Corduroy Mansions

48. A Golden Parachute

By the time he left for the shop that Saturday, William was in a thoroughly bad mood. Exchanges with Eddie were difficult at the best of times but that morning’s conversation with his son - if one could really be said to converse with someone who spoke in newspaper headlines - had made him feel quite bereft of hope. Eddie, it seemed, was the cross that he was destined to bear in life, the reluctant, work-shy fledgling who would never leave the nest. The prospect of years of his company was grim indeed, and what if - awful thought - Freddie de la Hay were to decide to side with Eddie? It was too appalling to contemplate. ‘Man Pushed Out,’ he thought, ‘by Son and Dog.’

He stopped. He could not allow himself to catch Eddie’s dreadful headline habit; like all linguistic short cuts, it was so seductive, so easy to slip into. No, he would take command of the situation and act decisively . . . He would . . . he would . . . he would move out. No, he would not. That would be capitulation. He would give an ultimatum to Eddie. He would throw him out. He would tell him . . . No, he would speak to Marcia. She would tell him what to do.

When William arrived at the shop he found Paul serving a small queue of customers. His assistant threw him a reproving sideways glance, muttering under his breath, ‘Look at the time.’

William smiled at the customers and then turned to glower at Paul. ‘Did you say something?’

Paul counted out a customer’s change. ‘I said, look at the time,’ he repeated out of the corner of his mouth.

William drew in his breath. ‘That’s what I thought you said. And what, may I ask, do you mean by that?’

Paul now turned away from the customers and addressed William. He spoke quietly but his voice became louder as his indignation increased. ‘I meant that you’re always criticising me for being late and then where are you when all these people need to be served? I had to get up on the ladder twice this morning to get those stupid Californian wines off the top shelf. Twice. Almost broke my neck. And people waiting to be served.’

William smiled again at the customers. ‘I’ll speak to you later,’ he whispered to Paul. ‘And remember it’s California wine, Paul. Not Californian. A Californian is a person, not a wine. They’re very fussy about that. And that, if I may remind you, is how we tell those who know what they’re talking about from those who don’t.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Paul. ‘I’m going over to Oddbins.’

‘Then we’ll have a little chat when you come back. And don’t be long, please.’

Paul laughed. ‘You didn’t get it, Mr French. I said I’m going over to Oddbins. Not to buy anything. I’m going to go and ask for a job. The manager said that any time I needed a job I should speak to him. So I’m going. Right now. This morning.’

William stood in silence. He reached out to place a hand on his assistant’s shoulder - a gesture half of apology, half of restraint. ‘Now listen, Paul—’

‘No, I’ve just had enough. Sorry. You don’t pay me enough. You never have.’

William felt the same warm feeling that came to him when he argued with Eddie. It was exactly the same: inter-generationalgenerated subcutaneous warmth.

‘I’ll pay you more—’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘Then why did you raise it?’

‘Dunno. Just did.’

The customers had now drifted away in embarrassment. One had gone to examine a shelf of special promotions; a couple had left the shop altogether; another, thought William, had been carrying a bottle of unpaid-for wine when he walked out of the door.

William rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Look, Paul, if you’ve been unhappy here you should have said something. We could still sort this out. You’ve got a great future ahead of you in the wine trade.’

‘Thanks. With Oddbins. I’ve got a great future with them.’

William sighed. ‘I can’t stop you, can I?’

‘No.’

William sensed that there was no point in prolonging the discussion. ‘All right. But you don’t think that you should work your notice? A week at least?’

Paul looked surprised. ‘Notice?’

William stared at his assistant. ‘No?’

‘I said that I’d get over there this morning,’ said Paul. ‘Saturday’s busy for them. They’ll need me.’

William stretched out a hand. The young man hesitated, then took it, limply. Nobody, thought William, has taught him to give a proper handshake. Where was his father? And then it occurred to him: have I taught Eddie how to shake hands properly? Where have I been?

William gripped Paul’s hand. The young man winced. ‘Ow. Let go.’

William smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. It’s just that when you shake hands you should give a little bit of pressure - just a little bit, to show that you mean it.’

‘Mean what?’

‘Mean what a handshake is meant to mean. In this case . . . well, I suppose I’m wishing you good luck and also . . . well, I’m saying thank you.’

William looked down on his assistant; he was appreciably taller, and better built, too. And he had everything, he thought, while this young man seemed to have nothing: a rather dim girlfriend somewhere, an mp3 player that he was always fiddling with, not many clothes - the scraps of a life. He slept on somebody’s floor, William remembered him once saying; slept on the floor of a shared flat because he could not afford to rent his own room.

Paul hesitated. ‘Yeah, well, thank you too. You taught me a lot.’

William frowned. Had he?

‘Yeah, you did. You always explained things really well. You did.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘And you were kind to me too.’ Paul paused. ‘I’m not really leaving because I don’t like you or because you didn’t pay me enough. I’m leaving because I want a new job . . . You know how it is.’

William reached out again and put an arm on the young man’s shoulder. It was bony. He wanted to embrace him, but could not. He wanted to say sorry. ‘There’s something I want to give you before you go.’

‘What?’

William walked through to the office and took his cheque book out of the drawer. Then he sat down and wrote out a cheque for one thousand pounds. Returning to the counter, he passed the cheque over to Paul, who stared at it with wide eyes.

‘That’s what they call a golden parachute,’ said William. ‘Ever heard of it?’