lending to mid-sized companies in Yorkshire and the North West, while Gradley’s business spread across the nation. Despite their different paths, the two men had maintained a respectful friendship. If George needed a favour to get him started, Ballard should be the ideal man to grant it.
Ballard’s office overlooked the old market square in Richmond, a well-to-do market town in North Yorkshire. The room was furnished by Ballard himself, not his employer, and the result was welcoming and warm. Ballard had been offered promotions, but he refused anything which took him away from Yorkshire. His clients loved him and his bosses left him alone. He welcomed George with coffee and biscuits.
‘Well, well, George. It’s a while since I’ve seen you. Very sorry to hear about your father’s death. Very sorry indeed. You must be very cut up, I suppose. How’s poor Helen taking it?’
Ballard munched on the biscuits as he spoke. He was a fat man with greying hair and moustache. He had the no-nonsense mouth of the tough banker and the twinkly eyes of a kind and humorous man. Crumbs from his biscuits lodged inside his moustache.
George shrugged. According to Josie, their mother was in a very bad way indeed, having teetered on the brink of following their father into the night. As it was now ... but Ballard didn’t need to know the real, gloomy story. A brightly-coloured fairy tale would do for him.
‘Mum’s taken it OK to be honest,’ said George. ‘You know, there wasn’t much love lost between Mum and Dad by the end. She’s just pleased that the money’s coming into the family proper after being under lock and key for so long.’
The will was secret, but Ballard knew as well as any one how much Bernard Gradley was worth. If George could con him into believing he was about to inherit millions, then getting him to show a bit of grace with Gissings shouldn’t be so tough.
‘Yes. A few million must dull the edge of pain I suppose. Especially if you couldn’t stand the old bastard - and I speak as a friend of the old bastard, as you know. Still you haven’t come here to talk about that, I guess. Proud proprietor of old Tom Gissing’s shop, eh? Wouldn’t quite guess it. Not from the look of you. Still, stranger things have happened. How can I help?’
‘Well I owe you half a million quid, give or take.’
‘That’s right. But it’s give not take. Five hundred and forty-eight thousand, seven hundred and eighty-two pounds. Due close of business on Friday.’
‘That’s fine, but I wonder if we could sort out an extension. Two or three months perhaps?’
‘An extension? With all that cash from your dad?’ There was a twinkle in Ballard’s eye, but his mouth was unforgiving, and it was the mouth talking.
‘Nothing has yet been released by the estate’s executors,’ said George truthfully. ‘There are death duties, valuation of the business, all the rest of it. Until I get my slice of the pie, I’m as poor as a church mouse. What I want is to defer the loan until I can recapitalise the business, write off the debt, give it a healthy balance sheet once again.’
‘You have a letter from the executors? I might be able to grant a deferral if you had a letter.’
George stuttered for a moment. He could get a letter. It just wouldn’t say what he needed it to say.
‘Er - I guess so. What I don’t know is whether I can get it in time. There’s a whole bunch of executors and the legal palaver seems to take for ever.’
Ballard checked some figures on his desk.
‘The interest payment due on Friday is around six grand. If you get that to us plus another thirty grand as an advance on the next series of interest payments, then I’ll give you a temporary extension. Let’s say three months, shall we?’
George nodded without being able to speak. In his mind’s eye, he’d expected Ballard to nod the whole thing through without a hint of difficulty. As it was, Ballard had hardly helped at
Ballard’s office overlooked the old market square in Richmond, a well-to-do market town in North Yorkshire. The room was furnished by Ballard himself, not his employer, and the result was welcoming and warm. Ballard had been offered promotions, but he refused anything which took him away from Yorkshire. His clients loved him and his bosses left him alone. He welcomed George with coffee and biscuits.
‘Well, well, George. It’s a while since I’ve seen you. Very sorry to hear about your father’s death. Very sorry indeed. You must be very cut up, I suppose. How’s poor Helen taking it?’
Ballard munched on the biscuits as he spoke. He was a fat man with greying hair and moustache. He had the no-nonsense mouth of the tough banker and the twinkly eyes of a kind and humorous man. Crumbs from his biscuits lodged inside his moustache.
George shrugged. According to Josie, their mother was in a very bad way indeed, having teetered on the brink of following their father into the night. As it was now ... but Ballard didn’t need to know the real, gloomy story. A brightly-coloured fairy tale would do for him.
‘Mum’s taken it OK to be honest,’ said George. ‘You know, there wasn’t much love lost between Mum and Dad by the end. She’s just pleased that the money’s coming into the family proper after being under lock and key for so long.’
The will was secret, but Ballard knew as well as any one how much Bernard Gradley was worth. If George could con him into believing he was about to inherit millions, then getting him to show a bit of grace with Gissings shouldn’t be so tough.
‘Yes. A few million must dull the edge of pain I suppose. Especially if you couldn’t stand the old bastard - and I speak as a friend of the old bastard, as you know. Still you haven’t come here to talk about that, I guess. Proud proprietor of old Tom Gissing’s shop, eh? Wouldn’t quite guess it. Not from the look of you. Still, stranger things have happened. How can I help?’
‘Well I owe you half a million quid, give or take.’
‘That’s right. But it’s give not take. Five hundred and forty-eight thousand, seven hundred and eighty-two pounds. Due close of business on Friday.’
‘That’s fine, but I wonder if we could sort out an extension. Two or three months perhaps?’
‘An extension? With all that cash from your dad?’ There was a twinkle in Ballard’s eye, but his mouth was unforgiving, and it was the mouth talking.
‘Nothing has yet been released by the estate’s executors,’ said George truthfully. ‘There are death duties, valuation of the business, all the rest of it. Until I get my slice of the pie, I’m as poor as a church mouse. What I want is to defer the loan until I can recapitalise the business, write off the debt, give it a healthy balance sheet once again.’
‘You have a letter from the executors? I might be able to grant a deferral if you had a letter.’
George stuttered for a moment. He could get a letter. It just wouldn’t say what he needed it to say.
‘Er - I guess so. What I don’t know is whether I can get it in time. There’s a whole bunch of executors and the legal palaver seems to take for ever.’
Ballard checked some figures on his desk.
‘The interest payment due on Friday is around six grand. If you get that to us plus another thirty grand as an advance on the next series of interest payments, then I’ll give you a temporary extension. Let’s say three months, shall we?’
George nodded without being able to speak. In his mind’s eye, he’d expected Ballard to nod the whole thing through without a hint of difficulty. As it was, Ballard had hardly helped at
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