Matthew’s father had not been surprised. “You’ve got to be tougher, son,” he had said. “You have to have a clear business plan and then stick to it. Set targets. Beat them. Look for ways of cutting costs. Businesses can’t be left just to tick over. They go under if you do that.”
Matthew had nodded. The problem was that he was not very good with people. He was too soft. He paid them too much and he could never bring himself to criticise their performance. He was not cut out for business. And that was well understood by his father, who had come to the realisation that even if the best thing for his son was to find him a business, that was no more than a facade – a sinecure, in other words. So when he heard that one of the tenants in a building he owned in Edinburgh, a gallery, was going to close, it seemed the perfect opportunity. Matthew could run that. He need not make any money, as long as he did not make too much of a loss. Perhaps a loss of fifteen to twenty thousand pounds a year would be about right, although he could carry much more than that, if need be. To Matthew’s astonishment, at the end of the first quarter’s trading, the gallery appeared to have made a modest profit. He had arranged an appointment with his accountant, a man who acted for one of his father’s companies, and they had gone over the accounts together.
“I must say that is amazing,” said the accountant, pointing to Matthew’s Situation
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the balance sheet which he had prepared for Matthew. “I’m quite astonished. You’re showing a profit.” He said this, and then immediately felt embarrassed. It was tantamount to saying that he expected Matthew to fail – which of course he did.
Matthew had not noticed the slight; he looked at the figures.
“According to this, I’ve made eleven thousand pounds in three months. Are you sure there’s no mistake?”
The accountant smiled. “We’re very careful about that. And I’ve checked the spread-sheets. You’ve made just over eleven thousand, as it says there. Profit. But remember, trading goes in cycles. A good quarter doesn’t make a good year.”
“But even if I made no more this year, that’s still a respectable profit . . .” he tailed off, and then added, “for me.”
The accountant nodded. “I’ve told your old man. I hope you don’t mind. He’s been quite chirpy over the last few weeks, I think. This news cheered him up even more.”
Matthew barely took in this news about his father, so ecstatic was he over the gallery’s success. And the news from Pat, that she was going to stay in Edinburgh and could continue to work part-time while at university, had boosted Matthew’s spirits. In fact, he realised that Pat had had a great deal to do with this profit. She was good at sales. She knew the ten secrets of retail, even if she did not know that she knew them. He must talk to her about that.
Having opened the gallery that morning, and having switched on the lights that illuminated the paintings, Matthew sat back in his chair and browsed through an auction catalogue that had arrived the previous day. There was to be a sale of Scottish art at Hopetoun House, and it occurred to him that now was the time for him to start buying. With that eleven thousand pounds’
profit behind him he could go to the bank and get a line of credit for the expansion of his stock. Not little, frippery things, but big paintings. A Hornel perhaps.
He was thinking of this when he heard the bell which sounded as the front door opened. It would be Pat. He looked up. It was not. It was his father.
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Chapter title
20. Second Flowering
Matthew greeted his father warmly. Although they had not always been on the easiest of terms, particularly in the days of Matthew’s earlier business failures, they had come to understand one another, and with that understanding had come a comfortable and undemanding relationship. Matthew’s father, Gordon, came to appreciate the fact that even if his son was a bad businessman, he was honest and well-meaning, and would not disgrace him in any way. And for his part, Matthew had reached that stage in life when one accepts parents for what they are. His father’s world – the world of Rotary clubs and business lunches – would never be his own world, but did that matter?
Matthew did not know it, but Gordon felt strongly guilty about him. He felt this guilt because he believed that he had been a failure as a father. While other fathers had made time to spend with their sons, he had not. He had gone to none of the school plays which Matthew had appeared in, and had even missed the school production of Carousel, in which Matthew had played Billy Bigelow and his friend, Mark, had played Mr Snow.
He had been too busy with business affairs and with the social life that went with that. Then Matthew had grown up and left home and he had tried to make it up to him by setting him up in businesses and putting money in his bank account. And now it was too late.
Matthew rose to greet his father. “A nice surprise,” he said.
“Want to buy a painting?”
Gordon smiled. “I have simple tastes in art,” he said.
“Highland scenes. Seascapes.”
“We have both of those,” said Matthew. “And a very rare Vettriano abstract.”
“I came to say hello,” said Gordon. “I was on my way to the lawyers in Charlotte Square. They look after me very well, those people. I’m seeing them at eleven, and I thought I’d drop in and see how things were going. I gather you’re turning in a profit.”
Second Flowering
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Matthew sat back in his chair and smiled. “Yes,” he said.
“Surprised?”
Gordon looked down. My son knows what I think of him, he thought. He expects me to be surprised if he does anything well. And that’s my fault; nobody else’s – mine.
“I wanted to congratulate you,” he said. “Yes, I was a little bit surprised. But perhaps . . . perhaps you’ve found your niche.
And good for you.”
Matthew looked at his father. There was something about him which was slightly different. He had had a haircut, yes, and he was losing a bit of weight. But there was something else.
Were his clothes slightly younger in style ?
“You look in good shape,” he said. “Have you started going to the gym?”
Gordon blushed. “As a matter of fact, I have. Nothing too strenuous, of course. A bit of weight training and those running machines – you know, the ones which make you sweat. I do about two hours a week.”
Matthew raised an eyebrow. “Do you go by yourself ?”
Gordon hesitated before he answered. “Actually,” he began,
“I have somebody who goes with me. She does aerobics and I do my running and pushing weights.”
Matthew said nothing for a moment. She. That would explain the change. He had found a girlfriend. “Good,” he said, after a while. “It’s nice to have company. Who is she, by the way?”
Gordon moved across the room. He continued the conversation as he leaned forward to examine a painting.
“Nice landscape this,” he said. “She’s called Janis. I met her a few months ago at the Barbours’. Remember them? They send their regards. Anyway, Janis was at a dinner party there and . . .
and, well, we hit it off. I’d like you to meet her.”
Matthew looked across the room. Why was it so hard to imagine one’s parents having an emotional life? There was no reason why this should be so, but it just was. And his father, of all people! What could any woman possibly see in him . . . apart from money, of course?
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Second Flowering
“What does . . . what does Janis do?” he asked.
“She owns a flower shop,” said Gordon. “It’s a nice little business. People still buy flowers, you know. She says that flowers are all about guilt. Men buy flowers because they feel guilty about something. About neglecting their wives, about all that sort of thing . . .” He tailed off. And what about neglect of sons?