That Will Do Nicely (2 page)

"What about the letter from American Express
... did you bring it with you?”

"Yes, here it is," s
aid Pascoe, removing the letter from his jacket pocket and passing it over. The solicitor read it carefully and only when he had completely absorbed its contents, did he look up at Pascoe.

"I'm sorry Tom, but there doesn't seem to be much I can do for you on the face of it."

"Don't give me that crap Toby, there must be something we can do... surely?"

"You say that this debt of £18,463.90 is nothing to do with you
... is that correct?"

"Of course it is Toby
... I'm not stupid... Don't you think I'd know if I'd spent that kind of money."

"What did Teresa actually say on the phone when you mentioned it to her?"

"She admitted it. Calm as a cucumber she was... said she'd applied for their gold card some months ago - in my name, would you believe and has obviously been spending money like it's been going out of style ever since. She even had the audacity to tell me she had done it in order to spite me... to get the things I couldn't provide her with. The question is, what are you going to do about it?" Pascoe was angry and his voice reflected it.

"Losing your temper in front of me, although understandable, won't get you anywhere Tom. So shut up and listen. You won't like what I am going to tell you, but you have to know, so here goes. Your wife has admitted to you that she has obtained this credit card the name of T. Pascoe, but because you both have the same initials and sign your cards with initials and surname
... well that's your bad luck. All the shops are interested in, is that the signatures on cards and receipts match and they certainly will in this case. Because the card is in your name, you are responsible for its accountability."

"But
... "

"Keep quiet Tom
... I know what you're going to say... but legally, as her husband, you are responsible for her debts."

"Even in this age of women's lib?" Pascoe protested.

"Even so,” Wilkinson continued, I'm afraid that leaves you with only three alternatives.

"Which are?"

"One... you pay. Two... you file for bankruptcy... "

"And three
... ?"

"You sue her for fraud, but I must point out that you can't afford that particular choice
... a high court action could take years to settle and would cost you more than you already stand to lose, just to bring the case to court. You'd almost certainly lose in any case."

"How could I lose
... I'm innocent?"

"Innocence has got nothing to do with it Tom. The legal system has little to do with right or wrong or justice, either. The law belongs to them that can afford it and at this moment of time, that doesn't include you."

"I've never heard anything so totally cynical in my life, Toby... why the hell do you do it?"

"It's the best way I know of making fairly easy money. It took me a few years to get used to the cynicism of it, but I managed
... we all do. Face it Tom... you're probably the only person she has admitted this fraud to... she'll hardly have made a statement in front of witnesses to what she has done. It will be your word against hers, if it ever goes to court."

"So doesn't my word count for anything?"

"Not against your wife it doesn't. Evidence against a spouse is inadmissible in an English court of law."

"Then what the hell do I do Toby?"

"My advice is that if you have got the money, pay. If you can't, go bankrupt... they're the only ways you can beat this, short of printing your own money."

"Thanks Toby, you're a bloody great help."

"Seriously Tom, whether we like it or not, the lady's got you by the short and curlies. For what it’s worth, I'll give you a tip ... pull out of anything you are in together."

"Such as?"

"If you have a bank account, even a joint account, empty it. Put it somewhere safe. Do the same with the building society or post office; anywhere you have an account together. When you've done all that let me know and I'll file for the divorce."

"Why not file straight away?"

"Because, Tom, once I or her solicitor are officially involved, we'll have to freeze all your assets and hers, until the divorce settlement is made. I don't need to tell you that this advice is completely off the record; I'd be struck off if anyone found out. Meanwhile, instruct your firm to pay you direct and not send it straight to your bank account."

"It's too late for that Toby. The bitch has already got me fired!"

"How come?"

"The guy she's gone off with was a colleague of mine at work and happens to be the boss's nephew."

"Enough said... legally, you could probably sue for wrongful dismissal but that would take months."

"Yeah, I know
... another battle I can't win."

"I'm sorry Tom, I really am. Go home, write to American Express and explain things, pointing out that you are an honorable man and intend to fully discharge the debt. Ask for time to pay. They usually co-operate."

"Is that all you can do for me then? It doesn't seem much."

"Try not to let it get you down, Tom."

"Easier said than done."

"Look Tom, remember that joke you pulled on the sixth form, the year you left
school. Anyone who could con 130 people like that, need never give up. Think about it Tom - it sure as hell inspired all of us."

"You know, that's the first time I've thought about that since the day I left school," said Tom, getting up to leave.  A smile flickered over his face as he remembered what he'd done 20 years before. If only things could be that simple again, he thought.

"It's part of the school's history now", added Wilkinson, "Probably engraved on tablets of stone somewhere, but it set you apart from the others... If anyone can get over this, you can. Don't give up, and don't forget the motto,... acquam memento rebus in arduis servare mentum! ' "

"And just what does that mean?"

"It's from Horace, Tom.’ Remember to keep a calm mind in difficulties’... bye Tom."

Old memories

Pascoe drove straight across the city to the Falstaff pub, trying to recall the details of the practical joke that Wilkinson had mentioned. It had happened during the final week of the school's summer term. By tradition, it had been the privilege of the outgoing sixth formers to play a prank on the rest of the school and in previous years had involved toilet rolls and paint, or dissembling the headmaster's car. Pascoe's contribution had been a little more subtle.

In 1966, at the end of the exam fortnight in July, he had invented a new Advanced Level exam, using the facilities of the school's printing club (of which he was one of three members), and had caused the whole of the sixth form to be kept in on a normally free Saturday afternoon to sit an exam which didn't really exist; on Environmental Psychology. He had filled the paper with illogical questions and later, when he marked them, he had awarded the only pass to a student who had written 'You've got to be joking.' across his entry. Strangely enough, even when he'd posted the results and confessed the joke, most of his peers refused to believe they'd been hoaxed, let alone by him.

The answer papers had revealed every type of perversity amongst his fellow students
... sadists, masochists and sexual deviates, criminals and even the odd psychopath or two. A strange cross-section of society considering the school drew its students from the top fifteen per cent of intelligent 11 year olds and that the same pupils often rose to high office. If they were really the 'crème de la crème', it could only be of the sour, clotted, variety. He had wondered at the time of the future fate of England. By now the same people would be installed in government, law and the armed forces throughout the country... a sobering thought! The joke had been his revenge against the system and had helped make up for the years he had been bullied for being a loner and only half-English.

He had started work a few days after publishing the results, in a Bureau de Change on board a cross-channel ferry. Although only a stop-gap measure for the summer, the job had made a welcome change from the slog of exams and had turned out more interesting than he had expected.

At the end of the summer season, he had joined a photographic studio in Great Windmill Street, London, where his mentor had flourished since the war. There, he learnt the rudiments of the photographic trade and enjoyed the perk of thumbing through the old picture files of the Windmill girls which the studio had taken since the war.

Six months of Hubert Harry Winters (his mentor and boss) and the Windmill girls had been enough for anyone, so by replying to trade advertisements, he had joined a commercial studio at the earliest opportunity. At the new studio, in Slough, he had learned the printing side of the business as well as photography
... the studio handling the entire package for its clients, from conception of original idea through to finished brochure.

Several years later, when he had gleaned the necessary skills, he left Slough to start a studio of his own in Walton-on-Thames, which sounds much better than it actually was. There, although he learned how to produce endless pretty baby pictures and how to flatter ugly brides, it took him three years to
realize that flair and hard work didn't guarantee success and money. It was then that he had first met his wife, Teresa.

Marriage, with all its constraints and conditions had swiftly followed and when Terri's father, who was 'big' in the City's Foreign Exchange markets had offered him a job in an import/export office, he had let himself be talked into taking it and had given up the studio. In Terri's words, he had moved into a 'better job
... with prospects' which turned out to be a position as a glorified clerk with an Import/Export firm in Dover. The irony was that Dover was where he had started, the summer he had left school. He had come full circle.

Reali
zing that the snow was now falling thick and fast, Pascoe drove to his home in Patrixbourne which lay beyond the far side of the city of Canterbury and spent the rest of the afternoon, putting his affairs in order.

Early next morning, he joined the hordes of migrating school children on the London bound train. For Pascoe, a day spent wandering around the metropolis was a means of recharging his battery; a habit acquired during his time in Soho. He'd often wandered around the back-streets during his lunch breaks and remembered that on one such occasion, his nose had led him to discover the delights of Chinese cooking.

On arrival in London, he left Victoria station and wandered aimlessly through the backstreets of the capital. Two hours walking brought him to the Gray's Inn Road and he turned north in the direction of the law courts. Several minutes later, just as he was crossing the road, fate dealt him a curious, double-edged blow. First, a taxi nearly knocked him down, which would have solved all his problems more permanently than he cared for and then, as he picked himself up, he found himself staring at a strangely familiar fascia on the shop-front opposite. 'ADANA... manufacturer of excellent printing equipment to the schools and jobbing printers of the empire.'

Whether he had stumbled across the shop by chance or whether it was a trick of his
subconscious, it struck Pascoe as a strange coincidence, considering Wilkinson's words the previous day. Whatever the reason, he felt compelled to enter the shop and spent nearly an hour foraging around shelves of half-remembered equipment. There were dozens of different styles and sizes of type displayed, but although the technology had made some incredible advances in the twenty or so years since he had last played the part of a jobbing printer, he still recognized the world of the printer’s trade. The fragrances of ink, paper and turpentine brought the memories flooding back.

His pleasure had come from coping with the difficulties and idiosyncrasies of the old-fashioned trade; spelling words backwards in a hand-held composing stick; having to find the ‘foreign’ piece of type in a chase full of type. The equipment, though extremely simple, was capable of producing top quality results and Caxton himself would have felt at home with it.

Before he left, he acquired a catalogue and price-list and bought a book entitled "Paper, Ink and Rollers" to refresh his memory.

He dawdled back to the West End, stopping off for a pub-lunch in ‘The Cheshire Cheese’ one of Fleet Street's famous hostelries where past luminaries including Samuel Pepys had once restored themselves. Towards the end of his meal came the second coincidence of the day. A vaguely familiar figure
weaved through the crowds at the bar, towards him.

“Pascoe, isn't it?" An educated voice asked.

“Yes." He replied hesitantly.

“Oxley, Charles Oxley, School House,
'56 'til '64", the voice continued." We were in the same year, only I was Upper sixth Science and you were one of those modernists, if I recall." Pascoe remembered him as an accomplished bore, one whom he had never wanted to meet again, but tried politely, not to let the feeling show.

"Yes. Quite right
," confirmed Pascoe.

Oxley, who had not even been an acquaintance of Pascoe’s at school, went straight into an Old School Tie routine. Pascoe had never understood how it was supposed to make friends of people who had neither known nor cared for one another at school.

"Whatever brings you to this neck of the woods ... Foreign Exchange myself... damn good job... 85 grand last year on dollar futures. But what about you? You must be doing well." Oxley's boring voice droned on. For the first minute, Pascoe pretended to actually listen to it, but couldn't keep up the necessary concentration. Nevertheless, he remained aware of Oxley's monotonous voice drifting in and out of focus.

"
... kept back after school for that bloody exam... and on a Saturday afternoon," but suddenly, against all expectation, Oxley's words assumed significance. This was the second time in two days that he'd been reminded of the same event; three if he counted stumbling across the printing equipment shop. "Insult to injury... cursed you... thought you a bit of a bastard. Wonderful to see you again."

"And, you, Oxley, but I'm afraid I must be going", Pascoe replied, turning away, seeking a path to the door, but Oxley was a master of such situations and wasn't about to let a captive prey escape so easily. His large hand landed on Pascoe's shoulder and deftly spun him round.

"I say Tom, do you ever see anything of the old boys? I saw Smith-3 a couple of months ago... doing wonderfully well in the City, over 60 grand a year and he's just bought a boat on the Med... and what about Agates... never thought he'd amount to anything... he was a bloody psychopath at school... and do you remember the bilge master wanting to borrow a penknife and that clown throwing his flick-knife at his hand... 14 stitches I seem to remember."

"Yes, I remember", said Pascoe with good cause
... remembering that he'd had to explain the blood which had spattered onto his shirt to his mother.

"Well he's just made Colonel in the Guards
... absolutely incredible! So what are you doing these days, Tom? I bet you've got it all worked out." Oxley nudged him with his elbow as he spoke.

"I'm in Import/Export actually, down on the Kent
coast and I absolutely hate it," he managed to reply.

"Good job that
... plenty of prospects... lucky bastard," commented Oxley.

"I said I hated it
," Pascoe corrected him, but to no avail.

"Know what you mean old boy," said Oxley, tapping the side of his no
se and winking conspiratorially." You're making a fortune... good to hear..."

"I'm sorry, Charles, but I really do have to go. It's been
marvelous seeing you after all this time... cheery-bye." He stood up and without giving Oxley time to protest, elbowed his way out of the bar and joined the bustle of the Fleet Street stampede heading west. He was angry at the thought of the money his peers seemed to be making, especially anyone as thick and boring as Charles Oxley Esq. It was horrible to contemplate... and damned unfair.

As he neared the West End, he became aware that his surroundings no longer matched his memories of the city. The London he had worked in had changed, almost beyond recognition. The city's sounds had become cosmopolitan and even the native Cockney voices w
ere now tainted with multi-colored accents.

He soon found that other things had changed as well as he picked his way through the streets of the Chinese community. The whole of
Soho was saturated with bureaux-de-change, which had miraculously sprung up wherever there was a space between the sex parlors and restaurants of the area. Indeed, some of the more adventurous sex emporia now advertised their prices in the currencies of the world.

His old studio premises in Great Windmill Street had also turned to the sex industry for greater profits and in addition to the usual merchandise, offered clients an 'unforgettable experience' for 50p. He wondered if it still belonged to his photographic mentor
... Hubert Harry Winters.

He strolled back to Victoria station, his mind full of images of printing machines and
bureaux de change. If only there were a way he could make enough just to pay off his debts and get started again, he mused. At the station, before boarding the train, he bought a copy of 'Exchange and Mart' magazine from the bookstall and spent the journey studying the section devoted to second-hand printing equipment. If only there was a way...          

Following his eventful trip to London, Pascoe settled down to planning a possible, if criminal, way out of his predicament with American Express. Taking his idea logically, it seemed that the most important part of such a plan would be the time-table of events. Accordingly, he checked his desk-diary for a period of time when he could count on the banks being closed, as he knew that the longer the period of closure, the greater his chance of success. The best possible time would be one of the religious holidays, Christmas or Easter when all the banks would be closed for several days. Easter would fit his requirements perfectly as it would be a busier time than Christ
mas with people going on their Spring holidays. It meant that with the Friday and Monday being bank holidays he could count on having nearly seven days before any cheques he passed would hit the clearing system. He penciled in the date in the diary, realizing that he had less than a year in which to complete his preparations.

Deep inside, he knew that it was all just a dream; that he was just letting his imagination run away with itself, but there was nothing wrong with that and it certainly beat twiddling his thumbs or watching the television. Until he received news of his fate from American Express regarding time to pay, he decided

Sitting at his bureau in the lounge of the cottage, he took a "jumbo" writing pad and started to write a list of requirements, dividing the page into four sections:-

PHOTOGRAPHIC

IN-HOUSE PRINTING

COLOR PRINTING

SUNDRY REQUIREMENTS

Taking the sections one at a time, he gradually expanded his notes as his thoughts developed into concrete ways and means of executing his plan. His idea was to create a non-existent bank and issue his own Travelers Che
ques through it. He knew, with his limited experience that the manufacture of printing plates is today a largely mechanical process, needing little skill compared with the necessary intricate processes of the previous century. Nowadays the process is photo-mechanical and relatively simple, so he added a 7" x 5" process camera and enlarger with a vacuum-printing frame to his list. Individual printing plates for full color printing are each made from a black & white negative, exposed through a different color filter... one plate from a negative exposed through a red filter, the second through a green filter, the third through blue... the secret was in being able to print the different colors separately, in register, balancing the final color by altering the proportions of each color ink appropriately. For this a baseboard with register pins was essential and he added one to his list.