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As the wind whipped at her silk scarf, Dorothy struggled to tighten the knot that secured it under her chin. Although it was a sunny day with clear blue skies, it was bitterly cold. Not the ideal weather for motoring in an open-topped car.
Henry took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at her. ‘Not too cold?’
‘A little.’ She shrugged herself further down into her sheepskin coat.
He smiled, not hearing her. ‘Jolly good.’
They had set off from their house in the Home Counties that morning, en route for Cornwall and a property described in the Country Life advertisement as:
An unmissable and rare opportunity to purchase this perfect Cornish Holiday/Family house. Accommodation comprises six bedrooms, two bathrooms, drawing room, dining room, morning room and study. Spacious original Victorian family kitchen. The master bedroom, with dressing room and en-suite bathroom, has its own balcony offering panoramic ocean views. All rooms on the ocean-facing side of the house boast equally stunning aspects. Set in half an acre of mature cliff-top gardens with private access to the public beach of Treviscum Bay. The property is in need of some modernisation. Despite its age (built circa 1720) it is currently unlisted.
‘Take the next left,’ Dorothy, fighting with the turning pages of her road map, shouted above the wind as her husband sat grinning at the wheel of his new Aston Martin Virage Volante.
‘What?’
‘Next left. To Bodmin.’
‘Left here?’
She nodded vigorously and pointed with her gloved hand at the signpost.
He smiled. ‘Righto, Number One.’ He slowed the V8 engine to a throaty rumble and took the exit.
Henry couldn’t believe how wonderfully his life had turned out. Who’d have thought he’d rise to this, given the dire straits he’d found himself in a decade ago.
On the death of his father, Henry had inherited Carew Family Board Games. Unfortunately the firm that had been his father’s pride and joy was by this time a dinosaur in a shrinking market. Nobody wanted to play board games any more, even if they did have beautifully hand-crafted pieces and block-printed boards. Henry had been left an albatross, complete with a mountain of debt, a loyal workforce he couldn’t afford, and a factory with outdated machinery making parlour-game staples such as Ludo, Snakes and Ladders and Draughts. Settling the death duties on his father’s estate had left him with no means to pay his own mortgage, let alone bail out the firm. In despair, he invited his bank manager out to lunch, hoping that a sumptuous five-course meal would secure him an extension to his business loan. It took the manager less than fifteen minutes to turn down the request. Indeed, if the current overdraft wasn’t reduced forthwith, Henry’s factory and machines would be repossessed by the bank.
‘But my father was with your bank for more than forty years. Please, if you just bear with me a while longer, I won’t let you down,’ pleaded Henry.
The bank manager, a fat man who enjoyed golf and making his customers squirm, shook his head sadly.
‘Henry, your father was a close friend and a good man, but he didn’t move with the times. Unless you can give me a sound business plan, some reason why the bank should reinvest, my answer has to be no.’
Henry took a deep breath and looked the smug slug in the eye. ‘I have an idea for a game that will knock Trivial Pursuit, Cluedo and Monopoly into a cocked hat. I can’t say more because our competitors must not get wind of it.’
‘My dear boy, what is it?’
‘I told you, I can’t say. But if I were to offer you my house as collateral, would you let me have the money I need?’
The slug stirred an extra spoonful of sugar into his coffee, thinking.
‘OK, I’ll authorise the loan – but only for six months. After that …’ he continued stirring, his lips curving upward in a smirk, ‘… the bank moves in.’
The relief Henry had felt at securing the loan evaporated at the prospect of this odious man and his bank getting their hands on his home and Carew Family Board Games. Unfortunately there was a major flaw in his new business plan. The top secret game that was going to take the world by storm didn’t exist.
Henry drove back to the factory and locked himself into his father’s old office. How could he have been so rash and stupid? How the hell was he going to invent a blockbuster of a game in a year, let alone six months?
He pulled out the bottom drawer of his father’s desk and found the bottle of Scotch Dad had always kept there. He opened it and put it to his lips with a silent prayer: Dad, I need your help. I’m in the shit and some of it’s your fault. Give me an idea, a way out of this mess.
He sat back in the tilting revolving wooden chair and put his feet up on the desk.
What am I going to do, Dad? I’m going to lose the factory and my home. A hundred people will be out of a job. People who loved you and trusted you. They are expecting me to make everything all right, but I’m afraid I’ve cocked it up. He took another swig of Scotch.
It was some time later when Old Reg, the foreman and longest-serving member of staff, came to say good night. He found Henry, his eyes red from tears, sitting in his father’s chair, the bottle of Scotch half-empty. Reg saw it all and knew without asking that it was only a matter of time before Carew Family Board Games became a footnote in history. Murmuring, ‘Good night, Mr Henry,’ he closed the office door gently behind him.
*
Henry’s brain was in turmoil. Had he committed fraud? Could making a false promise be construed as extorting money from the bank? Would he be arrested? Could he afford a lawyer? What would happen to Dorothy and the girls? Lawyers were expensive. He was only trying to do the best for his workforce, his family. Oh God, he’d go to jail. He’d better get a lawyer.
In a panic, he dug out his father’s old address book and flipped to the ‘L’ tab. His finger traced down the pages.
‘Lawyer, lawyer,’ he muttered under his breath. He stopped for a moment and said the words again: ‘Lawyer, lawyer.’ Feverishly he picked up a pencil and began writing the words, followed by DEFENDANT. JUDGE. JURY. Then he drew two boxes and wrote GUILTY in one and NOT GUILTY in the other.
He phoned home and told Dorothy not to expect him back for supper.
*
The next morning he called a meeting on the shop floor for every member of staff. He hadn’t slept all night, he reeked of body odour and alcohol. They expected the worst.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for giving me your time today. Carew Family Board Games was my father’s proudest achievement. Many of you worked with him and loved him as I did. You miss him as I miss him. I am very grateful that you have remained so loyal to me as I try to fill his shoes. But the truth is, the world is changing and this company is struggling. When arcade games and the Rubik’s Cube came on to the market, my father thought they would be a flash in the pan. “Nothing can beat the fun of a family sitting round the table playing Ludo,” was his mantra.’ Some of the older employees laughed in remembrance of this. ‘He was wrong, though. We are on the brink of insolvency.’
There was a subdued murmur from the group, and then Reg spoke up: ‘Are you shutting us down, Mr Carew?’
Henry swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. ‘I hope not, Reg. I have an idea for a new game. A board game that I think could beat even Monopoly for world sales. The World Toy Fair is four months away: if we can have the new game ready by then, we’ll secure the orders we need to turn this company round – but I need your help and your faith to pull it off. This is the promise I make to you: if I can’t turn this company round in the next six months, I will sell everything I have – bar my house, which is promised to the bank …’ He paused, gulping back the tears that threatened. ‘And I will split the proceeds between you. However, if we make this game a success, you will all become partners, sharing in the profit.’
His workforce stood, incredulous. Some of the older women who remembered the boom years were sniffing into screwed-up tissues. The younger workers looked dumbstruck. In the end it was Reg who stepped forward and asked, ‘What do we have to do?’
*
It took Henry and the team just two weeks to produce the cardboard prototype of Lawyer, Lawyer. Four sets were made and taken home in turn by the Carew workers. Each day they would come in with suggestions, refinements and clearer rules. Finally everyone was in agreement that they had the definitive version. A game of cat and mouse between the law and the citizen. Reg oversaw the first factory-made prototype as it came off the production line.
It was beautiful. The box lid depicted Number One Court of the Old Bailey. In the dock stood a decent but anxious-looking man. On the bench sat a hideous gargoyle of a judge bearing an uncanny resemblance to Henry’s bank manager. And taking the floor was a smart lawyer, thumbs in his lapels and smiling wolfishly at the jury.
Reg carried it with pride to the boardroom and placed it on the elliptical table. The workers came and filed past it as it lay in state.
That afternoon, Dorothy dialled the local Chinese takeaway and ordered a supper for everyone. It was a party not one of them would forget.
On the eve of the World Toy Fair, Henry carefully packed the newly manufactured boxes of Lawyer, Lawyer into the back of his rented Rascal van. Dorothy was already settled in the passenger seat. The entire workforce gathered in the car park to wave them off.
Old Reg leaned in and put his hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘Good luck, Mr Henry. Your father would be proud of you.’
Henry put the car in gear and drove carefully out of the factory car park, Dorothy waving from the window while he tooted the horn until they were all out of sight.
The World Toy Fair at Olympia was very familiar to Henry. He’d worked a stand there with his father from the time he was a boy. Only when his father fell ill did they stop attending. His death had left Henry without the cash or wherewithal to organise a stand. Now, he found himself looking forward to it. But at the same time he was consumed with nerves.
He glanced at Dorothy and said, ‘What if this doesn’t work?’
She smiled back at him. ‘It’ll work.’
‘We could lose every—’
‘We could, but we won’t.’
Most exhibitors had booked a year in advance. When Dorothy had called to make a reservation four months previously, there were few slots remaining. They were allocated a stand on an outside corner.
‘You wouldn’t put a hen in a space as small as this,’ complained Henry when he saw it.
Dorothy, who was staggering under several boxes of order forms and fliers, ignored his pessimism. ‘Help me with these, will you?’ she said, thrusting the surprisingly heavy boxes towards him. Then she looked around, hands resting on her slender hips. ‘Small but perfect. We’re handy for the loo and the café – think of the footfall we’ll have. Couldn’t be better.’
He grudgingly nodded. ‘Suppose so.’
‘Come on, Prince Charming – two more trips and the van will be unloaded.’
Dorothy was a good organiser. By midnight, their little stall looked inviting and ready for the official opening in the morning. Several other exhibitors broke off setting up their own stands and dropped by to chat and reminisce about Henry’s father. One or two were desperate to get a look inside the Lawyer, Lawyer boxes, but Dorothy was having none of it. ‘The premiere is tomorrow, boys! No peeking till then.’
The four days that followed were the busiest they’d ever known. The opening morning was slow, but that afternoon the buyer for Hamleys came by. After Henry talked him through the rules, he couldn’t resist playing a round. Henry let him win, obviously, and the buyer put an order in for such a large amount that Dorothy thought she’d misheard and left a zero off the end. When the buyer leaned over and corrected her, she couldn’t stop herself from kissing him. After that, word of mouth spread quickly. Every toyshop chain and department store was clamouring to place an order for the exciting new game.
As soon as they returned to the factory, the production line got into gear. For the first time in the history of the company, the machines were rolling twenty-four hours a day, five days a week. Extra night-shift staff were taken on to meet the orders, which were coming in from as far afield as Australia and Japan.
Within months Lawyer, Lawyer was the game on every family’s Christmas list. The fat bank manager invited Henry out for lunch. Henry accepted the invitation and was delighted when he heard the name of the restaurant: very expensive and excellent reviews. Henry selected the most extravagantly priced dishes and wine, enjoying the wincing expression of the slug sitting opposite.
Over coffee, and the finest brandy, the bank manager offered Henry as much money as he needed to expand the business. Henry thanked him, but declined to commit himself immediately.
On his return to the office, Henry immediately set about transferring all his company and personal accounts to a rival bank. Then he dictated a fax to his former bank manager, telling him to get stuffed.
A few days later, an order came through from Buckingham Palace. Henry made sure his Press Office (Dorothy) leaked the news to the Nigel Dempster column in the Daily Mail.
The company was now safer than it had been for twenty years, but there was no sitting back on their laurels. It was Old Reg who came up with the next idea. Tapping on Henry’s office door, he came in and explained that his son, who had a degree in electronics and computer science, wanted to devise an electronic version of Lawyer, Lawyer. After discussing the proposal with Dorothy and his new bank manager, Henry began investing in the technology that would produce the first hand-held Carew Family game.
The resulting worldwide sales paid off the mortgage of every Carew employee.
And that was how Henry and his beloved Dorothy came to be sitting in an open-topped Aston Martin on their way to buy Atlantic House, the Cornish holiday home of their dreams.
2 (#ulink_3e3c74e8-976d-5ac1-a921-7ef0881df582)
On the other side of Bodmin, past the wildness of the moor, the scenery grew gentler. Now they were travelling through a verdant countryside of fields and farms.
The Aston got stuck behind a tractor dripping slurry from its huge wheels. The smell of ammonia made Dorothy’s eyes water. Henry started to get frustrated. He accelerated and braked and weaved in and out of his side of the road, banging the steering wheel with his string-gloved hand. ‘Pull over, you village idiot!’ he snarled.
Dorothy saw the time had come to have words. ‘Henry! Do you want me to be sick on the cream leather? Besides, shouldn’t you be trying to make friends with the locals?’
Grumbling, he attempted patience. By the time the old farmer pulled into a small lay-by, waving them through, Henry was almost amiable.
He had barely finished waving a gracious acknowledgement when he found himself stuck behind a bus.
‘What do they want to bring bloody buses down these lanes for?’ he growled.
Dorothy laid a hand on his knee. ‘If we’re going to live here, we have to accept this pace of life.’
Eventually the bus stopped and Henry throttled past.
The roads narrowed into lanes the closer they got to the coast. The hedges, studded with primroses, rose high above them. Signposts boldly announced TREVAY 5 MILES. But as anyone knows, five Cornish miles can mean anything between two and ten.
Dorothy consulted her map and raised her voice to be heard above the wind. ‘We don’t want to get into Trevay itself. There’ll be a turning on the left to Lower Barton first.’
The Aston, stroking the vegetation between the narrow hedgerows, navigated the route to Lower Barton with its beautiful church and pub, then on to Higher Barton with its small supermarket, post office, pasty shop and garage, and finally down the unmade stony road to Treviscum Bay. And there, gleaming in the afternoon sun, stood the most wonderful house Dorothy and Henry had ever set eyes on.
Its large sash windows and porticoed front door seduced them immediately. Yes, the roofline was sagging, several slates were missing and the garden was badly overgrown, but they knew even before setting foot inside the door that they had to have it.
The front door opened and a young man stepped out to greet them.
‘Mr and Mrs Carew? Hello, I’m Trevor from Hawkes Property Agents. Come in, and welcome.’
Inside, the house was cool. There was a faint smell of damp, but the rooms were spacious and filled with sunlight. Henry and Dorothy took in the grandeur of the panelled hall, then followed Trevor into the high-ceilinged drawing room. If they weren’t hopelessly in love with Atlantic House already, the breathtaking view of the ocean from the French windows sealed the deal.
Careful not to sound too enthusiastic, they let Trevor escort them through the downstairs rooms and up to the bedrooms and ancient bathrooms. No words passed between Henry and Dorothy. They didn’t need to discuss it. They knew this house was for them.
Back in the hall, Trevor asked, ‘Shall I leave you to have a walk round on your own?’
‘Oh, I think we’ve seen enough,’ Henry said in a weary voice. ‘There’s a hell of a lot that needs doing. What can be done on the asking price?’
‘This is a highly desirable property that’s attracting a great deal of interest.’ Both men knew this was a lie, but it was the expected opening gambit of the duel. ‘I think it very unlikely the vendor will drop the price,’ parried Trevor, before delivering a clumsy blow: ‘In fact, I think it’s fair to say that a bidding war has already started.’
Dorothy looked pleadingly at Henry, who had begun to reach into his pocket for the car keys. ‘I haven’t come all this way to be held over a barrel. I’m a serious buyer, prepared to pay cash. Take it or leave it.’
‘Mr Carew,’ the agent stopped him, ‘I’m sure that if you were to make a hard-and-fast offer this afternoon, the vendor could be persuaded to come to some arrangement. Especially when I tell her you are a cash buyer.’
‘OK, let’s do that.’
‘Why don’t you follow me back to my office in Trevay and I’ll see if we can’t have the deal done by tonight.’
In the car, Dorothy had time to air her thoughts.
‘Please, please don’t let this house get away,’ she beseeched.
‘It’ll cost a fortune to bring the place up to scratch. Besides, I am not about to be made a monkey of by some venal estate agent who takes me for a wealthy Londoner.’
‘But you are a wealthy Londoner.’
‘Yes, dear – but he doesn’t know that.’
‘What do you suppose he thinks this car is then? A Reliant Robin? Henry Carew, your cover is already blown.’
*
Subject to a surveyor’s report and the usual searches, the deal was concluded that afternoon. Trevor, glowing with satisfaction and looking forward to working out his commission as soon as the buyers were out of the way, stood up to shake hands.
‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.’
