yard like Barlows. Somebody that you had some sort of hold upon, perhaps . . .
There was always a quid pro quo. One of the Latin countries, or perhaps the Balkans, now: One might be able to do something there. They were always pressing him to advance a little farmer than he cared to go. Perhaps, however, if they placed an order for a ship. . .
He thought of his old father, dead for many years. He closed his eyes, and he could see the old man sitting at his desk. 'That stuff won't do,' he muttered to himself. 'That isn't how our business was built up.'
Grantham swept past him, and away into the dusk behind. The yard employed three thousand men when it was working at full bore — a wage bill of perhaps seven thousand pounds a week. Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year. That meant, perhaps, that they would build ships to the value of seven hundred thousand pounds a year, allowing for materials and overheads. That meant at least six ships of ten thousand tons, or smaller vessels in proportion.
It was impossible. Nobody, in this time of depression, could find an order for one single ship of such a size — let alone a flock of them.
There was the staff. That might not be so difficult; most of the chief executives of the old team were working in the industry at lower salaries and many of them not so far away — at Wallsend and in Sunderland. He could probably get them together again at a twenty per cent rise in salary — if they were any good. But how was he to judge of that?
The whole thing was impossible, sheer madness to attempt. He must be sensible, and put it from his mind.
He passed through Peterborough.
It would be damn good fun. . .
CHAPTER SIX
Three weeks later Barlows' Yard became the property of Mr Henry Warren.
He bought it through a solicitor; it was a long time before the news leaked out of the new ownership. He did not use his firm's solicitors, which might have led the rumour straight to him, but used a firm called Matheson and Donkin who had done some work for him before. He summoned Matheson on the morning after he reached London, and gave him his directions.
Two days later Matheson reported back to Warren in his office. 'The shipyard is the property of Mrs Hector Barlow,' he said. 'She's in Le Touquet at the moment — or else in the south of France. Jacobson and Priestly are acting for her. There's a son, too. He's something in the cinema industry, but I don't think he comes into the picture.'
Warren nodded. 'How much did they take out of the business?'
The solicitor glanced at a pencilled note. 'It's a little difficult to say. Between 1914 and 1929 — not less than four hundred thousand pounds. Probably rather more.'
'Not very pretty.'
'I beg your pardon, sir?'
'I said,' said Warren grimly, 'that it wasn't very pretty. If I understand you right, they took all the cash out of the business in the good years. When the bad years came they let it bust, and left the town to starve.'
That's broadly what happened,' said the solicitor. 'They cashed in. Of course, it was their own business. Still, put in that way it's not a very pretty story.'
'What do they want for it now?'
The solicitor picked up another paper. 'I had an hour with Jacobson. He wants fifty thousand for the goodwill, and another twenty thousand for the property as it stands, the freehold site, buildings, plant, machinery, fixtures and fittings — as a going concern.'
'Does he expect to get that?'
'I don't think so. It's an asking price.'
'You'd better tell him to go to Sharples and have a look at it — and then come back and talk sense.'
'You've seen it, have you?'
Warren nodded.
'It's very bad?'
'It's awful — the worst you ever saw. They haven't built a ship there for five years. There's no goodwill. I won't pay a sausage for that. There's fifty acres of land encumbered with useless junk. I'll give him three thousand for that fifty acres, and anything he wants to take away before he sells, he can.'
He got up
There was always a quid pro quo. One of the Latin countries, or perhaps the Balkans, now: One might be able to do something there. They were always pressing him to advance a little farmer than he cared to go. Perhaps, however, if they placed an order for a ship. . .
He thought of his old father, dead for many years. He closed his eyes, and he could see the old man sitting at his desk. 'That stuff won't do,' he muttered to himself. 'That isn't how our business was built up.'
Grantham swept past him, and away into the dusk behind. The yard employed three thousand men when it was working at full bore — a wage bill of perhaps seven thousand pounds a week. Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year. That meant, perhaps, that they would build ships to the value of seven hundred thousand pounds a year, allowing for materials and overheads. That meant at least six ships of ten thousand tons, or smaller vessels in proportion.
It was impossible. Nobody, in this time of depression, could find an order for one single ship of such a size — let alone a flock of them.
There was the staff. That might not be so difficult; most of the chief executives of the old team were working in the industry at lower salaries and many of them not so far away — at Wallsend and in Sunderland. He could probably get them together again at a twenty per cent rise in salary — if they were any good. But how was he to judge of that?
The whole thing was impossible, sheer madness to attempt. He must be sensible, and put it from his mind.
He passed through Peterborough.
It would be damn good fun. . .
CHAPTER SIX
Three weeks later Barlows' Yard became the property of Mr Henry Warren.
He bought it through a solicitor; it was a long time before the news leaked out of the new ownership. He did not use his firm's solicitors, which might have led the rumour straight to him, but used a firm called Matheson and Donkin who had done some work for him before. He summoned Matheson on the morning after he reached London, and gave him his directions.
Two days later Matheson reported back to Warren in his office. 'The shipyard is the property of Mrs Hector Barlow,' he said. 'She's in Le Touquet at the moment — or else in the south of France. Jacobson and Priestly are acting for her. There's a son, too. He's something in the cinema industry, but I don't think he comes into the picture.'
Warren nodded. 'How much did they take out of the business?'
The solicitor glanced at a pencilled note. 'It's a little difficult to say. Between 1914 and 1929 — not less than four hundred thousand pounds. Probably rather more.'
'Not very pretty.'
'I beg your pardon, sir?'
'I said,' said Warren grimly, 'that it wasn't very pretty. If I understand you right, they took all the cash out of the business in the good years. When the bad years came they let it bust, and left the town to starve.'
That's broadly what happened,' said the solicitor. 'They cashed in. Of course, it was their own business. Still, put in that way it's not a very pretty story.'
'What do they want for it now?'
The solicitor picked up another paper. 'I had an hour with Jacobson. He wants fifty thousand for the goodwill, and another twenty thousand for the property as it stands, the freehold site, buildings, plant, machinery, fixtures and fittings — as a going concern.'
'Does he expect to get that?'
'I don't think so. It's an asking price.'
'You'd better tell him to go to Sharples and have a look at it — and then come back and talk sense.'
'You've seen it, have you?'
Warren nodded.
'It's very bad?'
'It's awful — the worst you ever saw. They haven't built a ship there for five years. There's no goodwill. I won't pay a sausage for that. There's fifty acres of land encumbered with useless junk. I'll give him three thousand for that fifty acres, and anything he wants to take away before he sells, he can.'
He got up
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