‘If my investors give you a loan against less security,’ Erick said, swimming to his side, ‘we’ll be in a worse situation than the American Bank. What’s our incentive?’ When Purcell did not reply straight away, he said quickly, ‘Let’s go and have that drink. I appreciate that you’ve been frank with me. If there is a solution it will have to suit my backers or there is nothing I can do.’
The Invisible Company was not in the business of giving loans. Getting close to someone else’s fraud could spell a catastrophe. The conversation had to go in another direction, Erick felt, or there was nothing more to talk about.
The two men lay on loungers, enjoying the morning sun. Finally Purcell said, ‘You will have to tell me soon if you can help me. Time is running out.’
‘I’ve an idea. I’ll have to make a phone call to see if it’s viable. Although I’m not sure if it’s what you want...’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I don’t think anyone will lend you two hundred and twenty million against those Purcell shares. That’s out of the question. Your latest spate of bad publicity hasn’t helped. Banks talk to each other, so your position is probably no secret. That leaves us with only one option: namely that you actually sell all your shares.’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘If you do, they would be split and sold in small batches by us all over the world. There would be no guarantee that you could buy them back again. However, you would get the bank off your back once and for all.’
‘I’m still waiting for the good news,’ Purcell grunted. ‘Your suggestion is no different from just letting the bank sell. I’m still finished, ruined and probably facing criminal charges.’
‘Oh, I think it is different. We make a five‑year contract with you, including a lavish pension and a substantial share option, subject to you getting the conglomerate back into shape within a couple of years and the share price to an agreed level. Sell companies which are liabilities. Keep a low profile. Together we’ll find the best Managing Director money can buy, who will work with you with the aim of taking over the job of chairman when you retire. I’m sure all this will stabilise the share price and no one will hear from us about the dodgy double share certificates.’
‘And you think you could get backing for that?’
‘I believe so. Probably we’ll want all the shares to stay in your name for some years, but that’s all. Our legal people can work something out.’
Purcell went silent staring out over the sea. Erick was not going to add anything. What he was doing could be the deal of his life, or the start of total disaster. His thoughts went to John. If it went wrong, how would he react...
‘If I agree,’ he said at last, ‘when can you get me an answer? The bank must be told tomorrow.’
Erick knew he had the other man at his mercy. ‘If we have a deal in principle, I’ll make a phone call while you wait here. If it goes as I expect, our bank will confirm with the American Bank that the funds are available as from today, but we are waiting for the legal papers to be drawn up. We will ask the bank for an undertaking that there will be no bad publicity. Our accountants and solicitors will come into your company right away and work through the night. You instruct whoever you have to about this by phone, then go back to London and get the paperwork started with our legal people. I’ll join you within a few days.’
Randolph Purcell held out his hand. Erick shook it. ‘So after the papers have been signed,’ said the tycoon slowly, ‘your organisation is the owner of Purcell Industries?’
‘We’ll own your thirty per cent,’ Erick confirmed.
‘And the rest!’ Purcell smiled too, a little weakly. ‘You were buying up individual holdings yesterday, weren’t you? I would guess that soon, today or tomorrow, you’ll own the majority shareholding.’
Erick pursed his lips, still smiling.
‘I’m intrigued that you’re not more interested in who’s appointed as the new Managing Director. That you haven’t shaken a specific man out of your sleeve. You haven’t asked for changes to the board, either. What I’m asking myself is, why the hell do you want these shares?’
Purcell was a cunning old fox. He sensed there was more to this than met the eye. ‘Let’s call it a stepping stone,’ Erick said at last.
‘To what?’ Purcell’s eyes narrowed. ‘So this is all part of a bigger plan?’ When Erick remained silent, he went on, ‘You want to amalgamate Purcell Industries with another company?’
‘Maybe.’
Purcell did not intend to give in so easily. ‘I hope that’s your intention,’ he said, looking directly into Erick’s eyes. ‘If so I happen to know that Conrad Jensen would sell part of Jensen Trust, if the offer were right.’
‘Jensen?’ Erick knew Jensen Trust very well. It was one of the most successful international conglomerates, specialising in tobacco, insurance, chemicals and pharmaceuticals, amongst other things. Conrad Jensen was also married to Purcell’s sister, he now remembered. ‘How large a part?’
‘Twenty per cent.’
‘I’m interested,’ he said, as coolly as he could.
‘Then leave it to me. Would it make any difference to our arrangement if Purcell Industries bought the shares?’
‘Not the slightest!’
‘Vanessa and Conrad are in South America until September. Nothing can happen until they return. As soon as they do, I’ll recommend your organisation. If the price is right, I guarantee they’ll sell.’ He raised his eyebrows at Erick. ‘So when are you going to make that phone call?’
* * *
Erick telephoned the special number at the Cerne Estate.
‘What’s up?’ asked John.
‘Nothing bad.’
‘Then why are you phoning me on this number?’
‘I must make a decision right now, which is so important that I think I ought to involve you.’
‘Ought to,’ John said, ‘is not the same as ‘“have to.”‘
‘I’m sorry?’ Erick was perplexed.
‘You make the decisions, right or wrong. That’s your job.’
‘So you don’t want to hear what this is about?’
‘Only if you insist!’
‘Purcell Industries...’ Erick began.
‘Best of luck.’ And John hung up on him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
_________________________
Lodeve, France June 1985
John had contacted Cecilia in France and told her when he was arriving. She had insisted on picking him up from the airport. They drove to the farm, hardly talking.
Winston recognised John right away, jumping up and nearly knocking him over.
While Cecilia unpacked his things, he went for a walk. The deafening silence, the pink Bougainvillaeas in the yard against the reddish house, the endless lines of lavender, the smell, the amazing colours, the solitude, all of this worked its magic on him each time he came and made him feel at ease.
In prison he had realised that he could not change before he had achieved his ambition.
He still craved power. If he changed his path before his goal had been achieved, his life would be a failure. During the long days in prison John had grown to understand that paradoxically he had no ambition to flaunt his wealth or power and no wish to be recognised by the world at large.
All he wanted was to live here, unknown and at peace.
Here, he had achieved the solitude he craved. He could not visualise how Catherine would take to it, but if Michael were content it would turn out all right. It had to.
Sweat was running down his face and arms. It was only June. How would Catherine cope with the heat?
He was sitting in his customary place in the yard when Cecilia placed a drink in front of him.
‘Can I talk to you?’ she asked.
‘I thought you looked worried. What is it?’
‘I hope I’m not letting you down,’ she said hesitantly, ‘but your wife’s coming to live here... I cannot get used to that so I must leave.’
She took a deep breath. ‘My uncle is very ill and I am the only family he has, so I have to move to Lodeve.’
‘When?’
‘In a few days.’
‘That’s very short notice. Who’s going to look after me and what about Winston?’ John said this with a smile, although he suddenly felt abandoned.
Cecilia did not smile. ‘You remember Monsieur Popougnot? He died a month ago. Madame wants to sell their lavender farm and have my job.’
‘I liked him,’ John said, remembering the old man’s good advice about his lavender. ‘But she’s so old, Cecilia! Are you sure she’s up to it?’
‘She is strong and works hard. She has brought up six children. And she is a good cook.’ She lifted her face, determined not to cry. ‘Will you talk to her? She will look after Winston.’
John thought for a moment. He had to find someone before Catherine arrived. At least he knew Madame Popougnot, and she would not be a security risk. ‘Very well. Ask her to come.’
Cecilia moved out the following day. Both she and John knew it was for the best, but that did not make their parting easier. John said he would visit her in Lodeve, but they both knew that was unlikely.
An hour after she had left, a large battered van drove up with Madame Popougnot at the wheel. Dressed completely in black, she emerged from the vehicle with an assortment of bulging string‑tied bags, her weatherbeaten face set purposefully. Without saying a word, she moved her belongings into Cecilia’s room then attacked the washing, shooing John away with flapping movements of her hands.
Exactly at seven she served dinner. She set a large round dish smelling strongly of leeks which he detested, full of vegetables and boiled pork before John,. He tried to eat it but soon gave up.
She had placed herself at the other end of the table without being asked and was loudly slurping her pot au feu. When she had finished she came to take John’s bowl away. Seeing his meal unfinished, she began an angry stream of French.
Winston came and sat next to John, looking up as if he wanted to lend him his support.
John did not understand any of it, but her meaning was clear. He had wasted good pork and vegetables. He needed to gain weight, she implied, putting her hands on her big stomach and pointing to his. She stood over him while he dutifully spooned up the cold meat like a naughty child.
‘Tres bon, mon petit gars,’ she said finally, taking away his empty bowl and planting a wet kiss on his forehead.
A moment after she was back. ‘Creme Glacee au Miel de Lavande,’ she said proudly and placed the home‑made ice cream in front of John.
She went off to the kitchen and did the washing up while John sat, his stomach complaining, wondering what he had let himself in for.
* * *
‘What a funny little car!’ Michael laughed at the 2CV in which John had driven to Montpellier Airport. A taxi followed with their luggage.
John glanced towards Catherine. ‘Why didn’t you send your things with the removal company?’
‘It can take days for removal vans to arrive.’ She was looking out of the window, her voice carefully neutral, reserving judgement, he felt. He had agreed that she could transport her two favourite horses to France, hoping they would occupy her and make the move more bearable.
When they arrived in the yard, Madame Popougnot bustled out of the house in a white apron and scarf. Winston had been put into the barn so as not to scare them.
‘Madame Forbes! Et le fils, Michel! Bonjour et bienvenue.’ She swooped on the surprised Michael and hugged him. ‘Monsieur ‘as been so zad wizzout you,’ she said, chucking John under the chin.
‘Merci, Madame.’ Catherine smiled.
‘I am Pauline Popougnot. You and I, we will be good friends, n’est‑ce pas?’
‘You speak English?’ John was stunned.
‘Naturellement.’ She turned to Catherine. ‘Les hommes, ils sont imbeciles.’ She picked up the three suitcases as if they were toys and walked into the house.
Catherine smiled at John. ‘I think we’ll get on fine. Where did you find her? She’s a treasure.’
* * *
Over the following days, Catherine made plans to convert an old barn into a stable. They went to Lodeve to talk to builders, and John picked up several books about lavender growing which he had ordered in English. He asked the bookshop assistant if there was anyone in the area who could help him on the farm and was told that Monsieur le maire, Marcel Lebrun, was the best person to see.
The removal lorry and horse transporter arrived together. Catherine led her horses down the ramp and into the yard, pleased to see that they had made the journey unscathed.
‘My piano!,’ John said in surprise when he noticed she had been considerate enough to ask for the piano to go into the lorry. ‘That was very kind of you. Thanks Catherine.’
At the same time Monsieur Lebrun arrived. He forgot all about lavender when he saw the horses and stood open‑mouthed, admired them.
‘They are Thoroughbreds, aren’t they?’ he asked in perfect English.
‘Why?’
‘These are the most beautiful horses I have ever seen,’ Monsieur Lebrun said, ‘and owned by la plus belle femme en Languedoc.’ Gallantly he lifted Catherine’s hand to his mouth with true Gallic aplomb. ‘Enchante, Madame.’
John, who was standing only a few yards away, smiled. Monsieur le maire would do wonders for Catherine’s self‑esteem, he thought. Perhaps he should let him help her with the horses, and forget about the lavender.
Then Monsieur Lebrun saw Madame Popougnot. ‘Mon Dieu!. Pauline... mais que fais‑tu ici?’
‘She’s our housekeeper,’ John explained.
‘Pauline Popougnot, a housekeeper? But her departed husband and herself had a great gift for the growing of lavender! She is a genius. The plants talk to her. She listens to what the lavender bushes want. Everything I know, I have learnt from her. Many people in this area have now changed to growing wine but not the Popougnots.’ He walked to Madame Popougnot and kissed her twice on each cheek. She batted him away. ‘And she taught herself and her six children to speak English so they could get better jobs.’
‘Really?’ John said in surprise. He had no desire to extend Mme Popougnot’s sphere of influence at the farm, but if it stopped people calling him a ‘Parisian Lavender grower’....
‘Let her look after your fields and you will never have any worries. Everything she touches will grow,’ Lebrun assured him. ‘But I would like to help you with les chevaux,’ he said, beaming at Catherine.
* * *
‘No, I don’t think you should buy Madame Popougnot’s land,’ Catherine said firmly, when John broached the subject to her. The Popougnot farm bordered their own, and would have doubled their yield. ‘We agreed that this move was for a year only. If we do go back to England, it won’t matter how much lavender you produce.’
‘But see how happy Michael is! He won’t want to go back.’
‘I know.’ Catherine was aware that John had already decided to stay. ‘But for how long? He’s a man now, John, he won’t want to stay with us forever.’
They had begun to argue nearly every day. To avoid this, he went for long walks or came up with excuses for going to Lodeve on his own. They slept together but made love only occasionally.
For her part, Catherine felt cast adrift – away from her normal environment. She could not see the charm of this place and found the heat of summer unbearable.
Madame Popougnot sensed that she was unhappy. Catherine enjoyed the way Pauline treated John like a little boy and looked forward to the visits of Monsieur Lebrun, but these diversions failed to make up for her homesickness.
* * *
In September John, Catherine and Michael flew to England for two weeks. They stayed at the Cerne Estate and accompanied Michael to hospital. The consultant confirmed that there was no problem with his living in France as there were suitable hospitals in the area, but both John and Catherine agreed that if anyth
ing happened to affect Michael’s health, it would be best to get him back to London.
Returning to France was painful for Catherine. She waited until she and John were sitting outside in the cool of the evening before she broached the subject. Michael had gone to Lodeve with a friend.
‘Being back here makes me realise how little I like France,’ she said. ‘All my friends, my parents, the stables are in England. You want to distance yourself from everything, but I don’t feel like that. What would you feel about my living on the Estate and you coming back whenever you want? Maybe a week every month.’
‘And where does Michael come into this?’
‘ Either he studies in Montpellier or he comes back to England with me and finds himself a job in a well known London restaurant to get some work experience. I can see he’s happy here, fishing and going on walks with you, but he’ll be bored before long. As the doctor said, there’s no reason he can’t live a normal life.’
John was silent. They had both tried to make their marriage work, but he knew that Catherine was finding it difficult adjusting to the new way of life. She would never be happy in France.
‘We have Michael to consider. He has his life in front of him and must come first.’
‘Of course he must,’ John said, knowing that a separation was inevitable.
The next morning they sat together over breakfast, Michael still asleep upstairs.
‘I think that the friend Michael went to Lodeve with yesterday, was the doctor’s daughter Syhne!’ Catherine said.
‘Really? Good for him.’
‘I spoke to him about going back to England. At the moment he’s very much against it. I think we should enroll him in college in Montpellier. He could drive there every day. I’ll stay on here for a while, settle him in. It’s his future we have to think of.’
‘Cathy, you’re right,’ said John, relieved. He got up and stood over her. ‘Thanks,’ he said, kissing her hair.
* * *
They celebrated Christmas and the New Year together with Lord and Lady Carven on the Cerne Estate.
Michael had his regular checkup at the hospital, where he was told that everything was fine. He went back to the farm with his parents in time to start the new term at Ecole D’Architure in Rue de L’Esperou, Montpellier, where they taught courses in Tourism, Social Sciences and Restaurant Catering and Management. He liked it there and made new friends. Every afternoon the students went to the beach or spent hours sitting in the Café’s on the Place de la Comedie in the centre of town. Regarded as a talented chef, Michael was also good looking and popular with the girls to whom he now spoke in fluent French. John had bought him a Peuogot convertible, which enabled him to stay in Montpellier in the evenings with his new friends.