Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series) (3 page)

3 -
THE
LIQUIDATOR

I was dreaming about Sandy. We were kissing, but she was slobbering all over me. I half opened my eyes. Red tongue, black nose and fur. I pushed away Jazz and looked at the clock. It was about half eight. The sun was streaming in and the dog wanted his food and walk. Jazz ate some leftover sausages and bread from the wake and nibbled a banana. I brushed my teeth, looked in the mirror and felt good. We charged down the stairs on to the pier, down the long gangway to the beach. The port was virtually empty and the desolate Bridlington beach seemed to go on for miles. I thought of what Bill used to say: 'Magnificent North England beach. Pity the town's tatty.'

Filey is only about ten miles away. No comparison. A wood overlooks part of its beach and it has quaint cottages, hotels and shops. Tourists pour into the town. If only Dad had opened "Our Plaice" there, we wouldn't have been broke. He might have lived.

The tide was going out and the waves were tiny. We ran in the shallows for about half an hour, the sweat trickling down my back, the sun getting hotter. Only my feet were cool. Jazz found a stick and I threw it and followed him into the water. I ducked under a medium sized wave; felt free, completely free.

About a hundred metres out, I glanced back towards the shore. A few pretty houses were on the outskirts of town. They were the exception. Far towards the right, overlooking the harbour, was the shabby, crumbling building where I lived.

A dark cloud appeared and it turned cold, so I raced out of the water and jogged at a fast pace towards home.

*   *   *

Mrs Derby called me when I passed her flat on the way up the stairs. A man in a grey suit was in her living room. He stood up stiffly, put out his hand and introduced himself: 'Mark Baton, Bailey & Baton.'

He shook my hand tightly: 'We represent your father's creditors.'

The accountant, in his late forties, was balding, with thin lips and a narrow mean face. Must have come from years on the job. Baton was patronising and I took an instant dislike to him. When he smiled, he couldn't help but sneer.

'I gather you know that your father's business was failing,' Baton continued in a posh accent. 'Did you know that the bank called in his loan?'

'When?'

'A week before he died?'

Gill Derby winced and turned away to pour me some tea. This guy wasn't exactly tactful.

'I'm afraid I have to value his remaining assets. The equipment in the shop, stock and investments, that sort of thing,' he said. 'Help the creditors recover their money.'

'Suppose that's what a liquidator does!' I snapped.

He looked at me self-righteously.

'I can understand your feelings. But he did borrow the money, you know. Good people and companies are short.'

'Like the bank,' I murmured sarcastically.

'Yes, but there are others too. Mrs Derby is one of them. Your father was about three months behind on her rent. Almost two thousand pounds.'

Gill interrupted him as she passed me a cuppa and a biscuit: 'Look, I don't really care. They've lived here for a long time. Bill always paid. It was only recently . . .'

She looked at me sympathetically and shook her head: 'I don't want to be part of this. The lad's got enough problems.'

'Yes, I realise that, Mrs Derby. You've already told me. But it must be done,' he continued pompously.

'Now, young man, please show me where your father kept his papers and his computer; the keys of the shop.'

'OK,' I said and took him up to our flat.

I had meant to clear up the mess from the wake. Empty bottles, dirty glasses, crisps, peanuts, cigarette ends and bits of bread were all over the place. It was a rats' paradise. Jazz slammed his paws on a small living room table and gobbled up a congealed sausage. Baton shuddered. He walked around the room, making sure that he didn't touch anything. He made notes of the table, chairs, the battered telly and other bits and pieces. Baton followed me into Bill's bedroom and he quickly examined the dressing table and a cupboard.

'Did your father make a will?'

'Dunno. He used to put all his papers in this,' I said, pulling them out from the dressing table and piling them on top.

Baton tried to ignore the mess on the bed, the banana skin on the floor and Jazz's dirty dish next to his basket. He shook his head in disgust.

'Well? Anything more?'

I went to the cupboard and clutched the box file of the shop's invoices, expenses and bookkeeper's accounts. Baton double-checked to see that nothing was left. He found a small leather case and a bag with some more papers.

'Where's the computer?'

'In my room.'

He followed me there. My small second-hand laptop was on my unmade bed; the printer on a table.

He examined it with a sneer: 'Isn't this obsolete. Do you manage to connect to the Internet?'

'Use it for school. Not for broadband. Get that at Internet café,' I said biting my lip.

'Where do you go to school?' he asked peering down at me. 'Done your GCSEs? Do you think you'll pass?'

'Bridlington. Yes, I think I've done OK.'

I was getting irritated with this idiot. I felt like punching him on the nose, but he was the type who would call the police.

'Are your father's records on it? Emails?'

'Some stuff about the shop.'

'His mobile?'

'Can't find it. Must have got lost when the ambulance took him to hospital.'

'Any investments?'

'Don't think so. Don't think he had any. Never spoke about it.'

'Where can I work?' he said huffily.

We went into the kitchen and I cleared the table and wiped his chair. He waited impatiently as I went to get the laptop, files and papers. I dumped the papers on to the table in a messy pile. Baton flushed.

He took a laptop out of his bag, pushed some papers aside to give him some working space, sat down and began to work. I connected the laptop to the power as he began to sort out the papers. I was tempted to blow a fuse and crash his computer. But he watched me suspiciously and was soon itemising an inventory of junk.

I grabbed a broom, a pan and some black bags and went into the living room to clean up the place. After about three hours or so, Baton came into the living room with the envelope that Mrs Derby had given me.

'What's this?'

'Dunno, I haven't read it yet.'

'It could be the will. Could you open it please.'

I glanced at the letter: 'Doesn't seem to be a will.'

'Can I see it?'

'It's personal.'

'I must read it.'

Losing his patience he snatched it from me and read it quickly. For some reason, which I couldn't understand, he went into Bill's room and directly to Jazz's basket in the corner. He took the cushion out and picked it up, examined it carefully and placed the basket back in the corner. I put back the cushion and looked at him puzzled. For the first time, he was embarrassed. He even softened a bit.

'My apologies . . . Sorry . . . I had to read the letter . . . It's my job, you see.'

I put the letter in my back pocket and turned away. I didn't want to show him that I was upset.

'Can I have the key of the shop?'

It was hanging on a hook behind the kitchen door and I handed it to him.

'The shop's downstairs, almost directly below the flat. That's why we moved here,' I said. 'The equipment is still in good condition.'

'Doubt if it's worth much. We'll see when we sell the business.'

He half mumbled to himself, but in a spiteful way, making sure that I could hear: 'Doubt if the creditors will get 5 pence in the pound.'

Baton put the papers that he needed in his briefcase, took the box file and my computer.

'I'm sorry, I'll have to take this; I'll return it as soon as possible.'

'But that's got all my personal stuff on it; my addresses, my emails.'

'Sorry we have to do a proper search.'

He gave me the small leather case and shook my hand: 'I think you'll want this.'

At last he was gone. I continued to clean up the flat and filled lots of large black bags. After making my bed, I lounged on the battered sofa and opened up the case. There was a knock on the door. It was Gill.

'What a thoroughly unpleasant man,' she said wearily.

She glanced at the landscape print on the wall and Mum and Dad's wedding picture on the mantelpiece.

'Make sure that you don't leave anything personal. He's going to have an auction.'

'Won't get much money for this lot.'

'The creditors will get nothing. Not even the bank. All of this will go to Bailey & Baton,' she said.

'They don't call them liquidators for nothing. What do you think of the flat?'

'Tidy . . . clean! I'm impressed . . . I meant what I said . . . You can stay here until I find another tenant.'

'Thanks. I'm not sure what to do.'

'Is one of your relatives taking you in? Martin? John?'

'Don't think so.'

She was silent, obviously disgusted.

'If the worst comes to the worst, you can move in with me.'

I gave her a cup of tea and offered her a few of the leftover biscuits from the wake. We sat on the sofa and she noticed the open leather suitcase filled with photos and letters. She picked up a picture of me as a baby.

'Sweet. Can I take a look?'

'Sure.'

We laughed as we sorted through the old family pictures, especially me as a kid. I opened a letter that Mum had written to Dad.

Darling Bill,

Thanks for your letter, which I received this morning.

Cornwall is lovely and we miss you. Yesterday, we were at the tip of Land's End and looked out towards the sea. It was a beautiful day, not the drizzly weather you're having in Yorkshire.

The letter went on and was signed,
Much love, Jane. Lots of kisses from Jack and I.

I passed it to Gill: 'Nice handwriting. Pity mine's not the same.'

Gill read it and looked up at me. Her eyes had tears in them. I felt my eyes getting watery. I tried to stop, but I couldn't help myself. It just came, like a sort of coughing fit, on and on, my shoulders up and down. I wiped off the tears on my forearm.

'Thirty nine when she died, now Dad at fifty two,' I managed to choke out.

Gill put her arms around me and hugged me tightly. I could hear her heart beating underneath her big soft bosoms.

'Let it out Jack . . . Don't try and stop it . . . Nothing to be ashamed of . . .'

I was angry with myself: 'Sorry, I'm being stupid.'

'No you're not . . . You've been very brave . . . Just turned sixteen and both parents gone. Who do you think you are? Superman?'

We were both crying by now. She kissed me on my cheek.

'I was depressed for months after my parents died . . . I'm also an only child . . . Don't bottle it up . . . Let it out Jack . . . Just let it out.'

She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on: 'No arguments . . . I'm taking you out for lunch.'

*   *   *

After lunch with Gill, I began thinking of Sandy again. My mobile had run out of credit. So I stopped at a phone box and found her cousin Sue's number. One of Sue's brothers answered. He told me that Sue and Sandy had left for London. Sandy had managed to get tickets for the Lord's cricket test. Her cousin was playing for Australia. He thought that they were staying in Hampstead in north London, but he didn't know the address. Wouldn't give me Sue's mobile number. I kicked myself for forgetting to ask Sandy about her plans.

Jazz and I hadn't eaten so much in a long time and were feeling full, so we went for a walk along the promenade. We reached a paddling pool, close to the beach below. It had been raining. I found a
Yorkshire Post
under a beach hut, put the newspaper on the wet bench and sat on the sports pages.

The cloud had lifted and it was getting light again. A little kid, wearing just a T-shirt and a nappy, was in the water. His mother and father looked on proudly as he paddled from one end to the other. I tried not to laugh when the boy slipped and nearly fell.

While I was watching, I felt some paper in my back pocket. I had forgotten about Bill's letter. I hadn't read it properly. For the first time, I realised that Dad had been an outpatient at the hospital and was waiting for a heart bypass operation. He had decided to write to me just in case.

They told me to stop smoking and lose weight,
he wrote.

You know those pills that I've been putting under my tongue . . . They're Glyceryl Trinitrate. They help me through the chest pains.

It was a pity that Bill had kept all his problems to himself. I knew that he had angina. I just didn't know how bad it was. I read on:
I've cut down on smokes and sweets, but it's bloody hard. I think it's mainly stress. The shop's been losing money for a long time. You've been a great help, but we're not making enough to meet the bills. I don't know if I can hold out until the end of the year. I owe rent on the shop and flat and the bank is threatening to call in the overdraft.

The kid fell and began to howl. His mum picked up her dress, waded in, dragged him out and dried him. After he was dry, she changed his nappy and he quietened down.

The letter continued:
I'm fifty three next birthday, so it's going to be a battle to get a new job. I hope that it will be some years before you read this, Jack. All I can say is that I've been thinking of your lovely Mum.

I turned away from the family and wiped my eyes with my sleeve.

Look after yourself. That's why I shouted at you when I saw you smoke the other day. Give it up! OK! Don't chuck in school. Make something of yourself. You've got it in you.

Take care of Jazz. I can see him now. Snug in his basket. Always sleeps in the same place. Keep him there. He likes it.

Love Bill.

If Dad's somewhere up there, he needn't worry. I stopped smoking when he died. That stuff about Jazz, his basket and his sleeping place. Why was Baton so interested in it?