drove across town to copy his key, then slipped it into his pocket while he was on the phone, no doubt planning his evening. If Rita ever wondered where those For Sale signs had got to, she never mentioned it.
I wasn’t too surprised when Guy didn’t turn up the next morning, or even when he didn’t pick up when Rita rang him. ‘That’s odd,’ she said.
‘Perhaps he’s eloped.’ I grinned. ‘With Stella.’
Rita didn’t see the joke. ‘Stella has appointments this morning.’
I needed to move quickly, but the weekend would buy me some time. I made sure to go out to the site, a neglected, debris-strewnyard next to the station, a high perimeter fence erected against vandals, a locked gate. There was nothing to suggest the site was for sale, just warning notices from a security firm that guard dogs were patrolling the grounds. I took down their phone number and called it from a phone box. The man who answered didn’t know who owned the yard but gave me the contact number he was supposed to call in case of problems. ‘Ask for the divestments office,’ he said. ‘But there’ll be no one there till Monday.’
Next morning, Mr Mower called me at my digs at Mrs Burton’s to ask if I’d mind coming in and standing in for Guy on the Sunday rota. Stella had been round to Guy’s place but there was no one in. It wasn’t until Monday that she found out what had happened: that he’d been sick after eating something; that things had worsened and he’d gone out for air in the early hours and fainted in the street; that he’d had to be taken to hospital. ‘He’s pretty ill,’ she said. I copied Rita’s anxious expression. Stella smiled. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll live.’
That afternoon I went into Guy’s flat again. Not only did I find the faxes from the council but also one of our enquiry cards ripped out of the office file. Back at the office I found the property listed but dormant, with a line through the entry. There was no sign of it having been worked on or the vendor having pursued a sale. The price, of course, would be rock-bottom. I called them to ask if they were still selling, and told them I might have an interested buyer.
‘These are the buyers we talked about a couple of weeks ago?’
‘Ah, that would be Guy you spoke to,’ I said. ‘He’s away at the moment. But now the people are asking if you could move a little on price.’
It took a while, but I bought the site, using an out-of-town lawyer as a purchasing agent. By then, Guy’s absence – prolonged,it turned out, by complications arising from his chronic stomach complaint, an added bonus – had given me a chance to shine again for Mr Mower. I got one of Guy’s moribund properties moving by persuading the vendors to amend Guy’s unrealistic valuation down a notch or two (by asking how they felt about the whispers going round that nearby common land was being earmarked as a stop-over for travellers). Mr Mower was certainly surprised at my instant success with what he remembered to be an unpromising brownfield site by the river that Guy had taken on a year ago. Imagine his delight when I announced that I had found a firm buyer.
‘That really is excellent news.’ He beamed. ‘Who has taken it?’
‘Damato Associates. They want to build a skateboarding park.’
‘Skateboarding, you say? Splendid.’
This was a long time ago. It was early days for skateboards, at least in our town, but it made me smile to imagine the alarm on the faces of council officials at the prospect of scores of rowdy youths hanging out opposite their new development. But of course that was just mischief. I sat on my investment. I waited. Then just when I was starting to fear that I
would
have to open a skateboarding park, the council went public and things took off. It was an exciting time. In the years that followed, every middling town across the country was looking to turn its stagnant, weed-clogged waterways into a valuable environment for sleek
I wasn’t too surprised when Guy didn’t turn up the next morning, or even when he didn’t pick up when Rita rang him. ‘That’s odd,’ she said.
‘Perhaps he’s eloped.’ I grinned. ‘With Stella.’
Rita didn’t see the joke. ‘Stella has appointments this morning.’
I needed to move quickly, but the weekend would buy me some time. I made sure to go out to the site, a neglected, debris-strewnyard next to the station, a high perimeter fence erected against vandals, a locked gate. There was nothing to suggest the site was for sale, just warning notices from a security firm that guard dogs were patrolling the grounds. I took down their phone number and called it from a phone box. The man who answered didn’t know who owned the yard but gave me the contact number he was supposed to call in case of problems. ‘Ask for the divestments office,’ he said. ‘But there’ll be no one there till Monday.’
Next morning, Mr Mower called me at my digs at Mrs Burton’s to ask if I’d mind coming in and standing in for Guy on the Sunday rota. Stella had been round to Guy’s place but there was no one in. It wasn’t until Monday that she found out what had happened: that he’d been sick after eating something; that things had worsened and he’d gone out for air in the early hours and fainted in the street; that he’d had to be taken to hospital. ‘He’s pretty ill,’ she said. I copied Rita’s anxious expression. Stella smiled. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll live.’
That afternoon I went into Guy’s flat again. Not only did I find the faxes from the council but also one of our enquiry cards ripped out of the office file. Back at the office I found the property listed but dormant, with a line through the entry. There was no sign of it having been worked on or the vendor having pursued a sale. The price, of course, would be rock-bottom. I called them to ask if they were still selling, and told them I might have an interested buyer.
‘These are the buyers we talked about a couple of weeks ago?’
‘Ah, that would be Guy you spoke to,’ I said. ‘He’s away at the moment. But now the people are asking if you could move a little on price.’
It took a while, but I bought the site, using an out-of-town lawyer as a purchasing agent. By then, Guy’s absence – prolonged,it turned out, by complications arising from his chronic stomach complaint, an added bonus – had given me a chance to shine again for Mr Mower. I got one of Guy’s moribund properties moving by persuading the vendors to amend Guy’s unrealistic valuation down a notch or two (by asking how they felt about the whispers going round that nearby common land was being earmarked as a stop-over for travellers). Mr Mower was certainly surprised at my instant success with what he remembered to be an unpromising brownfield site by the river that Guy had taken on a year ago. Imagine his delight when I announced that I had found a firm buyer.
‘That really is excellent news.’ He beamed. ‘Who has taken it?’
‘Damato Associates. They want to build a skateboarding park.’
‘Skateboarding, you say? Splendid.’
This was a long time ago. It was early days for skateboards, at least in our town, but it made me smile to imagine the alarm on the faces of council officials at the prospect of scores of rowdy youths hanging out opposite their new development. But of course that was just mischief. I sat on my investment. I waited. Then just when I was starting to fear that I
would
have to open a skateboarding park, the council went public and things took off. It was an exciting time. In the years that followed, every middling town across the country was looking to turn its stagnant, weed-clogged waterways into a valuable environment for sleek
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