The Fall and Rise of Gordon Coppinger

Excuse me, but that’s what we’re here to find out.

‘Winchester, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Like it?’

‘I think it was great. I felt privileged.’

You are.

A barge hooted urgently on the sullen river. Sir Gordon never found time to stand at his great picture window and look at the boats. All he saw when he looked at the window were the window cleaners’ bills.

‘Good school motto, Winchester. “Manners maketh man.”’ Most stupid bloody motto in the history of mottoes. Manners concealeth man. ‘We certainly set great store by manners here.’

‘I can see that, sir.’

You can see nothing.

‘So why do you want to work in the City?’

‘It would be stupid to pretend that I didn’t like the idea of making a lot of money, sir, but I honestly do think it would be the right career path for me.’

‘It doesn’t worry you that you might be setting out on this … “career path” … at a time when it may be turning into a rather rocky road?’

‘I hardly think working for you could ever be described as being on a rocky road, sir.’

Too smooth for his own good. Could be quite clever, though, could fancy making a name for himself. Keep him well away from Gordon Investments.

‘I’m going to offer you a job, Martin, but … you’re going to have to prove yourself.’

‘I would expect nothing else, sir.’

‘Good. Good. If you accept it, you’ll have to move to Stoke.’

That’ll teach you for being six foot five.

‘Stoke?’

‘On-Trent.’

‘Oh yes, sir, I know of it. The Potteries.’

‘Exactly. Arnold Bennett country.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m not with you.’

‘Arnold Bennett was a famous man from that region.’

‘Oh, really. What did he … what was he famous for, sir, exactly?’

‘He invented a very well-known omelette.’

‘Good heavens.’

‘Full of smoked fish.’

‘Good Lord.’

‘I know.’

Sir Gordon swivelled idly from side to side in his large executive chair, as if he was weighing up what to say next, though he knew perfectly well what he was going to say next.

‘I daresay you dream of getting rich overnight, but I want to test your mettle in manufacturing, Martin.’

‘Manufacturing, sir?’

‘Yes. I have factories that actually make things. I’m not just a money man, you know.’

‘Oh, I know, sir.’

The first lie. Oh well.

‘Have you heard of Porter’s Potteries Pies?’

‘I can’t say that I have, sir.’

Avoided a second lie. Well done. Not a bad lad, sadly.

‘Well, I have a finger in many pies, and they happen to be one of them.’

Didn’t even smile. No sense of humour? That could be a problem, working for Porter’s Potteries Pies.

‘Porter’s – they’re the Wedgwood of the pie.’

‘Ah.’

‘Cut your teeth on them, and the world could be your oyster.’

‘Thank you, sir. Do you … um …’ A roguish look spread over Martin Fortescue’s face. ‘Do you ever put oysters in your pies? I know people used to.’

‘Arnold Bennett, probably. No, we never have. Maybe you could explore the possibility.’

‘Thank you, sir. I certainly will.’

Sir Gordon sent Martin on his way and immediately telephoned his father. Martin’s father, not his own. No point in telephoning his own father. Not compos mentis. No longer wise. Very sad. Terrible, actually.

‘Julian?’ He was relishing this moment. He only wished he could see Julian Fortescue’s self-satisfied face when he told him he was sending his precious son to a pie factory in the Potteries. ‘I’ve seen your son, Julian, and I’m offering him a job. In my pie factory. In Stoke.’