‘Hello there, Cy,’ he said to the waiting Stevenson. ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You have a great club here. Quiet, orderly, everybody taking their modest pleasures in a good old-fashioned American way.’ Did he know? Did he really know what some of the membership got up to, Cy wondered briefly before he dismissed the idea. No, the Reverend Hector Hand of the 22nd Church of Christ the Lord was not sending anyone up. The 22nd? Stevenson had asked once and found that apparently you could count established Christian churches this way from St Peter on. If you chose.
They walked together up the last twenty steps and reached a landing with a large dark arched oak door before them. Stevenson opened it, standing aside for the Reverend Hand, and then followed in himself.
There were five men and two women round an oval conference table in the middle of a light, sunny stone-built room. Portraits of distinguished club members hung on the walls. A gigantic view of the old clubhouse, before the fire of 1947, had been temporarily removed from the wide chimney breast above the stone fire surround. In its place, for the duration of the committee meeting as tradition demanded, a large portrait of the founder of the Meyerick Vietnam Fund, Philip John Rose, had been hung. It showed a formidably stern, confident face which might have been painted closer to the beginning of the twentieth century rather than towards the end.
‘Good morning, good morning,’ Cy Stevenson said and the Reverend Hand echoed. He shook hands with the first two men, Oliver Digweed and Colonel George Savary, and rounded the table to kiss the two women. The first, thin angular Helen Rose, the founder’s widow; then adding a quick hug for Mary Page Butler, his wife’s sister, before passing on to shake the hands of the two brothers, Gus and Arne Anderson, blond Scandinavian types, owners of a series of swimming pool installation companies throughout Meyerick County and beyond. Both had served with the Marines in Vietnam.
He came towards the last man, Jason Rose, the Vietnam veteran son of the founder, and Mrs Rose. ‘Don’t move, Jason,’ he said, squeezing his shoulder. ‘How did the tests go?
Jason turned his sightless eyes on Cy. ‘You know what doctors are, Cy. Maybe we can operate, maybe we can’t. New developments, new techniques, more tests, more maybes.’
Cy clapped him on the shoulder and turned back to his seat. ‘Finlay not here?’ he asked Mary.
‘Correction, Finlay here,’ a voice said in a mock oriental lilt behind him.
Cy smiled indulgently as he turned his head. Mrs Rose looked impatient; Mary Butler watched expressionless as her husband shook hands with Cy. Fin Butler was a handsome man, in his early sixties, a wealthy polo player who travelled regularly in pursuit of his game, who had photographs of himself at home with Prince Charles in polo dress and one, much admired by his friends, of bending to kiss the hand of Princess Diana with a pleased, feisty smile on his face. His qualification for service on the committee was a brief stint as voluntary observer with the International Red Cross in Saigon.
Mary Butler glanced across the room as her husband Fin circled the table apologising and shaking hands. She caught Cy’s eye and gave a guilty start. She sometimes, not often, wondered what might have happened if she had been a dozen years younger when Cy had first come to Meyerick. A dozen years younger and unmarried, of course. She found him an uncommonly attractive man. That was not to say she had been happy about Sunny’s wedding. Eight years ago she and Sunny had nearly fallen out on the subject. She had warned her younger sister there were male gold diggers aplenty. And for a long time she had continued to think Cy was one. But things had settled down. Cy had worked hard on the Meyerick Fund and although she still didn’t entirely warm to him as a brother-in-law, a truce had been declared between them. Perhaps, Mary thought, it would never be a hundred per cent on her part – but what little acting was necessary was no longer difficult for her.
Cy Stevenson called the meeting to order. ‘Before we start today,’ he said, ‘I’d like to welcome George Savary to our merry band of brothers and sisters. I’m sure we’re going to benefit greatly from his experience and common sense. Good to have you aboard, George,’ he parodied himself.
In the murmur of agreement from the others he turned to Oliver Digweed and asked him to distribute copies of the half-yearly accounts. ‘Strictly speaking,’ he said, ‘this meeting is reserved for financial matters. But let me just check everybody’s OK for the Fund luncheon next week.’ A murmur of assent passed round the table. ‘Fine.’ Cy sat back in his chair. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, your chairman invites you to examine the half-yearly accounts.’
While the trustees read the columns of figures in front of them Cy picked up the phone in front of him and dialled the bar in the clubroom below. ‘Vic,’ he said, ‘send us a selection of drinks. Some champagne and something for me,’ he grinned.
The trustees were making exclamations of surprise at the figures in front of them. Mary Page Butler was reading off the figures to Jason Rose in a low murmur.
‘This is astonishing, Cy. Really great.’
‘I said I thought we were heading for a good half-year,’ Cy smiled, ‘but even I didn’t think we were on course for a bull’s-eye.’
‘Wonderful, Cy,’ Colonel Savary said. ‘Quite wonderful.’
The Anderson twins smiled and shrugged. ‘We can do no more than repeat what George has just said.’ Arne spoke without the need to consult his brother. ‘We think it’s wonderful.’
‘Miraculous,’ Hector Hand intoned.
‘Good on you, Cy.’ Finlay Butler grinned at him across the table. ‘A million dollars, wow!’
‘And commitments I see,’ Mrs Rose said, ‘for nearly three-quarters of a million dollars for the next half-year. I must say we look as though we might run right off the chart.’
She was forcing a smile which did not come naturally to her face. She was in fact deeply resentful of the success Cy Stevenson had made of the fund she and her husband had started.
When Vic Impari and two bar waiters had brought the drinks, Finlay Butler raised his glass to Stevenson. ‘Well done, Cy. We all respect what you’ve done very much indeed.’
‘Thank you, Fin. Thank you all.’
A cough from the Reverend Hector Hand swung attention to him. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I do apologise, but I’m rather short on time. I’ve no wish at all to diminish Cy’s achievement in scoring the bull’s-eye but if we could get on to other business…’ He waved his glass of Perrier at them as if they were wild New Year’s revellers draped with streamers.
‘This is our business, Hector,’ Cy said firmly. ‘If the dollars don’t come in there are no dollars to go out.’
‘Quite,’ Hand said. ‘No wish to diminish…’
‘Turning to the monies out column,’ Cy went on, ‘you will see that we have increased our support to New York Vietnamese societies to seventy-five thousand dollars. Frankly it’s still not enough. I think we should look at a substantial increase next time round.’ There were murmurs of agreement round the table. ‘One hundred thousand dollars for language teaching. We’ll vote on each item, of course. But how does everybody feel about that?’
‘Same as they do about all the other items, I guess,’ Fin Butler said. ‘What we can do is never enough.’
‘Big item,’ Cy Stevenson moved on down the list, ‘is repairs to settlement houses.’
‘I’m a new boy here,’ the colonel said. ‘Does the trust own these buildings?’
‘Mary runs the housing committee,’ Cy nodded towards his sister-in-law.
‘We bought them two years ago,’ Mary told him. ‘Mostly in the Bronx. Repairs are running at two-fifty thousand dollars a half-year.’