he had no time for fancy accountants.’ He glanced sideways at me. ‘Nice to be wanted, eh?’
I spent another hour or so at Dennis’s office before finding somewhere to stay. Dennis was keen for me to meet the bank manager who’d fixed up the loan, and while we waited for his secretary to confirm an appointment, I dug some figures out of my own briefcase and ran through the advance bookings situation for the coming season.
So far, we’d always opened Mapledurcombe for business during the first week in June. This gave us four clear months through to the end of September, generating enough revenue to keep our heads above water while giving us the chance to maintain the standards we’d set for ourselves. Currently, we were charging £150 per night per person for accommodation and all meals. For that sort of money, quite rightly, our guests expected the very best, and so far I’d resisted the temptation to extend the season in the belief that we’d probably buckle under the strain. This summer, though, I was assured of help from a couple of wonderful women in the village and as a result we’d decided to open a month early, on 2 May. Filling five months instead of four had been no problem. Already, in mid-February, we were oversubscribed.
Dennis put the figures through his calculator. Like me, he projected the season’s gross takings at £168,000.
‘ And that’s just board and lodging,’ I reminded him. ‘The flying comes separately.’
‘ How much are you charging for the Harvard?’
‘ Six hundred and fifty an hour. We’ve just put it up.’
‘ And the Mustang?’
‘ Two thousand nine hundred and fifty.’
Dennis made small, neat notes on the pad beside his calculator. Like most accountants, sums like these made no visible impression on him. Everything on earth had a market price. If people were prepared to pay £17,000 for a day trip to Berlin and back, so be it.
‘ What’s the bottom line on the Harvard? Costwise?’
‘ Per hour?’
‘ Yes.’
I knew the figures backwards. I’d been through them a thousand times with Adam, tallying up all the various expenses involved just keeping the aircraft in flying condition. Fuel and maintenance cost a small fortune but insurance was the real killer. For the Harvard, we were currently paying £10,000 a year. The Mustang came in at nearly double that figure.
Dennis was still waiting for the hourly cost.
‘ Four hundred and twenty-five an hour for the Harvard,’ I said, ‘And around two thousand for the Mustang.’
‘ And you’re serious about keeping the aircraft?’
‘ Yes.’
‘ What about pilots?’
‘ I’ve got a list as long as your arm. Most of them would do it for nothing.’
Dennis, still bent over his pad, grinned. He knew as well as I did that laying hands on a classic warbird like the Mustang was every pilot’s dream. We were always getting letters from would-be hopefuls, but over the years Adam had built a list of maybe half a dozen pilots he really trusted, and I knew there’d be no problem keeping both planes crewed.
I watched Dennis working through one last column of figures. He knew the average usage rate we’d established for each aircraft, the minimum number of flying hours we could be reasonably sure of selling each month.
At length, he looked up. This was a sum I hadn’t done.
‘ For both aircraft, ball park, we’re talking ninety-five grand.’
‘ That’s over the season?’
‘ Yep.’
‘ Total revenue?’ ‘Total net.’
Net means profit after deducting all expenses. I tried to look pleased. In truth, it was more than I’d expected, though it didn’t, of course, take into account the cost of a new pilot. What kind of price should I put on Adam? Was there enough money in the world to buy me one last hour of his time?
Dennis began to reach for his calculator again, a question on his lips, but something in my face must have persuaded him to rein in. Abruptly, he changed the subject, and he was
I spent another hour or so at Dennis’s office before finding somewhere to stay. Dennis was keen for me to meet the bank manager who’d fixed up the loan, and while we waited for his secretary to confirm an appointment, I dug some figures out of my own briefcase and ran through the advance bookings situation for the coming season.
So far, we’d always opened Mapledurcombe for business during the first week in June. This gave us four clear months through to the end of September, generating enough revenue to keep our heads above water while giving us the chance to maintain the standards we’d set for ourselves. Currently, we were charging £150 per night per person for accommodation and all meals. For that sort of money, quite rightly, our guests expected the very best, and so far I’d resisted the temptation to extend the season in the belief that we’d probably buckle under the strain. This summer, though, I was assured of help from a couple of wonderful women in the village and as a result we’d decided to open a month early, on 2 May. Filling five months instead of four had been no problem. Already, in mid-February, we were oversubscribed.
Dennis put the figures through his calculator. Like me, he projected the season’s gross takings at £168,000.
‘ And that’s just board and lodging,’ I reminded him. ‘The flying comes separately.’
‘ How much are you charging for the Harvard?’
‘ Six hundred and fifty an hour. We’ve just put it up.’
‘ And the Mustang?’
‘ Two thousand nine hundred and fifty.’
Dennis made small, neat notes on the pad beside his calculator. Like most accountants, sums like these made no visible impression on him. Everything on earth had a market price. If people were prepared to pay £17,000 for a day trip to Berlin and back, so be it.
‘ What’s the bottom line on the Harvard? Costwise?’
‘ Per hour?’
‘ Yes.’
I knew the figures backwards. I’d been through them a thousand times with Adam, tallying up all the various expenses involved just keeping the aircraft in flying condition. Fuel and maintenance cost a small fortune but insurance was the real killer. For the Harvard, we were currently paying £10,000 a year. The Mustang came in at nearly double that figure.
Dennis was still waiting for the hourly cost.
‘ Four hundred and twenty-five an hour for the Harvard,’ I said, ‘And around two thousand for the Mustang.’
‘ And you’re serious about keeping the aircraft?’
‘ Yes.’
‘ What about pilots?’
‘ I’ve got a list as long as your arm. Most of them would do it for nothing.’
Dennis, still bent over his pad, grinned. He knew as well as I did that laying hands on a classic warbird like the Mustang was every pilot’s dream. We were always getting letters from would-be hopefuls, but over the years Adam had built a list of maybe half a dozen pilots he really trusted, and I knew there’d be no problem keeping both planes crewed.
I watched Dennis working through one last column of figures. He knew the average usage rate we’d established for each aircraft, the minimum number of flying hours we could be reasonably sure of selling each month.
At length, he looked up. This was a sum I hadn’t done.
‘ For both aircraft, ball park, we’re talking ninety-five grand.’
‘ That’s over the season?’
‘ Yep.’
‘ Total revenue?’ ‘Total net.’
Net means profit after deducting all expenses. I tried to look pleased. In truth, it was more than I’d expected, though it didn’t, of course, take into account the cost of a new pilot. What kind of price should I put on Adam? Was there enough money in the world to buy me one last hour of his time?
Dennis began to reach for his calculator again, a question on his lips, but something in my face must have persuaded him to rein in. Abruptly, he changed the subject, and he was
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