into the shredder, I’m afraid.’
‘It was the same with the stuff at my mother’s house,’ says Shirley, with an attempt at interest, at politeness. ‘The things people hoard. We burned boxes full of paper.’
‘Really?’ Clive looks at her with sudden acuteness.
‘Boxes,’ repeats Shirley, dully. The very thought makes her feel tired.
‘Lucky she kept the will in a sensible place,’ says Clive, slightly probing.
‘Yes, very lucky,’ says Shirley, bored.
Clive explains to her the capacities of his new shredding machine, but she does not listen. Gradually she works the conversation round to Cliff’s ailing business, to her own liabilities as a director.
‘I was so worried,’ she says, blushing slightly, ‘that I went round to the Information Centre at the public library. And they gave me this leaflet. And frankly, it worried me even more.’
She hands over the leaflet. It is entitled ‘Implications of the Insolvency Act 1986 and the Company Directors Disqualification Act 1986’.
‘I mean,’ says Shirley, ‘what about our house? And all my personal assets? Can they be included in the company assets? I’m a non-executive director, I know, but look, it says the Acts make no distinction between executive and non-executive. I don’t know what it all means. To be frank with you I don’t even know what the word “executive” means. I don’t know where I stand. At all.’
‘Hmm,’ murmurs Clive Enderby, playing for time. He asks for the name of Cliff’s own solicitors, for the company’s name and registration number, for the names of its other directors. He scribbles them down on a piece of paper and looks knowing. Then he tries to explain to her the distinction between wrongful trading and fraudulent trading, but she is not listening, she cannot follow, she takes in only one word in ten. He explains that he cannot offer useful advice in the absence of more detailed information about the company’s liabilities. He encourages her to call a meeting with the other directors.
‘But Cliff is my
husband
,’ says Shirley. ‘How can I call a
meeting
with my
husband
? He won’t speak about these things, anyway. He’s very depressed At least,
I
think he’s depressed. He won’t admit it. But he is.’
‘Perhaps you should get him to see his doctor,’ says Clive, brightly, eager to shift responsibility for the Harpers’ financial and marital problems on to another profession. After all, they aren’t even his clients. They are small fry, little victims of recession, tiddlers.
Clive watches Shirley closely, as she promises to speak to Dr Peckham. He’s not surprised that she can’t follow her husband’s affairs, but frankly he
is
rather surprised that neither she nor her clever sister Liz has spotted the intriguing anomaly in their mother’s financial statements. He had noted it at once, and it had led him to an interesting revelation. Now, of course, he does not know whether or not to share it. It is, arguably, of no importance, better left sleeping. Neither Shirley nor Liz has shown the slightest suspicion.
‘Give my regards to your sister,’ he says, as he ushers Shirley to the lift.
Perhaps women never read account sheets, financial reports. Women are interested only in the bottom line, and they can’t always find that. Women will sign anything—hire-purchase agreements, life insurance policies, applications for shares, joint mortgages with defaulting husbands—and they never read the small print, as Clive knows all too well. And even if they try to read it, as Shirley has just demonstrated, they do not understand it.
They shake hands, outside the gleaming lift. Shirley voices her thanks, but the interview has left her more worried than before.
And Clive too, trying to put her from his mind, feels a certain unease. The images of Janice and Susie swim, unsummoned, towards him. Wives, women, marriage. The voicing of dissatisfactions. The crumbling of loyalties. The breaking of
‘It was the same with the stuff at my mother’s house,’ says Shirley, with an attempt at interest, at politeness. ‘The things people hoard. We burned boxes full of paper.’
‘Really?’ Clive looks at her with sudden acuteness.
‘Boxes,’ repeats Shirley, dully. The very thought makes her feel tired.
‘Lucky she kept the will in a sensible place,’ says Clive, slightly probing.
‘Yes, very lucky,’ says Shirley, bored.
Clive explains to her the capacities of his new shredding machine, but she does not listen. Gradually she works the conversation round to Cliff’s ailing business, to her own liabilities as a director.
‘I was so worried,’ she says, blushing slightly, ‘that I went round to the Information Centre at the public library. And they gave me this leaflet. And frankly, it worried me even more.’
She hands over the leaflet. It is entitled ‘Implications of the Insolvency Act 1986 and the Company Directors Disqualification Act 1986’.
‘I mean,’ says Shirley, ‘what about our house? And all my personal assets? Can they be included in the company assets? I’m a non-executive director, I know, but look, it says the Acts make no distinction between executive and non-executive. I don’t know what it all means. To be frank with you I don’t even know what the word “executive” means. I don’t know where I stand. At all.’
‘Hmm,’ murmurs Clive Enderby, playing for time. He asks for the name of Cliff’s own solicitors, for the company’s name and registration number, for the names of its other directors. He scribbles them down on a piece of paper and looks knowing. Then he tries to explain to her the distinction between wrongful trading and fraudulent trading, but she is not listening, she cannot follow, she takes in only one word in ten. He explains that he cannot offer useful advice in the absence of more detailed information about the company’s liabilities. He encourages her to call a meeting with the other directors.
‘But Cliff is my
husband
,’ says Shirley. ‘How can I call a
meeting
with my
husband
? He won’t speak about these things, anyway. He’s very depressed At least,
I
think he’s depressed. He won’t admit it. But he is.’
‘Perhaps you should get him to see his doctor,’ says Clive, brightly, eager to shift responsibility for the Harpers’ financial and marital problems on to another profession. After all, they aren’t even his clients. They are small fry, little victims of recession, tiddlers.
Clive watches Shirley closely, as she promises to speak to Dr Peckham. He’s not surprised that she can’t follow her husband’s affairs, but frankly he
is
rather surprised that neither she nor her clever sister Liz has spotted the intriguing anomaly in their mother’s financial statements. He had noted it at once, and it had led him to an interesting revelation. Now, of course, he does not know whether or not to share it. It is, arguably, of no importance, better left sleeping. Neither Shirley nor Liz has shown the slightest suspicion.
‘Give my regards to your sister,’ he says, as he ushers Shirley to the lift.
Perhaps women never read account sheets, financial reports. Women are interested only in the bottom line, and they can’t always find that. Women will sign anything—hire-purchase agreements, life insurance policies, applications for shares, joint mortgages with defaulting husbands—and they never read the small print, as Clive knows all too well. And even if they try to read it, as Shirley has just demonstrated, they do not understand it.
They shake hands, outside the gleaming lift. Shirley voices her thanks, but the interview has left her more worried than before.
And Clive too, trying to put her from his mind, feels a certain unease. The images of Janice and Susie swim, unsummoned, towards him. Wives, women, marriage. The voicing of dissatisfactions. The crumbling of loyalties. The breaking of
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