Off the Rails (28 page)

‘Unnecessary!’ George said to Lizzie, when he read it. ‘But who is he when all’s said and done? I’m the one wi’ t’brass. I own half the railways in England, I’ve a son who’s a barrister, an’ another who’ll be a doctor when t’year’s out, an’ a daughter marrying into the aristocracy. Let him beat that. They may say what they please, Lizzie.’ And he quoted the old proverb.
‘Sticks an’ stones may break my bones but names’ll never hurt me.’

But even as he spoke, another less well-known writer was producing a pamphlet that would have more impact than he could have imagined as he sat in state in his prestigious house. It was called
The Bubble of the Age or The Fallacies of Railway Investments, Accounts and Railway Dividends
and it was written by a man called Arthur Smith.

Mr Leeman brought a copy of it to Shelton House and gave it to Jane on the morning it was published. ‘I think you may find this somewhat to your taste,’ he said.

She read it at once, while he sat in one of her easy chairs and watched the changing expressions on her face.

It was quite a short pamphlet but what it contained was as powerful as dynamite for Mr Smith’s argument was that dividends in George Hudson’s companies had indeed been paid out of capital rather than revenue, exactly as Mr Leeman had suspected all those years ago. It ended with a call for Mr Hudson to open his accounts to public scrutiny.

‘Heavens!’ she said, when she finally looked up from the page. ‘What will happen now?’

‘The shareholders of his various companies will ask to see the accounts,’ Mr Leeman said. ‘Which they have every right to do.’

‘I should like to be a fly on the wall when that happens,’ she said. ‘When do they meet?’

‘Not until February,’ Mr Leeman told her. ‘But that may be all to the good. It will give them time to prepare their case. And we all have plenty to do in the meantime. You and Mr Cartwright have a wedding to arrange, I believe.’

‘Aye,’ she said happily. ‘We have. Our daughter Mary is marrying Mr Henderson, providing he gets a living, that is. We shall have to wait until that’s settled.’

‘There are new churches being built at every turning,’ Mr Leeman said, ‘which is only to be expected as our towns and cities expand. You have only to take a stroll outside our city walls to see that. I’m sure a suitable living will present no problems.’

Nathaniel held much the same opinion and expressed it cheerfully when they were enjoying their last family dinner together before Nat and Toby
went back to Oxford to start their final year. ‘By this time next year,’ he predicted, when the first course had been cleared and they were waiting for Mrs Cadwallader’s fruit pies, ‘Toby will have a parish and Mary will be an old married woman.’ And he raised his glass to them. ‘Here’s a health to you both.’

‘And what of me, Papa?’ Nat said, his face darkening.

‘That is indeed a question,’ Nathaniel told him, speaking seriously but with deliberate gentleness. ‘However I have no doubt you will tell us what your plans are as soon as you know them yourself, which you do not at present, am I not right?’

There was a pause while Nathaniel waited and Jane held her breath and watched him and Nat glowered. Then Mary the bold spoke into the silence.

‘Tell them,’ she said to her brother. ‘Don’t just sit there looking like thunder. Tell them or I will.’

He glared at her.

‘And don’t make that face at me or I’ll do it straight.’

He sighed and frowned, gathering his thoughts and his courage and finally confessed. ‘I’ve no idea what I’m going to do, Papa. That’s the truth of it. Absolutely no idea. It’s all very well for you, Toby. You’ve got the girl you want and you’ll have the job you want as soon as you’ve graduated. And don’t misunderstand me, I’m truly glad that’s how it is. Glad for both of you. But it’s different for me. I can’t think of a single thing I could do. Not one single thing.’ And he sighed like a bellows.

‘Which naturally makes you feel unhappy and inadequate,’ his father said.

Nat caught at the word. ‘Inadequate,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s exactly it. Good for nothing.’ And as they were all looking at him with a variety of expressions, his mother’s face full of sympathy, Toby uncomfortable, his father listening patiently, Mary daring him to go on, he tried to justify what he was saying. ‘I used to think I wanted to go into the church like Toby,’ he said, ‘but I know now that I couldn’t do it because I can’t stand up in front of a crowd of people and say what I think and make sense of it. I learned that in the union debates. So that rules out the Church and teaching. And I don’t really want to be an engineer. I don’t think I’d have the aptitude for it. And for the life of me I can’t think of anything else.’

They all looked at Nathaniel and saw that he was thinking – and waited for him. It seemed like a long wait but eventually he looked at Nat and asked him a question.

‘What have you enjoyed most about your life at Corpus Christi?’

The answer was immediate and heartfelt. ‘Oh, the essays. That was something I
could
do.’

‘And he did it very well,’ Toby put in. ‘He was renowned for it. You’ve got to admit it, Nat.’

‘Yes,’ Nat admitted. ‘I do have a flair for essays. That’s true. But that’s not the sort of thing to fit me for a profession.’

There was another pause while they all digested what he’d said. Then Nathaniel spoke again in his considered way.

‘What I would suggest to you,’ he said, ‘is that you look for a position as a reporter on one of our local newspapers.’ And when Nat opened his mouth ready to tell him it wasn’t possible, he went on quickly, ‘Hear me out before you condemn the idea out of hand. Reporters need to be able to write well, which on your own admission you can already do, and to write quickly and honestly, both of which I am certain you could manage given the sort of young man you are.’

‘Well …’ Nat said, giving it thought. ‘I suppose it might be possible.’

‘What I would suggest to you,’ Nathaniel said, ‘is that you should write to
The Yorkshireman
or one of our other local newspapers and ask if they have a vacancy in their office and if they have, offer them your services. Oh, now here comes our pie and uncommon good it looks, wouldn’t you say?’

The pie put an end to any further conversation but it didn’t prevent continuing thought and at the end of the meal when they were all walking up to the drawing room to sit round the fire, Nat drew his father aside.

‘I will do it, Papa,’ he said. ‘I can’t promise anything will come of it, mind you, but I will do it.’

‘Very wise of you,’ Nathaniel said. ‘We will take a glass of brandy to celebrate your wisdom. You will join us, Toby, I trust.’

‘Do ’ee think he’ll really do it?’ Jane asked later that night when Nathaniel had told her what had been said.

‘We must wait and see,’ Nathaniel said. ‘He’s got plenty of sense despite the occasional black mood.’

They waited for more than two weeks until Jane had begun to think that nothing would come of it after all. But then she had an excited letter.

‘I wrote to The Yorkshireman, as I promised, Papa,’
Nat had written,
‘although I had little hope of a reply. But, lo and behold, they have offered to take me on as a junior reporter for what they call a three months trial. The shareholders of the Midland Railway will be holding their half-yearly general meeting in Derby on February 15th and they want me to cover it. Please tell Papa how sound his advice has turned out to be.

‘Your most loving and happy son, Nat.’

Thank the Lord for that, Jane thought as she set the letter aside. Nathaniel
will
be pleased when he comes home and sees this. And it
occurred to her that she would have a fly on the wall at Mr Hudson’s meeting after all. It almost made her believe in the wheel of fortune.

N
AT
C
ARTWRIGHT DRESSED
with great care for his first assignment as a newspaper reporter, choosing the brown frock coat and
cream-coloured
trousers his mother had bought him when he first went up to Oxford nearly three years ago – what a long time it seemed – and finishing it off with a sky-blue cravat. He had a notebook in his hand, a local map of Derby and three well-sharpened pencils in his coat pocket and he felt he was ready for anything. All he needed was a meeting that was worth reporting.

It was being held in the City Hall, which was easy to find because it was an imposing building. Smiling to himself because he was undeniably excited now, he strode up the stairs to the room which had been allocated to the shareholders and walked straight into a crush. Every seat was taken and the room was crowded to the walls with obviously angry men. The air was hazy with the smoke from their cigars and booming with the fury of their voices. Oh yes, Nat thought, this is going to be a meeting well worth reporting. There was a baize-covered table at one end of the room with its customary glass and decanter, a gavel on its wooden stand and an ornate seat set ready for the chairman but no sign of the man. Nat squeezed through the throng until he’d made himself a space by the back wall where he would have a good view, took his notebook in hand, licked his pencil and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. There was a stir at the far end of the room, the door was opened and the great Mr Hudson bellied into the assembly.

It was the first time Nat had seen the man on his feet and at such close quarters. He’d seen him several times out in the streets of York, of course, but always sitting in a carriage, usually waving to the crowd as if he were royalty. Now, having such a very close view, he cast around in his mind for a way to describe the man so that his readers could see him too. Powerful. Yes, there was no doubt about that. He oozed power. And grossly fat with that belly and that thick neck, those ugly jowls, those little piggy eyes. But not a pig. An animal with more strength and aggression than a pig. And
then Hudson turned his head and glared at the crowd and Nat saw what it was and made his first note:
‘bull in the bull ring facing hostile crowd’.
Then he too looked at the crowd and wondered who the matador was going to be.

Mr Hudson called the meeting to order by shouting at them for
attention
. ‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen! If you please.’ Then he sat down to deliver his address.

The shareholders were growlingly unimpressed by the size of their
dividend
that half-year and shouted their disapproval: ‘Five per cent!’ they yelled. ‘Shame on you, Hudson! It’s a disgrace!’

George Hudson stood his ground. ‘Share values rise and fall, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We all know that. ’Tis a bad year. They’ll rise again. You have my word on it.’

There was more growling but they had to accept his figure. He was right about share values. They
did
fluctuate. But when the growling had subsided, a man sitting in the body of the hall stood up and announced his name which instantly commanded an expectant silence. The matador? Nat wondered. Or just a picador? And he made a note of his name.
‘Mr Wylie.’

‘I have to say, sir,’ Mr Wylie began, ‘I find the company statement you have just read to us most unsatisfactory. Most unsatisfactory.’ Then he paused to allow the audience time to respond, which they did, angrily. ‘A more bald account,’ he went on, ‘I have never seen issued by any public body. It contrasts most unfavourable with the accounts of the London and North Western, which were open to all the shareholders and complete in every detail. ’Tis my opinion, Mr Chairman, that
this
company’s accounts should be thrown open for inspection by all
this
company’s shareholders, in the same manner.’

The bull barely flinched. ‘Oh aye, I’ve no doubt that is your opinion, Mr Wylie. However, in
my
opinion there’s no call for it.’

At that, there was so much shouting in the hall that for a few seconds he couldn’t make himself heard above the din and after two attempts to call the meeting to order, which were both totally ignored, he gave up the effort and decided to sit it out.

Then another man rose from the body of the hall and looked round at the angry faces with obvious satisfaction, and this one, as Nat saw at once, was important enough to be granted silence as soon as he was on his feet. The matador without a doubt.

‘Brankner,’ he announced. ‘As a major shareholder of this company, I would like to propose that a committee of investigation be set up to look into the company’s affairs.’

‘Yes!’ his audience shouted. ‘Quite right, sir. A committee of
investigation
. That’s what we want. Yes.’

And they looked at Mr Hudson to see what he would say to that.

George was furiously angry but he kept his control. ‘Tha can have my resignation if that’s what tha wants,’ he said, speaking as if he was daring them and he blew cigar smoke in their direction, contemptuously, and then sat back to see how they would respond to
that
. God damn it. How dare they treat him in this way? Didn’t they know who he was? Couldn’t they remember how well he’d treated them all these years? There wasn’t another man alive who gave such high dividends.

‘No, Mr Hudson,’ Mr Brankner shouted above the uproar. ‘Disabuse yourself of that idea, sir. That is not what we want. What we want is a committee of investigation. I propose that one be set up here and now and I put it to the vote. All those in favour?’

There was another roar. ‘Aye,’ they shouted. ‘Aye.’

‘This is irregular, sir,’ George shouted back. ‘All proposals must go through the chair.’

‘They may go through the chair if you wish,’ Mr Brankner told him coolly, to renewed cheers. ‘Either way you’ll get the same result.’ And he turned to look round at the crowd. ‘Against?’ he asked.

There was silence, then a cheer.

‘In that case,’ Mr Brankner declared. ‘I would say the proposal is carried. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr Chairman?’

George Hudson rose to his feet. ‘In
that
case,’ he said with as much dignity as he could muster, ‘there being no further business,
I
declare this meeting closed.’

He was jeered from the room. And Nat put his notebook in his pocket and caught the last train back to Oxford.

He spent the journey writing the first draft of his article, keeping the bull-fighting analogy because it seemed more apt than anything else he could think of, and finishing with a flourish.
‘This evening in Derby we have seen a triumph of English democracy. A man who believed that his power was so absolute that he was above the law has been voted into submission by the will of the majority.’
That night he sat up and transcribed a fair copy to send to the editor the next morning, and, because he was feeling proud of what he’d written, he wrote a second copy for his parents.

Two days later he had a letter from his mother telling him how accurate she thought his writing was, and another from the editor to tell him that his article had been published in that day’s edition, that he had been appointed to the paper as a junior reporter as from the day of the meeting in Derby, and that, in that capacity, he was to attend the next two shareholders’
meetings 
of Mr Hudson’s companies which were to be held in the Grey Rooms in York in three days’ time. It was very hard to settle to mere study after that.

George Hudson was drinking champagne that evening too, although in his case he drank morosely and took little pleasure in it. He’d been pouring wine and spirits down his throat since early afternoon and he was maudlin with drink and self-pity.

‘I can’t understand it,’ he said to Lizzie, over and over again. ‘After all I’ve done for ’em all these years. I’ve paid out bigger dividends than any man alive or dead.
You
know that, don’t ’ee, Lizzie. Much bigger dividends. You never heard a one of ’em complaining when the going was good. Oh no! They took the money when the going was good. Took it an’ glad to have it. It’s downright ingratitude. That’s what it is. Downright ingratitude.’

‘They’re nasty jealous,’ Lizzie tried to comfort. ‘Don’t tek no notice of ’em, George dear. They’re not worth it.’

By that time, he was weeping so miserably he barely heard her. ‘’Tis like being set on by a swarm of wasps,’ he cried. ‘That’s how ’tis. A swarm of nasty, little, low-grade, ungrateful wasps. Sting, sting, sting. On an’ on an’ on.’

But cry as he might, he couldn’t stop the swarms and they were gathering for their next attack.

After the fireworks at Derby, Nat was rather disappointed by the
half-yearly
meeting of the York and North Midland Railway Company, for it all went off rather tamely. The shareholders groaned when they heard that their dividend was only going to be six per cent, but there was no demand for a committee of investigation and no need for anybody to be called to order. However, the meeting that followed later that day was an entirely different matter.

The shareholders of the York, Newcastle and Berwick were well primed and had a powerful pair of leaders in two quietly spoken gentlemen called Horatio Love and Robert Prance, who were much in evidence as the crowd gathered, moving from group to group, greeting and talking. There was no sign of the chairman as yet, so Nat moved through the crowd too. It didn’t take him long to establish that, as well as being shareholders, the two gentlemen were also members of the Stock Exchange and had been looking into the company affairs for what his informant said was a considerable time. ‘I think you’ll find Mr Hudson is in for a bit of a scrap, like,’ the man said.

And a bit of a scrap it was. As soon as the company report had been read, Mr Prance rose to his feet and announced that there was something puzzling him about the company accounts. Then he paused, smiled and expressed the hope that the chairman could enlighten him.

The chairman looked disconcerted but grunted that he had leave to proceed.

‘I have discovered,’ Mr Prance said in his gentle voice, ‘that shares that were valued at
£
15 and
bought
for
£
15 have been sold to this company at a price of
£
23.10s.’ There was a frisson of excitement but no interruption. ‘The total number of such shares bought by the York, Newcastle and Berwick,’ Mr Prance went on, ‘was 3,790. I am sure that no more than the odd hundred were bought by the public, so someone has received great benefit by selling them at this extravagant price to the company. We should like to know who that person was.’ Then he looked up from his notes and smiled at Mr Hudson.

The chairman was caught red-faced and red-handed. ‘Well now,’ he said. ‘This is all very curious, Mr Prance. I cannot account for it, sir, leastways, I cannot account for it directly, you understand, on account of not having the full facts and figures in front of me. However, I shall certainly look into it for you. You have my word on it.’

But that wasn’t the answer Mr Prance wanted and he wasn’t going to allow Mr Hudson to get away with it. ‘I can hardly believe that the
chairman of a great company like ours would attend the half-yearly meeting of his shareholders without bringing the company accounts with him,’ he said smoothly. ‘We would be prepared to wait until you have perused them to refresh your mind.’ And he turned to address the meeting. ‘Would we not, gentlemen?’ He waited for their murmured agreement before speaking to Mr Hudson again. ‘I need hardly point out that this is a very large sum of money. The transaction could hardly have escaped your notice, for as we all know you oversee all the company’s business, personally.’

‘Naturally,’ George had to admit. This man was a deal too oily. ‘I just didn’t recall it to mind when you asked about it. Now I come to think about it, there was some business over share prices. Mr Nathaniel Plews had charge of valuing shares at that time, as I recall, and I suppose there might have been some overcharge. If he were here, he could answer you directly but unfortunately he was not able to attend. However I will personally guarantee to do whatever the shareholders think will be most just and fair.’

‘Fortuitous absence of chosen scapegoat,’
Nat wrote in his notebook, thinking, This man gets more unpleasant by the minute.

His guarantee didn’t wash with Mr Prance any more than his excuses had. ‘That, sir,’ he said, ‘is not satisfactory to me and I doubt if it is
satisfactory
to the other shareholders here.’ There was vociferous agreement. ‘Therefore I wish to propose that a committee of enquiry be set up to
investigate
this company’s affairs.’

‘Caught’,
Nat wrote.

The motion for a committee of enquiry was passed unanimously, there and then, and to everybody’s satisfaction Mr Robert Prance was chosen to chair it. Nat couldn’t wait to get home to tell his parents.