find trading?'
'I love it. I just wish I was better at it. Sometimes I think that I am getting the hang of it, and then it all goes wrong. I wonder if it isn't just all about luck.'
Hamilton laughed. 'You shouldn't ever think that, laddie. Of course it's all about luck, or at least each individual trade is. But if you discipline yourself to trade only when the odds are in your favour, in the long run you will certainly come out ahead. It's basic statistics.'
Hamilton saw my expression and laughed again. 'No, you are right, it's not quite that easy. The trick is to work out when the odds are in your favour, and that can take years of experience. But don't worry. You are on the right track. Just persevere, keep thinking about what you are doing and why, learn from your mistakes, and you will turn out very well. We will make a good team.'
I hoped so. I felt a surge of excitement. Hamilton wouldn't say something like that unless he meant it. I was determined to keep trying, and to do all he said.
'I remember seeing you run,' Hamilton said.
'Oh, I didn't know you watched athletics.'
'Well, everyone watches the Olympics, even me. And I do like athletics. Something about the sport appeals. I watched you a number of times, but what I really remember is the final, when you pushed yourself into the lead. The television had a close-up on your face. Total determination, and pain. I thought you were going to win, and then that Kenyan and Spaniard drifted past you.'
'Irishman,' I mumbled.
'What?'
'Irishman. It was an Irishman, not a Spaniard.' I said. 'A very fast Irishman.'
Hamilton laughed. 'Well, I'm very glad you are working for me now. I think together we can really make something of De Jong.'
'I would like that very much,' I said. Very much indeed.
Debbie's funeral was in a quiet churchyard in a small village in Kent. I was there, representing the office. It was a gorgeous day, the sun beating down on the mourners. I was hot in my suit, and I could feel the sweat trickling down my back. A group of rooks cawed half-heartedly in a small copse by the gate to the churchyard. The noise complemented the silence rather than disrupting it. The perfect accompaniment to a small country funeral.
The vicar did his best to relieve the sadness of the occasion by saying that Debbie would have wanted her mourners to smile, and that we should give thanks for the time she spent with us. Or something like that. I didn't quite follow his logic, and anyway it didn't work. There is something heart-rendingly sad about the death of any young person; nothing you can say can change that. That it was Debbie who had been taken so early from a life she had enjoyed so much, did not make it any better.
Her parents were there. There was something of Debbie in the face of each of them. Two small round figures, drawn together in their grief.
As we all made our way slowly back towards the road, I found myself walking next to a tall thin red-haired girl. She was wearing heels and got one of them caught in the paving-stones of the path. I bent down to help her free her shoe.
'Thank you,' she said. 'I hate these bloody shoes.' Then, looking around, 'Do you know all these people?'
'Very few,' I said. 'And you?'
'One or two. I shared a flat with Debbie, so I got to know a number of her boyfriends.'
'A number?' I said surprised. 'How many are here?'
She looked around. 'Just one or two that I knew. You weren't one of them, were you?' she said, her eyes teasing me.
'No,' I said sharply, a little shocked. 'I worked with her.'
'No offence meant. She usually had good taste,' said the girl. 'Are you going past the station?'
'Yes, I am. Can I give you a lift?'
'That would be very kind. My name is Felicity, by the way.'
'Mine's Paul.' We walked on out of the churchyard and into the road. 'This is it,' I said as we came to my little Peugeot.
We got in the car and headed for the nearest station, which was three miles away.
'I must say, I never realised
'I love it. I just wish I was better at it. Sometimes I think that I am getting the hang of it, and then it all goes wrong. I wonder if it isn't just all about luck.'
Hamilton laughed. 'You shouldn't ever think that, laddie. Of course it's all about luck, or at least each individual trade is. But if you discipline yourself to trade only when the odds are in your favour, in the long run you will certainly come out ahead. It's basic statistics.'
Hamilton saw my expression and laughed again. 'No, you are right, it's not quite that easy. The trick is to work out when the odds are in your favour, and that can take years of experience. But don't worry. You are on the right track. Just persevere, keep thinking about what you are doing and why, learn from your mistakes, and you will turn out very well. We will make a good team.'
I hoped so. I felt a surge of excitement. Hamilton wouldn't say something like that unless he meant it. I was determined to keep trying, and to do all he said.
'I remember seeing you run,' Hamilton said.
'Oh, I didn't know you watched athletics.'
'Well, everyone watches the Olympics, even me. And I do like athletics. Something about the sport appeals. I watched you a number of times, but what I really remember is the final, when you pushed yourself into the lead. The television had a close-up on your face. Total determination, and pain. I thought you were going to win, and then that Kenyan and Spaniard drifted past you.'
'Irishman,' I mumbled.
'What?'
'Irishman. It was an Irishman, not a Spaniard.' I said. 'A very fast Irishman.'
Hamilton laughed. 'Well, I'm very glad you are working for me now. I think together we can really make something of De Jong.'
'I would like that very much,' I said. Very much indeed.
Debbie's funeral was in a quiet churchyard in a small village in Kent. I was there, representing the office. It was a gorgeous day, the sun beating down on the mourners. I was hot in my suit, and I could feel the sweat trickling down my back. A group of rooks cawed half-heartedly in a small copse by the gate to the churchyard. The noise complemented the silence rather than disrupting it. The perfect accompaniment to a small country funeral.
The vicar did his best to relieve the sadness of the occasion by saying that Debbie would have wanted her mourners to smile, and that we should give thanks for the time she spent with us. Or something like that. I didn't quite follow his logic, and anyway it didn't work. There is something heart-rendingly sad about the death of any young person; nothing you can say can change that. That it was Debbie who had been taken so early from a life she had enjoyed so much, did not make it any better.
Her parents were there. There was something of Debbie in the face of each of them. Two small round figures, drawn together in their grief.
As we all made our way slowly back towards the road, I found myself walking next to a tall thin red-haired girl. She was wearing heels and got one of them caught in the paving-stones of the path. I bent down to help her free her shoe.
'Thank you,' she said. 'I hate these bloody shoes.' Then, looking around, 'Do you know all these people?'
'Very few,' I said. 'And you?'
'One or two. I shared a flat with Debbie, so I got to know a number of her boyfriends.'
'A number?' I said surprised. 'How many are here?'
She looked around. 'Just one or two that I knew. You weren't one of them, were you?' she said, her eyes teasing me.
'No,' I said sharply, a little shocked. 'I worked with her.'
'No offence meant. She usually had good taste,' said the girl. 'Are you going past the station?'
'Yes, I am. Can I give you a lift?'
'That would be very kind. My name is Felicity, by the way.'
'Mine's Paul.' We walked on out of the churchyard and into the road. 'This is it,' I said as we came to my little Peugeot.
We got in the car and headed for the nearest station, which was three miles away.
'I must say, I never realised
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