Honeycote (6 page)

Good beer and loyalty – customer loyalty, staff loyalty and family loyalty – that’s what had kept Honeycote Ales afloat and seen it through many a rough patch. But even that magical recipe could fail in the wrong hands. And charm wasn’t enough any more. Of course, you had to have a Unique Selling Point (Cowley despised all these new marketing terms, with their over-important capital letters and acronyms), but it was what you did with your USP afterwards that mattered and the truth was Mickey Liddiard did nothing but the bare minimum.

Cowley wasn’t looking forward to his meeting with Mickey that morning. Their meetings were usually kept on an informal level, with Mickey taking him on a guided tour then standing him a good roast lunch at the Horse and Groom. Being a bank manager in a small market town didn’t allow for much fun and Cowley had always enjoyed these little outings. He appreciated good beer and found the somewhat antiquated machinations of the brewery fascinating. Honeycote Ales was small enough to allow itself the luxury of traditional methods and high standards. The mounds of golden Herefordshire hops and malt barley, the ancient wooden tuns and vats, the pure clear water that was drawn up from underground wells and the mighty engine that drove all the pumps and machinery: the purity and simplicity of the operation showed itself in the perfection of its brew. It was a dream formula for the millennium, with its harking back to all things bucolic and nostalgic; the sort of venture that over-driven high-flyers dreamed of escaping to when they felt the first naggings of an ulcer.

Yes, Honeycote Ales was a very viable proposition indeed. Put it on the open market and it would be snapped up, if not by one of the predatory larger breweries whose hungry jaws it had done well to avoid thus far, then by a moneyed entrepreneur who fancied playing at having his own pubs. No doubt that would result in some of its less charming rough edges being smoothed off – several of the pubs, for example, still only had outside toilets – but there would be a concomitant rise in profit.

It was Cowley’s job today to point this out to Mickey Liddiard as diplomatically as possible. He’d therefore felt the need to put their meeting on a more formal level than usual, and had asked Mickey to come into the bank. He wanted to feel confident and have the upper hand, and he knew that meeting at the brewery held too many distractions; that he would be too easily seduced by his surroundings and the notorious Liddiard charm.

Of course, unauthorized overdrafts were not uncommon in these days of sticky cash flow. The bank generally sent out a letter advising the culprit of their overdrawn amount and the charge that would be added to their account on a daily basis until the debt was cleared. This was usually enough for the culprits either to clear the amount or come in to arrange an official loan. He’d sent Mickey five reminding letters to date.

Cowley knew there was trouble by the nonchalant way Mickey kept assuring him there wasn’t. His confident smile, the airy wave of the hand, his pseudo-exasperated references to late-payers all pointed to what Cowley thought of as the reverse ostrich syndrome – trying to stick
his
head in the sand. But anyone who thought they could fool Cowley had got him all wrong. His slow, deliberate manner and seemingly cautious way of thinking did not mean he could not spot trouble on the horizon. What he needed to establish today was whether Mickey’s own head was in the sand, too – whether he knew the extent of his problems or if they were going to run away with him. Cowley was very good at shutting the barn door before the horse bolted.

Getting Mickey to come clean on their first meeting would be well nigh impossible, but at least Cowley would be able to start putting the pressure on gently by reassuring him that the bank would be there for Honeycote Ales as long as he played by their rules. Any funny business these days and the rug was pulled out, no questions asked. Meanwhile, he’d worked out two solutions to the brewery’s problems, neither of which Mickey would like.

He broached the first and less controversial over a mediocre cup of coffee, which he was interested to see Mickey did not touch. Was it really that disgusting, or was the hangover from which he was obviously suffering so bad that liquid intake was not yet possible? Cowley felt in a stronger position immediately and plunged straight in.

‘Why don’t you sell off one of your tied houses? It would give you a cash injection, which you obviously badly need, and a bit left over for general improvements. Some considered investment…’

Mickey looked at him as if he had suggested selling one of his own children. ‘This is just a temporary cash flow problem – ’

Cowley smiled, and Mickey was startled to notice a wintry chill in his eyes. The placebo was having no effect.

‘I think you should consider it.’

He wasn’t to know Mickey had been agonizing over this very possibility for weeks, and had finally concluded it was out of the question. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

‘And in the meantime, can I assume you won’t be drawing any more cheques on your account until we see something paid in?’

Fuck. What about the wages? And the next consignment of barley? It suddenly occurred to Mickey that the colourless, docile chap he’d dragged round the brewery so many times and stuffed to the gills in the Horse and Groom was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it and smiled.

‘I’m expecting something in the next couple of days.’

Cowley smiled. His lips were thin and liver-coloured, too dark for his pale, papery skin. Mickey badly wanted to escape. And have a proper drink. Not coffee that smelled like gravy browning. But Cowley was shuffling through his file in a manner that didn’t seem conclusive. He spread his hands out carefully on the table and hit Mickey with his second proposition.

‘I think you should also consider appointing a proper sales manager. Beef up your off-sales instead of relying on your tied trade.’

Mickey knew there was sense in the suggestion.

‘Maybe Patrick – ’

Cowley thought he’d nip that suggestion in the bud while he could.

‘Patrick’s too young and green – he could do more harm than good. Someone with experience could improve things dramatically. Leave Patrick to do whatever it is he’s best at.’ Cowley made this sound as if he didn’t think that was a fat lot. ‘You need to get a real salesman in – someone hungry and aggressive.’

Someone who didn’t spend half their time poncing about in a sports car chatting up women. Cowley had seen Patrick speeding through Eldenbury on several occasions with a girl in the front seat, clearly not on brewery business even though he was drawing a salary.

‘A shark, you mean?’ Mickey’s reaction was just what Cowley expected.

‘That’s the way it needs to be these days.’

Mickey looked at Cowley and thought he looked a little shark-like himself: cold eyes, sharp teeth.

‘We’ve never employed aggressive sales tactics.’

‘Then perhaps you should.’

The tone was mild but it was a statement rather than a question. Mickey shifted uncomfortably. A tot from his hip-flask wouldn’t really be appropriate at this point, tempting though the thought was.

‘I don’t know that we can support another salary.’

‘Then perhaps you should look at how you’re staffed.’

There was a deadly silence. Cowley’s training meant that Mickey broke it first.

‘You’re saying get rid of Patrick.’

‘It’s all very well keeping things in the family, but you should ask yourself how useful Patrick really is to you. Is it worth the whole company going down the drain just to keep him in beer money – if you’ll forgive the play on words. I mean, what does he actually do for his twenty grand a year? Not a lot, as far as I can see.’ Cowley allowed himself another little smile. Mickey was starting to find them unnerving. Was Cowley merely chuffed by his little attempt at wit, or was he enjoying the situation? He rather suspected the latter. ‘Believe me, there’ll be plenty of people waiting in the wings if you don’t pull your finger out.’

If Mickey hadn’t been on the end of this ruthless appraisal he would have been speechless with admiration. For years Cowley had struck him as someone who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Now here he was, sharpening the knife and preparing to stick it in as far as it would go. Mickey didn’t mind betting he’d got a buyer up his sleeve already. He wondered if he was in for a cut as well, but figured Cowley was probably relying on his imminent pension too much to risk insider dealing. He decided to call his bluff.

‘Really? Have you got a particular buyer in mind?’ He was pleased to see Cowley look startled. He thought he’d make him squirm a bit more. ‘I mean, I know we’re over our limit a bit at the moment, but the brewery’s not actually yours to sell yet, is it?’

Mickey knew he was pulling rank as one of the bank’s oldest and most valued customers, but he hadn’t appreciated this meeting one bit. Cowley’s tone had verged on blackmail. He expected an immediate and profuse apology, and was perturbed to see Cowley looking at him with puzzlement and pity.

‘Mr Liddiard’ – he’d never called him that before – ‘are you actually aware of the extent of your debt to the bank at the moment?’

Later, Cowley felt sorry that Mickey had seemed to take everything so personally. It was his job on the line, after all. And at the moment Honeycote Ales had the biggest unauthorized overdraft in the county.

By midday, Mickey and the girls had reached the middle of Cheltenham, parked satisfactorily and reached the haven of the town’s biggest department store. He’d raided the petty cash tin and given Sophie and Georgina fifty pounds each to buy an outfit for the party. He felt guilty, as he knew this wasn’t really enough, and there was nothing he’d have loved more than to have given them carte blanche, but he couldn’t. He’d also felt embarrassed handing them cash in front of Mandy, feeling it beyond the bounds of hospitality to fork out for her, but she’d mollified him by flashing a credit card. He agreed to meet them an hour later in a nearby pizza parlour. As soon as they were out of sight he bolted for the basement where the payphones were secreted. What with the bank manager, and Lucy, unusually for her, being at home all morning, he hadn’t had a chance to call Kay. At times Mickey wished he had succumbed to a mobile phone, but the inconvenience of being permanently contactable outweighed his occasional desperation for telecommunication. He scrabbled in his pocket for change, dialled Kay’s number and leaned against the wall for moral support. There was no reply.

Mickey threw the phone back on to the receiver in disgust. Why did people have mobile phones if they didn’t bother to answer them? He walked back to the lift, gloomily wondering how the hell he was going to pay for lunch. Cowley had been pretty explicit about what would happen if he wrote another cheque. In the lift was a sign for the imminent arrival of Santa in his grotto. How simple it would be if he could send a note up the chimney asking for a hundred thousand pounds. Mickey sighed and lit a cigarette, earning a glare from a middle-aged lady next to him. He debated taking the lift to the top floor and ending it all, but instead he got out on the third floor and headed for Ladies Lingerie. Guilt always made him generous. That was one of his better faults.

In the office at Barton Court garden centre, Kay had ignored her phone. The number that flashed up was one she didn’t recognize. Her husband Lawrence frowned.

‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

‘It’s bound to be one of the reps from the exhibition. They’re obsessed with follow-up calls. Let them wait.’

Lawrence smiled. That was one of the things he loved best about his wife. She was a tough cookie.

‘How about lunch somewhere?’

It had been one of the busiest weeks of the year for the garden centre, and Lawrence had been working practically round the clock. Although he was good at delegating, he was also a control freak. As he rarely relaxed himself, he didn’t see why anyone else should, so he always kept his staff on their toes, never let them become complacent. But today he fancied taking Kay somewhere to celebrate. He’d printed out the figures for the past two weeks that morning and their turnover was up by an astonishing percentage. If he and Kay couldn’t take time out to congratulate themselves, then what was the point?

‘We could go into Cheltenham. Stop off at Sampson’s.’

Sampson’s was their favourite jeweller. Lawrence always liked Kay to choose her own Christmas present – he’d never seen the point in expensive surprises that might need to be changed. He believed in getting things right first time.

Kay looked at him, surprised. Lawrence wasn’t given to spontaneous gestures. She wondered how to extricate herself without rousing his suspicions or offending him.

‘It’s a lovely idea. But I’ve got to go and supervise the tree decorations at Elmhurst Grange. I had to send over two girls who haven’t got much of a clue…’

‘No, you’re right. Don’t want to muck that one up.’

Lawrence had been delighted with his wife’s ability to sweet talk Lord Elmhurst into thinking he needed a twenty-foot bespoke Christmas tree in his baronial entrance hall. And he knew Kay would oversee it with good taste. She always seemed to know what was right. And with any luck, Lord Elmhurst would be impressed. Lawrence hoped he might get a day’s shooting out of it one day. He had a secret desire to hobnob with the local gentry.

Kay came over and ran a teasing finger down the inside of his lapel.

‘Maybe tomorrow?’

She dropped a kiss on his cheek and picked up her bag.

‘I’ve got to run, or I’ll be late.’

She hurried out to her car. She should just have time to nip to Elmhurst Grange and check that the tree was being dressed to her liking before meeting Mickey. She’d call in again on the way home to approve the final work of art, then do Lawrence his favourite supper. She’d seen a fleeting look of disappointment on his face when she’d turned down his invitation, and for the first time she felt a stab of guilt as she drove off to meet her lover.

In the Young Designer section, Sophie was feeling rising panic. The thought of the dance the next night filled her with a mixture of excitement and dread that made her stomach churn, exacerbated by her present dilemma: what to wear?