The Redbury Exit

THE REDBURY EXIT

She was redheaded and big-boned, perhaps handsome rather than pretty -
she had a good body but a chin which could probably stop a door. She
had collared Cressey by the drinks table during her fifth gin and tonic
and, finding someone who was interested in more than golf, cars,
property and the social politics of Redbury, she had gabbled away in
the manner of someone unburdening herself. He was a good listener. She
told him all about home in South Africa and she went on a bit. But soon
they were allies, similarly out of it that evening, he through general
disinterest and she by dint of circumstance which only added to her
disillusionment. Yet again, Charlie Boy was going home to the
wife.

Gabrielle Gorton was a secretary at Beecroft &; Company, Estate
Agents. That was her cover. She was also Charles Beecroft's mistress.
Surprisingly, in view of that, she could be quite sensible when sober
though she got drunk very easily, and she was getting drunk very easily
then. Spotting the opening early, Cressey was pacing her through a few
more gins on the premise that his resistance might be higher and a
well-timed proposition could then strike a chord in her mood of
disenchantment. Thus far, plan A had looked sound.

But it was then that Nigel Ledenham had started getting in the
way.

"What do you think I should do Mr Cressey?"

Go and talk to someone else. But Nigel Ledenham was a client, albeit a
one-off and unlikely to be much more. Nigel was a school teacher,
mid-thirties, bespectacled and tonight engulfed in a tweed jacket, an
academic temporarily adrift on a sea of graspers. He had been lobbed
into the world of property two weeks before when his old man jumped
into the River Red for no apparent reason, leaving him and his mother
with a town centre office building, a relic of the trading years of the
family firm.

Cocktail parties, it was apparent, were not Nigel's scene, especially
when they went no further than golf, cars, property and the social
politics of Redbury. He was bursting with medieval history which was
unlikely to get a hearing at Beecrofts. But Nigel was worried and
bereaved and it was the worry which had brought him. He needed someone
to talk to; in Cressey, then, he had found the nearest thing to a
listener, and he was hanging on.

"Charles thinks we should redevelop straightaway."

Naturally. Redevelopment meant fees for Charles Beecroft. But that was
the name of the game.

But there was no hurry. "There is no hurry" said Cressey.

Not for Ledenham, anyway. Cressey was the one in a hurry. The party
had flooded in alcohol - anything free from Beecroft demanded maximum
acceptance - and Gabrielle among others was floating nicely past the
point of discretion. Cressey was drifting in that direction himself and
if there was an assignation on offer, it would have to be made
quickly.

It wasn't Ledenham's fault though. He needed assurance from someone
who knew his building.

Okay. Cressey had a heart.

"You have your three tenants paying rent. Prings, the car dealers, are
strong and even if Stern and Potter do want to move out, they can't go
unless you let them. All the leases have three years to run. You don't
take surrenders until you are ready to redevelop."

And that, at this stage of the game, was enough of the heart. Cressey,
conscience assuaged, went back to the body, and not Ledenham's either.
With lucidity largely down the porcelain but half a chance of scoring
with Beecroft's mistress, Cressey knew the priority. He gave Ledenham
the half turn to convey that much.

But no. Ledenham the drunk was now struggling with conflicting views,
whining as well as slurring.

"I've been thrown in at the deep end. Father never spoke to me at all
about it. We were hardly on speaking terms in the end just because I
wanted to go on teaching rather than take over the business. He could
be a very frustrating man."

Clearly, then, a family trait! Here it was, pushing eleven and there
was Gabrielle Gorton leaning uneasily against the wall with the ground
work laid. She had already insulted Beecroft and he was keeping clear.
But she would soon be in danger of keeling over if Cressey didn't get a
deal done. Yet Ledenham Junior was still talking about real
estate.

"Happy Christmas Everyone!!"

This wouldn't help either. Charles Beecroft circulating like a
manicured airship.

Beecroft was short, balding, overweight and tonight dressed in a brown
tweed suit whose tightness reflected some festive season ballast
taking. His face was ruddy from a combination of recent alcoholic
shooting days, the current intake of gin and a residual claret
pigmentation. He slapped Ledenham on the back and his lip curled back
in an unfamiliar attempt at a smile; he had practiced it all evening
but there seemed to be a basic flaw in technique, or even facial
design. The effect anyway was as suspect as had been his attempts at
fudging the question of where Gabrielle had come from so suddenly. From
his South African holiday of course. Where else? It had after all been
a solo safari, his wife having fallen off her horse and broken a leg
the week before. In the circumstances, his story that a London friend
wanted to arrange for young Gabrielle to work in an English country
town, while perhaps plausible to a man on the Clapham Omnibus, was
patently daft to anyone closer except, apparently, Beecroft himself,
and presumably his wife.

The only remaining question was how long the twenty-five-year-old
import would put up with clandestine arrangements and the attentions of
an overweight middle-aged man. Not much longer by the look of it. She
might be a gold-digger, or even a big-game hunter, but their meetings a
small flat in wintertime Redbury would struggle beside the memory of
sunsets in a double hammock on a safari-lodge verandah in Kruger
National Park.

She wouldn't freeze that night though, not if Cressey had anything to
do with it. Nothing suicidal in that plan either. The job was now
expendable, as ever after a few drinks.

He widened the circle to accommodate Beecroft, at the same time moving
closer to Gabrielle, hoping to put in a word like "How about a boogie
up the Andromeda then?"

But she saved him the trouble. When he was within range of her resting
place, she took a slurp of gin and, articulating slowly as though
instinct was telling her it might be the last thing she said clearly
that night, whispered

"If you're interested in South Africa, I can show you some photos back
at the flat."

Oh Right! No problem! Easy as that! Terms agreed. Perhaps even
contracts exchanged. Certainly a novel way of serving notice.

"Mr Charles. I have to confess I've screwed your bit of crumpet. I
take it my services are no longer required - on your or her account."
It would need rehearsal; delivery was everything with a good
line.

On the other hand, he could try it on him there and then; a line like
that deserved an audience.

On the other hand again, of course, it would blow a deal which hadn't
yet been done.

One thing at a time therefore. Concentrate on the bird in hand. Let it
all fall into place. Wait for the wife to arrive and then Beecroft
would be snookered. After that, the two of them could drift out quietly
for a little honest self-expression, leaving him to wonder what was
on.

But then a small mistake; a moment's relaxation. Cressey allowed
Beecroft eye-contact. Beecroft stretched out his arm and put it around
Cressey's shoulder. This was highly unusual. Beecroft was pissed to the
point of touching an employee.

"Raymond, my dear chap, may I wish you a very Happy Christmas."

"Thank you Mister Charles."

Mister Charles?!! Cressey had said it again!! He had used the
appellation for partners stipulated by Beecroft's late father and the
firm's founder, "Mister William". How many times had Cressey told
himself that he would piss on the patronage and henceforth address
Beecroft as "Mister Beecroft", despite standing instructions?

Oh never mind. Get him next time. He was drunk. Cressey was drunk.
Gabrielle was extremely drunk. What was left of the party was drunk yet
still uncelebratory; Beecrofts wasn't that sort of place, a bunch of
wimps, chinless wonders, social climbers and provincial snobs; not the
stuff of parties.

Ledenham though was anxious and drunk. Beecroft had worked hard on him
all evening which had only contributed to both conditions. Anything
over two syllables was over the top.

"I was just asking Raymond about Lednm House." He had trouble saying
his own name.

"Were you?" Drunk or not, Beecroft's attempt at pleasantness
disintegrated. "Why?"

"I wondered what he thought about it."

"I told you, Nigel. We can go through it all again tomorrow." Beecroft
put his hand on Ledenham's shoulder and tried to turn him gently.
Ledenham stayed unturned.

"But what about Mr Stern and Mr Potter? They're both asking to leave
now."

Stern as it happened was Beecroft's solicitor, Potter his accountant.
Both had been at the party earlier.

"Yes but..."

"Do you really think I should release them?"

Beecroft attempted re-assurance. "What I said was that it ought to be
considered to make sure there was to be no hold-up on
re-development."

Did he? Cressey was suddenly refocussing. Is that what he said?? Get
rid of tenants as a first step?? Bloody stupid!! Give away rent before
he had to?? Suppose a redevelopment didn't come off? Gabrielle Gorton
or not, here was another view coming up. Cressey was due for a row with
the man. Now was the time. Quick. Faculties were fading. The gin was on
its way back like water pushed to the end of the bath.

"Have you applied for planning...?"

"Raymond..." Beecroft was waving his hand like a muted attempt to stop
a runaway horse. "Nigel and I have been through it. It's all under
control. And it's Christmas... Eh?"

"But getting rid of your...."

"HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!"

Whoooosh.

Oh no. Cressy closed his eyes and stared at the whirling pit. Who was
that shouting?

Beecroft. He stood with his glass raised above his head. It was
either
giving him even more chins or else Cressey was seeing several copies of
the originals.

The dozen or so still there paused. Mild astonishment. Numb stares.
Half smiles. The charade of goodwill to all men had worn off at least
an hour ago and Beecroft's second coming was disturbing the peace. Most
of them were on their way, in mind and body. They had sated themselves
on the freebies and now it was time to move on while there was still
locomotion. Quite right too. There were things to do. They were going
home and Cressey was going to an assignation with Charles Beecroft's
mistress which would beat the lot of them for style if nothing
else.

And there she stood, or at least there she leaned, terms agreed, ready
to be wheeled away. The argument with Beecroft would have to wait. Now
there was the call of nature. He would save it for when he threw his
hand in. Tomorrow? Yes tomorrow. Why not?

Margaret Beecroft arrived. Limping Lady Bountiful. It was Be Nice To
The Workers time!

"Oh you're Raymond Cressey. Yes I remember you. What are you doing for
Christmas, Raymond? Mmm?"

Screwing your husband's mistress. I'll let you know how she
goes.

"Going home to Somerset..." but Somerset had three syllables and
Cressey was suddenly up to his ears in bath water. She got the message
and cast around for someone sensible.

Ho hum. Definitely time to go then. Where was the Efrikaan? There she
was, still propped up, now with one knee bent within the confines of
her cocktail dress and a foot against the wall. Very alluring. If he
could stand her up like that outside the Crown later on, she might make
a quid.

"Open your eyes." She opened them and smiled with a parallel gaze. She
took Cressey's arm as she came of the wall but it was mutual support.
Three or four others were leaving and they merged, taking coats from
the stand and shuffling out.

But Beecroft was watching. There was no fooling that Charles.

"Goodnight Mr Charles." Sod it. Cressey had said it again. After nine
months it was a habit. "I'll leave the car and get a taxi."

"Goodnight..." Beecroft's reply was absent and grudging. He was
watching points closely.

The night air was inhalent. They breathed deeply. The effect was
explosive, like the swirling of fuel mixture in a cylinder head. With
rapidly faltering transmission, they applied themselves to the short
walk down Bridge Street. There were Christmas lights and stars all
around, inside and out. A few cars went past, confusing the issue. They
crossed the street in a giggling dash. On the other side, Gabrielle
took Cressey's arm again, apparently waking up. Cressey grinned and
looked back. There was Beecroft with his face pressed to the window,
shielding his eyes from the light. Cressey gave him a wave. That would
just about finish it. The taxi office was in the same direction but
they were heading for the flat and he knew it. Sexually gazumped.

The flat was over Beecroft's auction rooms on the corner of Bridge
Street and Bell Lane. They went down there, passing from the light of
one shop window to the next, her heels making metallic scraping noises
as they hit the pavement before they should have. They stood in the
laneway for an age while she failed to find her keys; she returned
briefly to a street lamp. Then they went upstairs, where, without
further ado, she took off her coat, looked him straight in the eye and
said with studied enunciation

"Raymond, how would you feel about going to work tomorrow in the same
clothes you're wearing now?"

"It depends how badly they're torn" he said.
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