be too busy to visit if you were engaged in this new enterprise, however.’

‘I might, for the moment,’ Tom conceded.

She continued to examine him, then picked up her pen, twisting it between her fingers. Tom watched her cautiously, willing himself to stay still and keep a pleasant smile fixed on his face. Constance made her decision.

‘What terms do you propose for the lease?’ she asked, suddenly brisk.

Tom took a folded sheaf of paper from his pocket and passed it over to her.

‘You’ve had the agreement drawn up already, Tom?’ she asked, taking it from him.

‘I was sure, Mother, I could convince you it was a worthwhile plan.’ He paused, wondering how much honey to add. ‘I’m very glad Edmund has been taking your advice recently.’ She unfolded the papers and started to read. ‘You’ll see that Lassiter Enterprises will receive a two per cent share of the annual profits of Empire Records, to compensate for any wear and tear on the site.’

She raised her eyebrows at that, but read on.

‘And you have the loan agreement with you, too, I suppose? And a letter to the bank authorising the release of your capital?’

‘You have it all there.’

‘Perhaps I should telephone Edmund and consult him?’ she said as she finished reading. ‘I expect, as your brother, he’d wish to encourage you, but I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to overstep either.’

Tom straightened up in his chair. ‘I have no interest in overstepping. You must do as you think best, but as his mother and proxy, and as his brother and heir, I’m sure we can be confident he would approve whatever we decide.’

Constance read the agreements again, then signed them and rang the brass bell. Milner returned. ‘My son will be leasing Shed Number Four on the upper valley site, and Lassiter Enterprises will be lending him some capital. The details are here. Make the arrangements with the bank and give him the keys.’

‘Yes, Mrs Lassiter.’

‘Thank you, Mother,’ Tom said, getting to his feet.

‘Good luck,’ Constance said. ‘You’ve grown up a little bit, haven’t you, Tom?’

‘I have,’ he replied, and when it was clear she meant to say no more, he left the room.

Tom did not break into a run when he left the yard, or perform a soft-shoe shuffle as Jack had done, but he was aware of walking with a slightly increased speed, as if he feared some breath of hellfire would follow him.

‘Did she go for it?’

Ruby Rowntree was waiting for him on the far side of the factory gates – lurking, in fact, behind the high brick pillar, with Dixon Wells at her elbow.

‘She did! Honestly, Ruby, there was a moment there I thought I was going to crumble into dust, but I held firm and I have the documents signed!’

‘Well done, Tom!’ Ruby said warmly, and punched him on the top of his arm with surprising force.

Dixon grinned. ‘Looks like you’ve had a better afternoon than that man over there, Tom.’

‘Ow! What?’ Tom turned. The man who he had seen storming out of his mother’s office was leaning against the wall on the other side of the entrance, his head tilted back to the sky.

‘Shall we go and have port and lemon to celebrate?’ Ruby asked.

Tom would not be like his mother, or his brother. Not now, not ever.

‘Yes . . . Actually, give me one moment.’ Tom crossed over to the man and put out his hand.

‘I’m Tom Lassiter. I think my mother just fired you.’

The man stared at Tom’s proffered hand, then turned away, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. Tom realised with a slight jolt he was near tears.

‘She did. Just readying myself to go and tell my wife about it.’

‘How long have you worked for my family, Mr . . .?’

‘Patterson. I started as a lad and came back to it after the war. Been a shift foreman at the bank factory since twenty-two. Where we make the forks and knives,’ he added, seeing Tom’s confusion.

Tom put his hands in his pockets. ‘Did you like the work, Patterson? Take pride in it?’

A look of pain crossed the man’s face. ‘I liked it well enough, and a man has to take pride in what he does, doesn’t he? But you can’t eat pride. God knows what me and the wife will do for bread now.’

He tilted his head backwards, his gaze reaching up beyond the high brick walls of the Highbridge manufacturing district that surrounded them. Arrays of chimneys sent thin columns of smoke upwards towards the clouds into the slate-grey January sky; behind and around them resounded the clanks of hammers on metal, the distant hiss of steam; the air thick with the smell of oil and coal dust. It was hard to believe that such a thing as a tree existed, when standing here.

‘Would you work for me?’ Tom said quietly.

Patterson looked at him in surprise, then laughed. ‘Work for you? I’m not a car mechanic, Mr Lassiter, if it’s your fancy automobiles you’re worried about. Not a tennis coach either.’

‘Men can change, Mr Patterson.’

‘Not rich ones. Why should they?’

Tom shrugged. ‘Fair point.’ He nodded towards Ruby and Dixon. Patterson looked at them and frowned. They were obviously not the sort of people he expected to see with Tom Lassiter: a grey-haired lady in a tartan shawl, and a man in a shabby coat. ‘But I don’t want a mechanic or a tennis coach. Come and have a port and lemon with us. Let us tell you what we propose, at least.’

Patterson eyed him suspiciously. ‘I thought your sort only drink champagne.’

‘I prefer champagne,’ Tom said, honestly enough, ‘but I wouldn’t risk ordering it at the Dog and Duck, and that’s where Ruby wants to celebrate our new venture. You coming or not?’

Patterson shrugged himself away from the wall and joined them. Two ports later, Empire Records (Manufacturing) had its first employee.