Read Online The Rich Are with You Always by Malcolm Macdonald - Free Book Online
Authors: Malcolm Macdonald
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assured him, truly believing it. "He sniffs about him like a champion hound. He's forgotten it already. George Hudson can take pound shares and sell them at twenty-pound premium any day of the week. So why should he want to get into anything so dull and safe as simple ironfounding?"
At last John seemed reassured, and her mention of Hudson's freelance stockjobbing prompted the memory of the GNE shares and the promise of fifty thousand clear. "Beats me," he said, when he had told her that bit of good news, "where the money all comes from."
She had to peer at him in the firelight and the glimmer of her distant oil lamp to see if he was serious. "D'you really not know?" she asked.
"Obviously some of it comes from fools—like Beador if he's applying for shares at big premiums—but that can't be the whole of it." He had not meant to use Beador as an example; the name had slipped out. But now he was glad. Now perhaps they could talk about it.
She appeared not to hear him, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames. And then she continued: "There was a thing you said to me once. It must have been right back early on when we first got married. You said we'd got gold 'not buried in a bloody tropic island, but gold buried in the future. Waiting while we grow toward it.' I've never forgotten that."
"I said that to you the very first night we met. The twenty-sixth of August, 1839." His eye was on her, but his mind's eye was back there, relishing the precision of his memory. "On the banks over the south portal of Summit Tunnel. That's when I said that."
"Well, George Hudson's gone one better than you. He's found a way of digging a tunnel to the future. And he's bringing that gold back here by the Troy ton!"
He laughed, delighted at the thought. But Nora was adamant. "It's the shareholders of the eighteen fifties and sixties—and beyond—who are paying that profit to us. What! Capitalize at fourteen million and call up four. Amalgamate with three others and keep the cash switching around so fast that half of it melts and everyone's blinded! I tell you, George Hudson may be the wax on the colonel's moustache for this generation of shareholders, but their sons will curse him—and their grandsons too—if he continues much longer."
Her vehemence made him smile. "A tunnel in time!" he said, and then fell silent.
"Is that your worry about Beador?" she asked suddenly. "Did he say he's been speculating in shares?"
"As good as," John admitted.
"Is he badly stretched?"
"He wouldn't say. I told him we would need to know the full extent of his liability before we made any further move together."
"Not that we'd trust him," she said.
"Of course not. We must make our own inquiry."
"Yes."
"Or perhaps not. I'm coming round to your view. Let's drop Sir George and look for land elsewhere."
"No!" She was emphatic. John's admission excited her. The air carried upon it the distant smell of blood. "No. We can find out. Let's not be hasty. I imagine, then, you didn't ask Hudson about Beador?"
He shook his head. "Certainly not."
"Did you think we might ask Reverend Prendergast? Time we put him to work again."
The Reverend Doctor Prendergast had once tried to blackmail John and Nora. But since they had turned the tables on him, he had earned himself a respectable and far from trifling commission for help rendered; he had the back door password to most of the railway boardrooms in Britain—certainly to all in the north of the country. If Beador was on any applicants' list, the Reverend Doctor Prendergast could soon find out.
"Fancy not thinking of him," John said.
"You live hand-to-mouth, love," she told him. "You only thought of Hudson because he lives so close by."
He smiled grudgingly at the truth of it.
But Nora did not smile back. A memory had just come to her. The day she met George Hudson on York station was, in fact, the day she had seen
At last John seemed reassured, and her mention of Hudson's freelance stockjobbing prompted the memory of the GNE shares and the promise of fifty thousand clear. "Beats me," he said, when he had told her that bit of good news, "where the money all comes from."
She had to peer at him in the firelight and the glimmer of her distant oil lamp to see if he was serious. "D'you really not know?" she asked.
"Obviously some of it comes from fools—like Beador if he's applying for shares at big premiums—but that can't be the whole of it." He had not meant to use Beador as an example; the name had slipped out. But now he was glad. Now perhaps they could talk about it.
She appeared not to hear him, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames. And then she continued: "There was a thing you said to me once. It must have been right back early on when we first got married. You said we'd got gold 'not buried in a bloody tropic island, but gold buried in the future. Waiting while we grow toward it.' I've never forgotten that."
"I said that to you the very first night we met. The twenty-sixth of August, 1839." His eye was on her, but his mind's eye was back there, relishing the precision of his memory. "On the banks over the south portal of Summit Tunnel. That's when I said that."
"Well, George Hudson's gone one better than you. He's found a way of digging a tunnel to the future. And he's bringing that gold back here by the Troy ton!"
He laughed, delighted at the thought. But Nora was adamant. "It's the shareholders of the eighteen fifties and sixties—and beyond—who are paying that profit to us. What! Capitalize at fourteen million and call up four. Amalgamate with three others and keep the cash switching around so fast that half of it melts and everyone's blinded! I tell you, George Hudson may be the wax on the colonel's moustache for this generation of shareholders, but their sons will curse him—and their grandsons too—if he continues much longer."
Her vehemence made him smile. "A tunnel in time!" he said, and then fell silent.
"Is that your worry about Beador?" she asked suddenly. "Did he say he's been speculating in shares?"
"As good as," John admitted.
"Is he badly stretched?"
"He wouldn't say. I told him we would need to know the full extent of his liability before we made any further move together."
"Not that we'd trust him," she said.
"Of course not. We must make our own inquiry."
"Yes."
"Or perhaps not. I'm coming round to your view. Let's drop Sir George and look for land elsewhere."
"No!" She was emphatic. John's admission excited her. The air carried upon it the distant smell of blood. "No. We can find out. Let's not be hasty. I imagine, then, you didn't ask Hudson about Beador?"
He shook his head. "Certainly not."
"Did you think we might ask Reverend Prendergast? Time we put him to work again."
The Reverend Doctor Prendergast had once tried to blackmail John and Nora. But since they had turned the tables on him, he had earned himself a respectable and far from trifling commission for help rendered; he had the back door password to most of the railway boardrooms in Britain—certainly to all in the north of the country. If Beador was on any applicants' list, the Reverend Doctor Prendergast could soon find out.
"Fancy not thinking of him," John said.
"You live hand-to-mouth, love," she told him. "You only thought of Hudson because he lives so close by."
He smiled grudgingly at the truth of it.
But Nora did not smile back. A memory had just come to her. The day she met George Hudson on York station was, in fact, the day she had seen
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