I could see Harry’s face now. Carruthers hadn’t been anywhere near it, despite the fact that the story of Grandfather’s Early Struggles must by now have become tiresomely familiar. There was respect on his face. Respect; that word had been chosen for him but it was the only one that fitted. Respect; and unfeigned love.
Perhaps my big mistake had been made ten years ago: perhaps I should have bought myself a pair of overalls and started work in the scrapyard, perhaps if I had done then that look of respect and love on my son’s face might have been directed to the proper person. But it was too late now; I should have to continue as the despised administrator, the nasty unsympathetic accountant who kept his eye on office materials and methods and who, every now and again firmly checked any attempts at empire-building. (Or at least attempted to check it; I had a shrewd suspicion that my immediate senior, Donald Middridge, despite all that I’d said to Brown on the subject, was going to acquire an assistant in the very near future.)
I heard a match strike and smelled cigar smoke. Tantrum over; decision coming up. I turned and glanced at him expectantly. That was, as they say, the drill. There was nothing personal in it, I told myself, repressing the thought that he would have behaved far differently had I been a director.
In my early days with the firm I’d tried to discuss matters with him before he made the decisions; but I wasn’t so naïve these days. And I didn’t relish being called a jumped-up nowt and a sapless book-keeper, which were two of his mildest epithets when he realized I was actually putting forward opinions of my own. I had taken his abuse then; now I knew that I couldn’t. So I waited for him to speak.
“You’ll have to go down to see him,” he said.
“Are you sure I’m the right person?” This was as near as I dared approach to questioning the necessity of anyone going to see Tiffield; it seemed to me that a polite but firm letter would easily settle the matter.
“I’m not sure you’re the right person. I’m not sure at all.”
He must have seen from the look on my face that he’d gone a little too far. “Nothing against you, Joe, nothing against you. It’s just not your job, you’re not really concerned with the sales side.”
“You’d better send someone else then.”
“He wants you for some reason. You must have made a deep impression on him. Dammit, he’s only met you once. What the hell did you talk about?”
“He likes my stories,” I said.
“Nay, you’re not the only one that knows a lot of mucky stories.” He laughed. “He’s not just a big customer, is old Tiffield. He’s a funny customer. You’ll have to keep your back to the wall, won’t you, lad?” He laughed again, this time there was a note about the laugh which I didn’t like.