The Fall and Rise of Gordon Coppinger. David Nobbs
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The glass lift, built on the outside of the Stick of Celery, took him swiftly, smoothly, silently up to the nineteenth floor. He smiled at the courier as if the unkempt oaf was his equal. As the lift rose it opened up a view of wharves and water stretching to the towers of the City of London itself, but he had no eyes for that. He had eyes only to turn in upon himself. He was remembering that he had always peed a lot, as a child, when he’d been nervous. He didn’t remember that he’d ever been nervous since he was a child. But he wanted to pee now. Odd how peeing was dominating his thoughts that morning.
He walked from the lift to his office past the massed ranks of his employees. He had asked for the floor to be designed that way. He liked to see them all hard at work making him richer in their awful open-plan working space. In the ante-office to his own, enclosed office sat his secretary, Helen Grimaldi, these days more grim than aldi. She gave him her smile which suggested that she still remembered that Tuesday, and flicked her eyes towards a young man seated on the white settee. Sir Gordon recalled that he had three meetings this morning. He thought of them as if he could see them written in his diary: ‘8.30 Martin Fortescue, 9.30 Fred Upson, 10.30 GI.’
Martin Fortescue was the twenty-one-year-old son of a man he didn’t like who had asked him to see the boy as a favour. He’d arranged for him to come in at eight-thirty, to test his punctuality. He was disappointed to see that the long streak of piss (oh no, another urine reference) was there already. His little lecture on the importance of punctuality would remain unspoken yet again. What was wrong with people, all turning up on time in these hard days?
The boy rose from his seat in the outer office, rose … and rose … and rose. Much too tall. And the innocence, the keenness. Sir Gordon suddenly felt as if he was seventy-seven.
‘See you in a moment.’
‘No problem, sir.’
Sir Gordon’s office was enormous, as were his rosewood (what else?) desk and his sleek swivelling chair. There were four hard chairs and four soft chairs for visitors. Whether he seated you on a hard chair or a soft chair had huge significance. Half the wall opposite the door consisted of a vast curved picture window. On the rest of the wall there were just five pictures: a portrait each of Lady Coppinger looking arrogant, his elderly father Clarrie looking wise, his banker brother Hugo showing all the warmth of a cheque book, his artist son Luke looking artistic, and his daughter Joanna looking as though she had never had a man and wouldn’t know what to do with him if she ever did.
There was no picture of Jack.
He kept the boy waiting for eleven minutes, just long enough to make him feel anxious, which would show he was the wrong type, not hard enough – or irritated, which would show that he was a different kind of wrong type, bit above himself. But the lad, to do him credit, seemed utterly unfazed. That’s what Winchester and Cambridge did for you, gave you confidence, damn and blast it. That’s what you had to find for yourself if you’d been to a secondary modern in Dudley.
He indicated the hard chair that he had placed in isolation at the other side of the desk.
‘Did they offer you a drink? Tea? Coffee?’
‘Yes, thank you. No, I’m fine, sir. I’m all right.’
Excuse me, but that’s what we’re here to find out.
‘Winchester, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Like it?’
‘I think it was great. I felt privileged.’
You are.
A barge hooted urgently on the sullen river. Sir Gordon never found time to stand at his great picture window and look at the boats. All he saw when he looked at the window were the window cleaners’ bills.
‘Good school motto, Winchester. “Manners maketh man.”’ Most stupid bloody motto in the history of mottoes. Manners concealeth man. ‘We certainly set great store by manners here.’
‘I can see that, sir.’
You can see nothing.
‘So why do you want to work in the City?’
‘It would be stupid to pretend that I didn’t like the idea of making a lot of money, sir, but I honestly do think it would be the right career path for me.’
‘It doesn’t worry you that you might be setting out on this … “career path” … at a time when it may be turning into a rather rocky road?’
‘I hardly think working for you could ever be described as being on a rocky road, sir.’
Too smooth for his own good. Could be quite clever, though, could fancy making a name for himself. Keep him well away from Gordon Investments.
‘I’m going to offer you a job, Martin, but … you’re going to have to prove yourself.’
‘I would expect nothing else, sir.’
‘Good. Good. If you accept it, you’ll have to move to Stoke.’
That’ll teach you for being six foot five.
‘Stoke?’
‘On-Trent.’
‘Oh yes, sir, I know of it. The Potteries.’
‘Exactly. Arnold Bennett country.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m not with you.’
‘Arnold Bennett was a famous man from that region.’
‘Oh, really. What did he … what was he famous for, sir, exactly?’
‘He invented a very well-known omelette.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘Full of smoked fish.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘I know.’
Sir Gordon swivelled idly from side to side in his large executive chair, as if he was weighing up what to say next, though he knew perfectly well what he was going to say next.
‘I daresay you dream of getting rich overnight, but I want to test your mettle in manufacturing, Martin.’
‘Manufacturing, sir?’
‘Yes. I have factories that actually make things. I’m not just a money man, you know.’
‘Oh, I know, sir.’
The first lie. Oh well.
‘Have you heard of Porter’s Potteries Pies?’
‘I can’t say that I have, sir.’
Avoided