The Fall and Rise of Gordon Coppinger

‘Yes. And … “Ffycia bant”.’

‘“Ffycia bant”?’

‘Yes. That’s Welsh.’

‘Welsh for what?’

‘Welsh for “Fuck off”.’

‘I see. So somebody’s told you to fuck off in two languages.’ Good for them. Almost worth learning another language just for that. ‘I think that’s carrying nationalistic sensitivity a bit far.’ He smiled apologetically at Fred once again. ‘Not very friendly to you.’

‘Not just to me, Dad.’

‘What?’

‘There’s something else. That’s why I’m ringing you. It says something else.’

‘What?’

‘“Like father, like son”.’

‘In two languages?’

‘In two languages. Somebody out there doesn’t like us, Dad.’

‘It seems like it. Oh dear. What do you want me to do, Luke?’

‘I don’t think you can do anything. But the press know. I thought I ought to warn you.’

‘OK, right. Thanks.’

He couldn’t just ring off. He had to say something, show – that surprise word again, that stranger from the unused pages of the dictionary of his mind – sympathy.

‘And Luke?’

‘Yes, Dad?’

‘I may not understand your pictures. I may not like them. Probably I’m wrong, since they fetch such amazing prices, but … I’m sorry. Really. That’s an awful thing to happen to an artist.’

‘Well, thanks, Dad, I … thanks.’

Thank God we’re on the phone, thought Sir Gordon. If we’d been together we might have hugged.

‘Sorry about that, F.U.,’ he told Fred after he had rung off, ‘but it was important. My son’s picture of the Garden of Eden has been vandalized.’

Fred shifted uneasily in his easy chair. He wasn’t interested in Luke’s troubles, but he clearly felt that he had to ask something.

‘Was it blasphemous?’

‘I didn’t understand it well enough to be able to say. I suppose it could be some religious nutter. Plenty of them about. But part of the message read, “Like father, like son”. I assumed that was us.’

‘Could have been God the Father and Jesus the Son. They’re pretty well known too.’

Sir Gordon looked at Fred Upson in astonishment.

‘Sorry,’ said Fred.

‘No. No. I rather … fair point. Rather good, Fred. I …’

I almost liked you there, for a moment. Couldn’t say that.

‘So what was it you were going to say to me when the phone went?’

‘Obviously we still need to declare big losses, Fred.’

A smile played with the edges of Sir Gordon’s mouth as he recalled the day he appointed Fred. ‘So you are asking me to be MD of a loss leader?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘So you consider me the ideal man to run a firm that is a loss leader?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I see.’

The smile died.

‘But in the present climate, Fred,’ said Sir Gordon, suddenly very solemn, ‘we may not be able to afford to continue to actually make big losses. The office is costing too much to run. Declare more losses, make fewer. I want a report on potential savings on my desk one month from today. One month from today, F.U. Things could be going to get serious. We’re going to have to up our game.’

Their eyes met again, and each held his gaze.

‘You’ve shocked me,’ said Fred Upson.

‘I’ve shocked myself,’ said Sir Gordon. ‘I really have shocked myself.’

Can we be absolutely certain that they can’t lip-read?

That anxiety, throbbing in his gut like the engines of a slow-moving ship, sharpened slightly. ‘10.30 GI.’

He pulled forward three easy chairs for the managers of GI.

Within minutes Keith Gostelow, Dan Perkins, and Adam Eaglestone were stretching their legs in their chairs. The heartland of Sir Gordon’s empire was not a bastion of equal rights for women.

If a member of the public was introduced to Keith Gostelow, Dan Perkins, and Adam Eaglestone as the triumvirate who ran a major investment company, that member of the public would not be impressed. But no members of the public did meet them. That was not the nature of Gordon Investments.

‘Any problems, gentlemen?’

Keith Gostelow and Adam Eaglestone exchanged a very swift, uneasy glance, a glance which excluded Dan Perkins. Sir Gordon’s sharp eyes missed none of this, and he didn’t like the glance. It suggested that there were problems – or, at least, that there was a problem.

‘Keith?’

It was an acknowledgement from Sir Gordon that he had seen and understood the glance.

‘Um …’ began Keith Gostelow – floppy, anarchic hair; bad complexion. ‘Maybe it’s just me, but … and I’m not saying it’s a serious matter, don’t get me wrong, but … um … I have noticed … I mean, not widely, and not equally over the whole country, and perhaps more in long-term investments, but also in … in the long term … in short-term investments … a bit … but as I say, not widely, but enough to make me take notice … investment is … in some areas … in some fields … um … not great.’

‘Poor?’

‘Exactly.’ Keith smiled, then the smile dissolved into slight panic. ‘Well, I mean, no, not exactly poor, no.’

‘But not great?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Adam? Your take on this?’

Adam Eaglestone – balding, short, shiny suit – was more fluent.

‘Uptake is sluggish. I would say that this is entirely unsurprising in view of economic sentiment at this moment in time. However, I would offer this cautious addendum. Should the economic situation weaken still further – and I see no reason to be optimistic about this – I do think that a problem might arise, and should be guarded against, if it can be done without weakening confidence, because to weaken confidence might be to precipitate the crisis whose possibility was the cause of confidence weakening in the first place.’

‘Thank you, Adam. Dan?’

‘We’re in the shit.’

Sir Gordon paused. The words of Dan Perkins – all muscle, face like granite – seemed to echo round the vast office. The clouds drifting slowly past the great picture window were just slightly coloured as if the sun was attempting to break through, giving them an unattractive muddy complexion which reminded Sir Gordon of the unpleasant waste matter in which, in Dan Perkins’s pithy opinion, they were.

‘So,’ said Sir Gordon. He let the word hang there. It hung well, so he repeated it. ‘So … if Dan’s view is right, and if what you two were saying reflects that view – and I am of course absolutely shocked to hear this, but I respect you or I wouldn’t have appointed you …’ The sentence wasn’t going well. Every man finds himself occasionally in the middle of a sentence which isn’t going well. The average man struggles to its muddled end. A great man abandons it. Sir Gordon abandoned it and returned to the word which, since it had served him well twice already, might be expected to be effective again. ‘So …’ he said, and once more he let the word hang there.

‘Do you think we should reduce the return by, say, for instance … um …’ began Keith Gostelow.

Suddenly two men appeared at the window, one of them massive, with a broken nose, the other short, wiry and grim-faced. Sir Gordon’s heart almost stopped. Ice coursed through his veins. He couldn’t breathe. The tall man raised his gun. So this was it. Pie Producer Patriot Gunned Down in Canary Wharf Horror. He’d known that he had enemies, of course, but …

Then he realized that the gun was a mop. He raised his arm in greeting. The large window cleaner waved back, and then the two were obscured by a torrent of water.

‘… or I mean maybe we should … um … I don’t know … well, I mean, I really don’t mean that I don’t know …’

‘Quiet,’ said Sir Gordon. ‘Careless talk costs lives.’

‘Sorry?’

‘That was a poster my dad kept. From the war.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Better not say too much in front of the window cleaners.’

Another look passed between Keith Gostelow and Adam Eaglestone. Again, it bypassed Dan Perkins. Sir Gordon hoped that none of his three investment executives had noticed his brief panic. If rumours that his nerve was going got about … and was it going? Oh God. Was it? Was that what the waking-up incident had been about? As a result of all this, he found himself speaking in a sharp manner that shone light on his momentary weakness.

‘You think I’m paranoid, Adam, Keith?’

‘Um …’ said Keith.

‘Of course not,’ said Adam. ‘And I’m as security conscious as anyone, but … do you really think a window cleaner could hear what we’re saying through double glazing?’

‘It wouldn’t matter if he heard what you and Keith were saying, anyway,’ said Dan. ‘I’ve never heard two people say so much about so little.’

‘Dan, please,’ said Sir Gordon. ‘Let’s not get personal. Let’s not lose our nerve.’

His eyes met Dan’s. He held the look. Dan broke away first.

‘I’m security conscious, yes,’ said Sir Gordon. ‘Very much so. Maybe exaggeratedly so. No, of course I don’t think they can hear what we say through what is actually triple glazing. And of course I’m not paranoid. However …’ He paused. ‘You three are the only other people in the world who know the truth about Gordon Investments. There are people who would pay highly for that truth. Keeping it secret is vital to our survival. Vital. They may be bona fide window cleaners. They may not. But, even if they are, can we be absolutely certain that they can’t lip-read?’

We never said a word about Jack

There were only two people in the world, one man and one woman, whom Sir Gordon Coppinger regarded as his equals. He had felt it about the man from the moment he first read about him. Garibaldi was his hero, his mentor, his example. He had felt it about the woman from the moment she laid her sword upon his shoulder. But there was also one person in the world whom he regarded as his superior. His brother Hugo – his elder brother Hugo. How important is that word ‘elder’. How irreversible is the luck of birth.

Sir Gordon belonged in Canary Wharf, that upstart city outside the City. Hugo belonged in the City. Huge swathes of British history seemed to accompany him as he walked arrogantly towards the Intrepid Snail. Even the fact that he had been knighted seemed to Sir Gordon, in Hugo’s presence, to be a handicap. He was a man who had needed to be knighted. Hugo walked with the air of a man who has already been knighted by existence itself.

The Intrepid Snail was situated on the ground floor of what had once been a bank. The walls were dark and their panelling was centuries older than that in the dining room of Rose Cottage. In its sombre recesses there had been placed sculptures of snails in varying degrees of intrepidity. The restaurant itself, however, perhaps in a forlorn attempt to persuade the masses to enter with equal intrepidity, consisted of rows of scrubbed pine tables, and looked like an upmarket works canteen.

At one o’clock on this mild, windy Halloween day the masses had not been persuaded to enter. There were only two customers, middle-aged men in dark suits seated at a window table. They were leaning forward so that their heads almost touched and talking in such low whispers that they must either be indulging in deadly and important gossip or declaring a late flowering of homosexual love. The former seemed the more likely.

‘More gastropod than gastropub,’ commented Hugo Coppinger as his eyes took in the room in one brief glance. His well-cut suit bore not a trace of its cost. Its elegance was perfectly restrained. You would have sworn, if you hadn’t known him, that there was a woman in his life who had chosen his shirt and his silk tie.

‘It should be all right,’ he said with doubt in his voice. ‘It was slated by Giles Coren.’

‘I thought it was A.A. Gill.’

‘Him as well. It was slated by everyone. What do these food writers know?’

The contempt which he poured into the words ‘food writers’ was pure Hugo, thought Sir Gordon. He didn’t know anyone who did contempt better than his banker brother. In the contempt stakes even Sir Gordon was an also-ran. And all this from a man born to humble stock in Dudley.

A waiter approached with the air of a man who has been disturbed in the middle of a nap.

‘Have you booked?’ he enquired in a contorted accent that neither of them could identify.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Hugo, ‘but perhaps you can squeeze us in.’

Either the waiter had no sense of humour or he was deaf or he didn’t speak English or he had heard that remark five hundred times before. He led them, as they had known he would, towards the window table next to the whispering duo. Sir Gordon strode as erectly as he possibly could, striving for the extra inch that would place him on a level with his brother. Hugo let his shoulders sag just slightly, in order to hide that fateful inch. The ruse worked perfectly. Both men looked exactly five foot eight and a half inches tall.

‘Please!’ said Hugo. ‘We don’t want to sit near these people. We have matters of the utmost secrecy to discuss, and so, no doubt, do they. This is the City of London in crisis, man.’

‘You not want sit in window. Lovely view.’

‘It’s a disgusting view. I don’t want to see it. I want to go right over there, far from what our mother, mistakenly but nevertheless accurately, always called the maddening crowd.’

Hugo plonked himself down at a table as far as possible from the other couple. The waiter, offended by having the table chosen by the customer, stomped off.

On each table there was a single artificial red rose, standing in a glass vase shaped like a snail.

The waiter emerged from the kitchens with food for the other table and the look of a man who was rushed off his feet. It must have been several minutes before he approached the two brothers. He handed them menus, and gave the wine list to Hugo, which irritated Sir Gordon.

‘Unusually quiet, is it?’ he asked.

‘No, sir. Always like this, Monday. Tuesday too. Wednesday, Thursday, a little more busy. Friday, you never know. Friday is unpredict.’

‘You do like chatting to people, don’t you?’ commented Hugo with just a trace of waspishness as the waiter ambled off. ‘The famous charm, overcoming even the reticence of a waiter who hates customers.’

‘I use it,’ admitted Sir Gordon. ‘I work it.’ He paused. ‘I think I despise it, actually.’

He took the wine list off Hugo.

‘My turn, I think.’

‘I invited you.’

‘Irrelevant. We take turns.’

‘Fine. I accept graciously.’

Sir Gordon had wondered if the menu would feature nothing but snails, but he needn’t have worried. It didn’t appeal particularly to these two men who could eat out anywhere at any time and were used to the best, but at least it wasn’t over-reliant on the eponymous molluscs, although the chef’s signature dish was snail bouillabaisse.

‘Snail bouillabaisse. What the hell is that all about?’ said Hugo. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. This French restaurant is not French. No Frenchman would insult their marvellous bouillabaisse in that way.’

Barely ten minutes passed before the waiter strolled back to take their orders. All the time Sir Gordon was wondering if Hugo really had suggested lunch because he had something important to say. He hoped not. He sensed that, if he did have anything to say, it would not be pleasant.

‘Have what you fancy, Hugo,’ he said unnecessarily.

‘I won’t have a starter,’ said his brother. ‘I’m eating tonight.’

He didn’t enlarge on this information. He was a very secretive man.

‘Me too. Dinner with my wife.’

‘Ah! The domestic bliss that has escaped me. Or have I escaped it?’

Sir Gordon ordered a bottle of Margaux that was almost as old as the waiter and cost £210.

‘Wait!’ commanded Hugo as the waiter started to move off. He lowered his voice, even though every word was clearly audible to the waiter. ‘Do you really want to spend that much?’ He lowered his voice even more, but was still audible. ‘The food isn’t going to be worth it. And you don’t need to impress me.’

‘I hope you aren’t hinting that I can’t afford it?’ said Sir Gordon.

‘Of course not, Gordon. It’s just … not necessary.’

‘It is to me. I like fine wine.’

‘Well, all right, then. Good. I’ll enjoy it. Thank you.’

The waiter returned surprisingly quickly, opened the bottle with exaggerated reverence, and poured a small amount into Hugo’s glass with ill-concealed hostility. Hugo handed the glass to Sir Gordon without comment. Sir Gordon rolled the wine round the glass, sniffed it, and nodded. He couldn’t help feeling, in Hugo’s presence, that he didn’t quite know what he was nodding at, that he wouldn’t even know if it was corked.

When the waiter had gone they clinked glasses in their usual manner.

‘To “Our Escape from Dudley”,’ said Hugo.

‘“Our Escape from Dudley”,’ echoed Sir Gordon.

‘I haven’t said this before,’ said Hugo, ‘but, you know, it’s a bit of a miracle, you and I, from a secondary modern in Dudley, both so eminent in our different fields. I should think ninety per cent of the people I deal with in my work went to public school, and half of them to Eton. We owe a lot to our parents.’

‘Well, of course. I hope I always acknowledge that.’

‘Stop looking for evil subtexts in what I’m saying, Gordon.’

‘Sorry. Bad habit.’

‘No, but there they were, two good people, intelligent people, but … not special. Here we are – let’s not beat about the bush – thoroughly special.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Dad was clever. Mum wasn’t clever exactly, but she had common sense in spades, and she had spunk. The last thing I want to do is be rude to Dad but he did lack spunk. But the combination of brains and spunk, in you and me, it just gelled. It’s not perfect, I could definitely do with a bit more spunk and you could probably do with a bit more brains, but it isn’t bad. Is it?’

‘I never said it was.’

‘You’re looking for subtexts again.’

The wine was delicious and as they sipped and chatted Sir Gordon almost forgot his concern over whether there was a secret agenda for the meeting. He couldn’t recall quite such a relaxed conversation with his brother as the reminiscences of old Dudley flowed. But all good things come to an end, and eventually their food arrived.

They ate for a few minutes in silent disbelief. Eventually Hugo plucked up the courage to speak.

‘How’s your veal?’

‘It tastes like face flannel that has been marinated in Montenegrin traffic warden’s phlegm.’

‘So A.A. Gill was right.’

They both left half their food, and the waiter took their plates away with no comment and no surprise. They scorned the pleasure of looking at the dessert menu, and shuddered at the thought of coffee.

‘We’ll just enjoy the rest of the wine.’

‘Very good, gentlemen.’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Sir Gordon. ‘Pity nothing else was.’

His brother raised his eyebrows in surprise. The waiter made no comment and showed no reaction.

Hugo leant forward and dread entered Sir Gordon’s heart.

‘I suggested lunch for a reason, Gordon. I keep my ear to the ground. I’m picking up … rumours. Only rumours. And please don’t believe that I believe them. There’s usually no smoke without a fire, but no cliché is true all the time. Rumours about Gordon Investments. Rumours that … all is not well.’

‘When you say “all is not well” do you mean … we’re running into financial trouble?’

‘Not exactly. Gordon, you can talk to me. We’re family. I’m here for you. We haven’t always been close, not as close as we should, we haven’t always got on as well as we should, but … damn it, man, I’m not good at being affectionate …’ He paused, then lowered his voice still further, though now they were the only two people in the room. The other customers had left and the waiter was probably having forty winks after his exertions. ‘People are suggesting – hinting – that the set-up of Gordon Investments is not altogether straight.’

‘Not honest?’

‘Yes. So people are saying.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘Gordon, I’ve studied the figures, and … I wouldn’t go so far as to say that they don’t add up. The returns you’re giving people are … possible but perhaps not probable. Either you and your team are very good … very very good, or … well, I don’t need to spell it out, I don’t actually think I could spell it out. So really, I’m asking you, Gordon, I suppose, for reassurance.’

Suddenly Sir Gordon knew how desperately lonely he was. His mother was dead. His father was lost in the mists of senility. Circumstance prevented his getting any filial feeling from his son. His daughter was cowed by life. And his wife – oh, how he dreaded this evening – his wife would be merciless if the truth emerged. It was a moment of revelation that dwarfed everything else that had happened on this difficult day. It even seemed to explain to him the nature and cause of his disturbing awakening that morning … was it really only eight and a half hours ago? It had been psychic, a portent. Suddenly he longed to be close to his dear elder brother whom he had never really appreciated. Suddenly he longed to confess. Suddenly he realized just how heavy his burden had become, that burden that he had never even acknowledged to himself, that burden that had grown and grown while he had slept his guiltless sleeps.

Hugo, help me. Hugo, I’ve been the most frightful fool. Hugo, you do love me, don’t you?

There were so many sentences that he found impossible to utter.

‘Hugo, I’m telling you, I’m telling you honestly …’

The waiter, skilled at interruption like so many of his kind, came over with their bill, showing a surprising turn of speed.

Sir Gordon entered his card details.

‘If I add a tip, does it get to you?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes, sir.’

‘Good. Good. The question was purely hypothetical, of course.’

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘You will be. I’m not giving you a tip. You don’t deserve it.’

‘We closing in two minutes, sir.’

‘Excellent news. The outside world is so much more appealing.’

Sir Gordon noticed that Hugo had noticed that he had abandoned his habitual charm. He really must abandon it more. The gratification you could feel from being rude was brief, briefer even than the gratification of sex, but it was enjoyable both in anticipation and reflection. And he did particularly dislike waiters. He would smile at the memory of his remark as he ascended towards his office that afternoon. Besides, what was the point of being powerful if you were always polite? Where was the fun? No, he had used his charm too much.

Sir Gordon abandoned these thoughts reluctantly, and turned back to his interrupted speech.

‘Hugo, I’m telling you honestly, yes, I know the figures are difficult to believe, but I have very skilled men working for me, I have a marvellous organization honed over the years, I’d be a fool if I claimed that we can continue in this climate to give investors the returns they’ve become used to, but there’s not a shred of irregularity in what we do, and not even a particle of doubt in my mind that with my reputation, my record, my popularity, we will easily do enough business to keep our heads well above water and with no need of any form of illegality whatsoever.’

‘Well, I’m very pleased to hear that,’ said Hugo.

‘I wish my mother was alive so I could say those words directly to her in your presence. Then you’d believe me.’

‘I do believe you, Gordon.’

‘I wish my father was compos mentis so we could go together and—’

‘Gordon, I believe you.’

‘Rumour doesn’t help in difficult times. Can you scotch those rumours, Hugo?’

The waiter reappeared, jangling keys in one of the least subtle hints in history.

‘We’ll have to go. Gordon, I’m not a public figure like you but I have immense influence behind the scenes. I will do all I can to kill this creeping, insidious doubt. I just had to hear your denial of wrongdoing from your own lips. We had to share it as brothers. I’ve heard it. I believe it. End of story. Thank you for the wine, if not the lunch.’