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Authors: Graham Hurley
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still telling me about the powerboat he was thinking of buying when the call from the bank came through. He listened for a couple of minutes. Then his face darkened.
‘ How come so soon?’ he growled. ‘What’s the problem?’
This time the answer was brisk. He glanced at his diary and then agreed to meet at ten next morning. By the time he put the phone down, I was resigned to bad news.
‘ They’re calling in the loan,’ he said angrily. ‘Bastards.’
On our various trips to Jersey, Adam and I had always stayed at a little place called Au Bon Accueil, a small, narrow-fronted hotel trellised with Virginia creeper. It wasn’t cheap but the service was wonderful and the food even better.
Au Bon Accueil was twenty minutes’ walk from Dennis’s office but by the time I got there I knew it was the wrong place to stay. We’d always booked the same bedroom - number 7 - and I knew that any sleep I managed to snatch would be haunted by memories from those glorious days. I was too exhausted for more grief and too raw for nostalgia. What I needed just now was a cheap B&B, a good night’s rest and the strength - somehow - to concentrate my few resources on rescuing Old Glory from the ashes of Harvey Glennister’s wretched Spitfire.
I found a B&B in a side street off Val Plaisant. There was a pay phone in the hall beside the fish tank and I phoned Dennis to tell him where I was. He’d been kind enough to offer me the spare room in his harbourside apartment out at St Aubin and I thanked him once again for the thought. We’d meet tomorrow. After our appointment at the bank, I’d probably take the afternoon flight back to Southampton.
Almost as an afterthought, I asked him for an honest assessment of our chances with Gulf Banking Services Corporation. Might they defer calling in the loan? Were banks usually this hasty? There was a silence on the line, unusual for Dennis, then he came back. Since I’d left, he’d had another call, followed by a couple of faxes. The first contained the schedule of interest payments. Three months into the loan, Steve Liddell already owed them £9,000 in back payments. That, said Dennis, was bad enough. What made it infinitely worse were the contents of the second fax, which detailed the small print of the agreement Adam had guaranteed. Most unusually, said Dennis, it contained a clause permitting the bank to foreclose on the loan in the event of a default, or under circumstances deemed otherwise non-compliant with the spirit of the agreement.
‘ What does that mean?’ I said quickly.
‘ You tell me.’
‘ But who makes the judgement about the circumstances? Who does the deeming?’
‘ They do.’
‘ No appeal?’
‘ None that I can see. Unless you fancy going to law.’
‘ ‘ So what do we do now?’
I watched the fish circling the tank, waiting for Dennis to answer. Trapped, I thought. Round and round and round for the rest of my life.
‘ We’ll thrash it out with them tomorrow,’ Dennis said at last. ‘I’ll call by and pick you up.’
That night, I ate alone in a bistro round the corner from Royal Square. I ordered an omelette and a salad and a small carafe of red wine. The fog had come down outside and I was glad of the way it swallowed me up when I left, huddled in the long cashmere coat Adam had bought me as a Christmas present. My resistance softened by the wine, I gave in to my worst instincts and retraced the route we always took after supper on nights when we found ourselves staying over on the island. I knew this was hopelessly self-indulgent, exactly what I shouldn’t do, but I didn’t care.
Up the hill beyond Royal Square is the shell of the old Fort Regent. There’s a leisure centre in the middle of it now, but from the terrace on the front you can look out over the inner harbour towards St Elizabeth Castle and the gentle sweep of St Aubin’s Bay. Tonight, for once, I could see nothing through the swirling curtains of sea fog, and I walked
‘ How come so soon?’ he growled. ‘What’s the problem?’
This time the answer was brisk. He glanced at his diary and then agreed to meet at ten next morning. By the time he put the phone down, I was resigned to bad news.
‘ They’re calling in the loan,’ he said angrily. ‘Bastards.’
On our various trips to Jersey, Adam and I had always stayed at a little place called Au Bon Accueil, a small, narrow-fronted hotel trellised with Virginia creeper. It wasn’t cheap but the service was wonderful and the food even better.
Au Bon Accueil was twenty minutes’ walk from Dennis’s office but by the time I got there I knew it was the wrong place to stay. We’d always booked the same bedroom - number 7 - and I knew that any sleep I managed to snatch would be haunted by memories from those glorious days. I was too exhausted for more grief and too raw for nostalgia. What I needed just now was a cheap B&B, a good night’s rest and the strength - somehow - to concentrate my few resources on rescuing Old Glory from the ashes of Harvey Glennister’s wretched Spitfire.
I found a B&B in a side street off Val Plaisant. There was a pay phone in the hall beside the fish tank and I phoned Dennis to tell him where I was. He’d been kind enough to offer me the spare room in his harbourside apartment out at St Aubin and I thanked him once again for the thought. We’d meet tomorrow. After our appointment at the bank, I’d probably take the afternoon flight back to Southampton.
Almost as an afterthought, I asked him for an honest assessment of our chances with Gulf Banking Services Corporation. Might they defer calling in the loan? Were banks usually this hasty? There was a silence on the line, unusual for Dennis, then he came back. Since I’d left, he’d had another call, followed by a couple of faxes. The first contained the schedule of interest payments. Three months into the loan, Steve Liddell already owed them £9,000 in back payments. That, said Dennis, was bad enough. What made it infinitely worse were the contents of the second fax, which detailed the small print of the agreement Adam had guaranteed. Most unusually, said Dennis, it contained a clause permitting the bank to foreclose on the loan in the event of a default, or under circumstances deemed otherwise non-compliant with the spirit of the agreement.
‘ What does that mean?’ I said quickly.
‘ You tell me.’
‘ But who makes the judgement about the circumstances? Who does the deeming?’
‘ They do.’
‘ No appeal?’
‘ None that I can see. Unless you fancy going to law.’
‘ ‘ So what do we do now?’
I watched the fish circling the tank, waiting for Dennis to answer. Trapped, I thought. Round and round and round for the rest of my life.
‘ We’ll thrash it out with them tomorrow,’ Dennis said at last. ‘I’ll call by and pick you up.’
That night, I ate alone in a bistro round the corner from Royal Square. I ordered an omelette and a salad and a small carafe of red wine. The fog had come down outside and I was glad of the way it swallowed me up when I left, huddled in the long cashmere coat Adam had bought me as a Christmas present. My resistance softened by the wine, I gave in to my worst instincts and retraced the route we always took after supper on nights when we found ourselves staying over on the island. I knew this was hopelessly self-indulgent, exactly what I shouldn’t do, but I didn’t care.
Up the hill beyond Royal Square is the shell of the old Fort Regent. There’s a leisure centre in the middle of it now, but from the terrace on the front you can look out over the inner harbour towards St Elizabeth Castle and the gentle sweep of St Aubin’s Bay. Tonight, for once, I could see nothing through the swirling curtains of sea fog, and I walked
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