A Million Tears (26 page)

There was nobody with the assistant manager and when Evan reached the thigh high swing door he removed his hat and waited politely for the man to look up. He did so a moment or two later and seeing the prosperous looking Evan, got to his feet, stepped around his desk and opened the gate for him, holding out his hand.

Evan never did catch the man’s name, though he made sure the assistant manager got his own correct. He sat in the chair indicated. Over a month had passed since Evan had been working down the mine and by now his hands were clean and Meg had filed his nails neatly. Though they were still hard they no longer looked like the hands of a labourer.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

Perhaps it was the words or the way in which the man spoke but immediately Evan was put at ease.

‘I hope so. My name is Evan Matthew Griffiths and I recently arrived from Wales on the
SS Cardiff
.’ The man clearly did not recognise his name and with a sinking feeling Evan thought he could not have received John Buchanan’s letter. ‘A friend of mine, Captain John Buchanan, wrote to Mr Andrew Fforest on my behalf. He suggested in the letter that it might be of mutual benefit if we met and discuss a few things . . . Ideas, look you,’ Evan cursed himself for letting the ‘look you’ slip out. ‘It seems you haven’t . . .’

‘Excuse me, sir. When is the letter likely to have arrived?’

The question took Evan by surprise. ‘Oh, let me see. Sometime last week I should think. I left New York then and I’ve spent the last week or so checking other towns between here and there.’

‘That’ll explain it, sir. I was off last week with a severe chill. I’ll just check and see if anything did arrive.’ The assistant manager skimmed through the correspondence files and said, ‘Yes, I think this is it. Evan Matthew Griffiths. Right?’

Evan nodded. Good old John, he thought. We owe him so much.

The man opened the file and sat at his desk. Evan could see it contained only a single letter on the bottom of which somebody had scribbled in green ink. The man quickly read it through and looked up with a broad smile.

‘Welcome to the First Bank, sir. I’m afraid Mr Fforest is busy at the moment but will see you as soon as possible. In the meantime sir, would you like a cup of coffee?’

Evan controlled his elation with difficulty. It was as John said it would be if all had gone well. Evan managed to nod casually and in a controlled voice replied, ‘Yes. Thank you.’

The assistant manager beckoned to one of the tellers and asked for two coffees. Now it was the assistant manager who was nervous, convinced that Evan was going to be an important customer.

Evan followed him into an office dominated by a desk next to the window. A chair stood in front of the desk, another against the wall, an ornate cabinet filled the furthest corner and in the opposite wall was Fforest’s private entrance.

Fforest, the manager Evan now faced, was a squat, broad shouldered man in his early fifties. His hair was thinning and his waistcoat strained across his big belly.

Evan came straight to the point, just as John had instructed. ‘I don’t know what John told you in his letter . . .’Evan began, nodding at the folder on Fforest’s desk.

‘Very little. Only that you were a friend, had travelled in the first class section of the
SS Cardiff
, that you’re an astute businessman, prosperous and interested in starting a business over here.’

‘Not one business,’ Evan corrected him, ‘several.’ Evan looked across the desk into the shrewd eyes that seemed to be able to see him for what he was. ‘To come to the point, I would like a short term loan of twenty-five thousand dollars, say for three months with an option to extend to six months.’

‘That’s a fair amount of money. Do you mind telling me what you propose to do with it?’ A fair amount, not a lot, not too much. Fair.

‘Of course not. I intend buying fifty thousand dollars’ worth of general merchandise and shipping it here to St Louis.’

‘Ah, fifty thousand dollars’ worth, I see. And where will the rest of the money come from? If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘From me. I’d intended putting up the total myself but other, what appear to be lucrative ventures, caught my eye and I find myself a little short of ready capital. John Buchanan was aware of the situation and suggested I see you.’

‘What exactly do you have in mind?’ Fforest continued.

The crunch question, thought Evan. Here goes. ‘I’ve carried out a study of your fair city and I’ve come to the conclusion that there is an opening for a general merchandise warehouse. Oh, I know what you’re going to say,’ he forestalled Fforest’s protest. ‘You were going to say that you already have warehouses down on the wharves which deal in all kinds of goods.’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I had in mind.’

‘Look at what’s there. Warehouses dealing in cotton, sugar, wheat, meat, wood, furniture,’ he reached into an inner pocket and extracted a notebook. ‘Need I go on?’ he looked up at Fforest. ‘I’m proposing a general warehouse under one roof, dealing with all sorts of goods from meat and vegetables to furniture and imported silks and spices. My customers will be the small shop owners and only people who intend to retail the goods will be allowed in my place.

‘How will you able to tell who is who?’

‘Easy. They’ll be issued with a card which they’ll have to present to the cashier. To get the card they’ll need a letter from their local bank managers stating that they own a business.’

‘Hmmm, it’s an idea that’s certainly worth examining,’ Fforest mused aloud.

Evan smiled. ‘I’m sorry I can’t give you more time to examine it but I must be on my way tomorrow.’

‘Couldn’t you extend your stay, even by a day? That’ll give me time to think about what you’ve said. After all twenty thousand . . .’

‘Twenty-five,’ Evan corrected him.

‘Ah yes, twenty-five thousand is a lot of money. Surely it’s worth twenty-four hours of your time?’

‘It’s not such a lot. Only a fair amount, I seem to remember you saying. I’m sorry but I have to get back. I have a dinner engagement with Senator George Hughes and his wife. Oh yes, I think Eric Johnson will be there too. Do you know him? He’s a banker in New York.’

Fforest appeared to be impressed. ‘I met him once.’ He thought for a few moments. ‘If you come back – say at four this afternoon – I can have the necessary papers ready to sign.’

Evan, delighted and surprised at the speed of events, stood, shook hands with Fforest and left. The manager re-read the letter from John Buchanan, noted again the guarantee of any loan to Evan, along with the instruction not to mention it, and called for his assistant.

19

Evan rushed into the boarding house and found Meg in their room. Looking at his happy face she knew that he had been successful and flung her arms around him.

‘What happened? What did you say and what did the manager reply. Oh, tell me every word . . .’

Evan put his hand lightly to her mouth and said, ‘One question at a time. Let me sit down and I’ll explain exactly what happened.’ It didn’t take long. ‘Meg, I couldn’t believe it. Just like that . . . Twenty five thousand dollars borrowed on the strength of a letter of introduction from a mutual friend and the dropping of a few names. No check on me, nothing. Where’s the catch? I keep asking myself.’

‘The catch is, my love, that you have to take this money and turn it into a profit within three months. That isn’t exactly easy, you know,’ Meg said seriously, a frown on her brow now that the first flush of exhilaration had passed and the enormity of their undertaking hit home.

Evan smiled. ‘I know it isn’t easy but I think I can do it. Along with your help of course and that of Uncle James.’

The next morning Evan was at the station in plenty of time to catch the train for New York. Further along the platform stood Uncle James, a suitcase at his feet. In his pocket Evan had the draft for twenty five thousand dollars, two hundred in cash and had left nearly eight hundred with Meg for her side of the deal. Uncle James still had money though Evan was unsure how much.

While they were away Meg would conclude the deal on a warehouse they had already found, hire local help to whitewash the walls and build shelves. She would also start running adverts in the local newspaper before he returned from New York. For the twentieth time Evan read the draft. Pay the Bearer, Evan Matthew Griffiths the sum of twenty five thousand dollars, signed Andrew Z Fforest. He wondered briefly what the Z stood for. He looked again at the magic words – twenty-five thousand. He knew he was going to succeed.

Evan’s holdall contained list after list of the items the various store owners had said that they needed. There were hundreds of items, many of which had to be imported, such as spices, clothes and certain foods. Wines, carpets and furniture were wanted. Italian shoes and Swiss watches were in demand – the list went on and on.

Evan had a second class ticket in his pocked but climbed into the first class section when the train arrived. When it departed he went back along the carriages to find Uncle James. Both men were beginning to feel as if they had spent half their lives on a train. This time though, without having to keep the children amused, they could take a greater interest in the scenery they travelled through.

When they changed trains at Pittsburgh, Evan was no longer depressed by the place with its reminder of Wales. On the contrary he felt slightly exhilarated. I’ve beaten you, he thought. I’ve beaten every lousy, stinking mine in the world. You’ll no longer have me inside you, on my hands and knees, digging, hauling and living in fear, taking my health and leaving me to rot on a pittance. He looked at the whisky glass in his hand, downed it and said, ‘One more and we’d better get on the train, Uncle James. We don’t want to miss it. I couldn’t stand the thought of spending a night here.’

The train pulled into New York at ten o’clock in the morning. Carriage doors flew open, shrill voices yelled greetings, people jostled and shoved, all trying to go in different directions at the same time. The noise of other trains, the passengers, the hissing of escaping steam; that was the background of the high-vaulted, pigeon-infested building of New York Central Station.

Outside, Evan ordered a hansom to take them to Times Square. They enjoyed the sights of the city, no longer overawed by the height of the buildings but still impressed.

Suddenly Evan leaned forward and spoke to the driver. ‘If we pass that building a third time I’ll stop this cab, take your horse whip and use it on you. Do you understand?’

The man visibly started. ‘Yes sirree, sorry sir. We’re almost there.’

A few moments later he cut down a side street and entered Times Square. He pulled up at the sidewalk and said, ‘That’ll be two dollars, gents.’

Evan took out a single dollar bill and handed it over ‘Next time you try and take somebody for a ride I suggest you find someone closer to your own size.’

The driver, in his early forties, a once muscular body turned to fat, looked at Evan, paused, spat at Evan’s feet carefully missing them and drove off. He was not too upset; he had received a dollar for a seventy five cents’ ride.

Evan and Uncle James walked along the street looking at the banks, hotels and shops. They passed Wall Street and reached Broadway. The theatre signs attracted their attention and with time to spare they ambled along, reading the advertisements for plays, musicals and shows. They found a restaurant and had dinner before they returned to Times Square, to a smart hotel where they took two rooms.

Evan lay on his bed for hours, unable to still his racing brain, knowing he needed rest but resenting the lost time. Eventually he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that lasted through the night and into the middle of the next morning. When he awoke he lay still for a few moments gathering his wits and as the noise of the city penetrated, he threw back the bedclothes with a surge of joy, eager to go and exercise those same wits in his quest for a fortune.

He was in the dining room enjoying a cup of coffee, dressed in his grey suit and looking every inch a businessman when Uncle James joined him. They went over their plans for the day and then Evan left to find a bank.

‘How would you like the money sir, in thousands, five hundreds or smaller?’ asked the teller, Evan’s bank draft in front of him.

Evan hid his disappointment at the lack of reaction from the man at the size of the encashment. ‘Give me a mixture, please, right down to ones.’

Outside Evan hurried to the next bank, the National Bank of America and went in through its imposing doors. It was a large room, high ceilinged with a long counter down one side. There were four guarded entrances and at the far end six facing doors. There were four enclosed areas with desks, each with a man sitting at it. Three were busy with clients. Evan approached the fourth and stood at the low gate waiting for the man to acknowledge his presence. After a few moments, when it was obvious that he had been noticed but was being ignored, Evan leaned forward and spoke.

‘Listen you,’ he said in a soft voice that carried no further than the man in front of him. ‘I haven’t got all day so don’t keep me waiting and wasting my time.’

The man was startled. He had not been spoken to in that way for a very long time.

‘I . . . I’m terribly sorry, sir, I didn’t see you standing there.’ The man pushed his glasses up his nose, stood up and opened the gate for Evan. He was in his sixties, grey haired with a bald patch in the middle of his crown. He had a flabby, soft handshake.

‘How may I be of service?’ he asked, pulling his lips back in a caricature of a smile.