A Million Tears (35 page)

‘Evan, don’t go on. They vill all be following soon. And it is because you are my friend that I didn’t come to you. How soon vould you stop calling me friend if I owed you money? How do you think I could have faced you? Or how could the others face you if the money we owed vos to you and not an impersonal bank?’

Evan’s anger evaporated. ‘Don’t you see, that’s what the banks want? They’ll get your land for a song and in a few years when all this is over they’ll be able to sell it back to you or somebody very much like you for a vast profit. Their hold on this country will be strengthened even further and I believe they already have us in a stranglehold.’

‘Ja, that is true but vot are ve to do? I vill not take money from you and I am sure the others vill not either. So they vill vin, yet again.’

Hans shrugged. ‘I . . . I owe eight hundred dollars to the bank, and have done so now for . . . for the last ten years, at six percent.’

‘Good God Almighty. You’re uprooting your family, giving up all you’ve worked for, for a pittance in interest? Hans, you’re a fool and I never thought you were that,’ Evan said in a thin voice.

‘There is nothing I can do. I know families who have been thrown out for a lot less. The banks have taken over thousands and thousands of acres of good land at less than ten cents in the dollar, the dirty bastards . . .’ Hans spoke with understandable venom and a flash of anger. ‘I also did not come here to be insulted by you Evan, only to say goodbye to a friend. I had hoped ve could part the same vay . . .’

‘That’s more like it,’ Evan smiled. ‘That’s more like the fighter of old. Now will you listen to some common sense? Look you, man, we haven’t got much time. If I know the bank they really want to foreclose, so you have to get there before noon. Hans, just do one thing. I’ll give you a cheque for the forty eight dollars interest. Go and pay the bank before it’s too late and then come back here so we can discuss what is to be done for the others.’ Hans hesitated. ‘Hans, think of the family. Where are you going? What are you going to do? Don’t you owe it to Ingrid to accept this? You’re what? Almost fifty and too old to be travelling across the country looking for somewhere to live. How will you support yourselves? By doing odd jobs for handouts? Hans, there are thousands of young men doing that right now. How will you compete with them? You’ll have to work to keep the family alive.’ Evan took out his cheque book and began writing. ‘This is not the time nor the place to argue. Hurry now, before it’s too late.’ Evan glanced at the clock and held out the cheque.

Hans hesitated and reluctantly closed his fingers on the piece of paper. He smiled sadly. ‘I don’t like what I’m doing, Evan, even though I know you’re right.’

‘You don’t have to like it, just hurry, before it’s too late. Just think how pleased Ingrid will be.’

‘I vill accept it and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I go now.’ Hans clapped his hat on his head and rushed from the office.

Evan shrugged at me, ‘I couldn’t let him go. David would never have forgiven me if Gunhild had got away.’

Evan took out his little black book, a gift he received every Christmas from John Buchanan and began adding and subtracting figures. I knew that was where he kept a running account of what he was worth and so I kept quiet while he did his sums. After a few minutes he closed the book with a snap.

‘We have no debts, right, Uncle James?’

I nodded. I knew that.

‘We also have about eighteen thousand dollars worth of goods in the warehouse. That’s below the amount we usually hold and I need to get to New York soon. At the present prices I’ll need to spend about thirty eight thousand to restock. That leaves us with twenty two thousand in cash, in the safe back home. There’s also a hundred or so now left in the bank but that’s not worth bothering about. I think we’ll take the whole damned lot and set up a fund to help the farmers. We’ll have to charge interest, but how much? Less than the banks charge, that’s for sure. At the moment we’re accumulating money which is growing mildew in our safe because we aren’t prepared to risk it in a bank. We aren’t going to use it until the situation has improved and we’ve more than enough to run the business. What if we charged five percent? Is that fair?’

‘You want to charge interest because otherwise they won’t borrow it from us. Try them at four percent. Though altogether, with what they’re paying the banks it’ll come out at a lot of money. Why, that’ll mean Hans needing to find eh, eighty dollars next year. That’s a lot.’

Evan nodded. ‘Except I only want the interest on what they’ll owe. In the case of Hans that will be less than two dollars.’

‘Will you want any collateral? Their deeds will be with the bank.’

‘I’ve thought of that. I’ll take any farm produce that they have left to reduce their loans. So it’s only a matter of finding two dollars or so every year.’ He broke off as we heard footsteps on the stairs. ‘Ah, if I’m not mistaken that’ll be Hans.’

Hans came in panting, and with a smile on his lips. ‘That . . . that was . . . vorth it . . . You should . . . have seen . . . Fforest’s face . . . He did . . . did not like it . . . one little bit.’

‘Good,’ said Evan. ‘James and I have been discussing things and we’ve got a proposition to make, above board and legal and it’ll allow me to make some money. It’ll also allow you and the others to keep your farms. Look, I’ve got a lot of work to do. Why don’t you and James go and have a beer and he’ll tell you all about it.’

‘Ja, and thank you again. I vould like you to come to a house varming party on Saturday.’

‘A house warming?’ I asked.

‘Ja. That is vot I said. Ven a man t’inks he has lost his house and suddenly he still has it, it is like going to a new place,’ he chuckled.

We left for the nearest saloon.

I was given the task of administering the fund. Thanks to Hans we had over a hundred farmers using it within a few months, much to the chagrin of the bank. From the day we started until we ended it in the summer of 1899, it was a success.

Whether it was luck or design but when the First Bank of Mississippi failed towards the end of that year we only had a hundred and eight dollars and sixty one cents deposited there. The farmers were jubilant at first. They had paid their interest, so the bank could not foreclose on them. Surely this would mean the banks would have to return their mortgages to the farmers? Or if the banks went into the hands of a receiver, would the farmers be allowed to buy them back at say ten or twenty cents on the dollar? The money could be borrowed from the farmers’ fund. Anything was possible, and the farmers looked on the situation with hope which turned out to be short-lived. Within a month the bank reopened under the same name and with only two differences. The bank expanded and the shareholders were now big bankers from back east. Eric Johnson, our fellow passenger from the
SS Cardiff
was on the board of directors.

Andrew Z Fforest was promoted from loans to General Manager and the bank became harsher in its dealings. No leeway was allowed for repayment of loans, not even extensions of a few days. Small businessmen and one or two farmers who had not used our scheme went out of business for pitiful sums. Suicide was not uncommon and more than one man killed his family before killing himself, rather than face the future and having to start all over again with nothing.

We were sitting in the study after dinner. I can’t say we were enjoying our coffee, because Evan was pacing the floor, angrily denouncing the Government and capitalists in equal measure.

‘Can’t the fools see what they’re doing to the country? Doesn’t any one of them care?’

‘Evan,’ said Meg, ‘I suggest you sit down and calm down. It’s no good getting yourself all worked up. If you carry on like this you’ll have a heart attack.’

Evan stopped in front of her chair, leaned over and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll worry about the country and you worry about me. How will that be?’

Meg turned to me. ‘Honestly, Uncle James, what am I to do with him? He’s incorrigible,’ Meg took his hand in hers.

I sipped thoughtfully at my whisky and interrupted Evan as he was about to start on again. ‘You could go and do something about it if you really cared.’

‘What do you mean? What could I do?’

‘Well for one thing you could go and join the Democrats and give them your active support instead of ranting and raving at home,’ said Meg.

After a few seconds of thought, Evan said, ‘All right. You find out what happens around town and we’ll go and see what we can do.’ He took a satisfiying drink of whisky. ‘I rather like that idea after all. Though,’ he added with a touch of alarm, ‘there’s nothing going to induce me to get up and make a speech in front of a lot of people.’

‘I’m sure no inducement will be necessary,’ replied Meg with a straight face.

In November Meg received a letter from Wales. She and I were in the kitchen enjoying a cup of coffee when the mail arrived. Meg was nagging me to give up smoking at the time, I seem to remember.

She propped her chin on her hands and said, ‘I think I’ll have to start doing something about that wee pot Evan is developing. I was reading in a new magazine the other day that some doctor in Europe says if we eat less starchy foods like bread and potatoes we’d be healthier and fitter.’

I looked at her, aghast. ‘Meg, that’s daft. Bread is the staff of life, it says so in the Good Book and without potatoes on your plate, why it would be almost empty. The man’s an idiot, there’s no other word for him,’ I said in judgement of such stupidity.

Meg sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right as usual, Uncle James. And anyway, I don’t suppose I’ll get Evan to change his ways. He can be so pig-headed sometimes.’

I almost choked on my coffee. ‘Meg you must think me daft. He’d do anything for you and you know it. You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger. Oh, I know,’ I said cutting off her protest, ‘that you’re too clever by half to let him know or even guess it, but you and I know it’s true. He thinks he’s the boss but you and I know who really is. Not that that’s a bad thing.’

‘Rubbish, Uncle James and you know it,’ she said. The twinkle in her eye belied her words.

When the letter arrived I was standing behind her and recognised the stamp from Wales. It was addressed to her, so I politely returned to the table. She would tell me soon enough what was in it because she’d know I was burning up with curiosity. Her cry startled me and I turned around to see her with her hand to her mouth. The letter was shaking in her hand. I got quickly to my feet and put my arm across her shoulders.

‘What is it girl, bad news?’ She let me lead her to a chair. When she sat down the tears slowly formed. She gulped as she tried to talk.

‘Take it easy. Is it from your mother?’

She shook her head. ‘From . . . from Aunt Olive. You know, my mother’s sister? Mother died about six weeks ago. Oh damn, and she never once wrote in all this time. Why didn’t she write, Uncle James?’ she asked me plaintively.

I shrugged. ‘It’s hard to say. She was a strange woman and no mistake. You asked her often enough to come and live here. She had – what do you call it – a fixation, with your father’s grave.’ I suspected my words were not comforting but I could think of nothing else to say.

‘Even though she never replied I kept writing, didn’t I, Uncle James?’ Meg paused. ‘What else was I supposed to have done? Give all this up to go back?’

‘Don’t be daft my girl. Now you’re talking nonsense,’ I said brusquely. ‘She never liked Evan and she showed it often enough. She was never prepared to even try to like him or to get to know him. She took every opportunity to poison you against him . . . I suspect the success you were having here which you wrote to her about stuck in her throat like a fish bone. That was probably the reason she never came out here. She’d have hated to see you and Evan doing so well, especially after all she had said about him. It’s natural for you to be upset, because, when all is said and done, she was your mother. So have a good cry. I’ll send for Evan.’

I went and found David, explained what had happened and sent him to the warehouse to fetch his father. I went back to the kitchen and made a fresh pot of coffee. Meg was still sitting there, the crumpled letter in her hands, her tears dried up.

‘It’s a pity,’ she said, ‘because one day I’d hoped to return to Wales with Evan. I always knew she would never come here. I think, and I know it’s not a nice thing to say, but I think I wanted to rub in the fact of how well Evan had done. I wanted her to know how wrong she’d been about my man. Can you understand that, Uncle James? Can you?’

I nodded, turning to look at her, the coffee grinder in my hands, the aroma of fresh coffee beans wafting through the air. ‘Aye, I can understand that, Meg. I don’t know what made your mother like she was . . .’ I trailed off, changing my mind about saying she was better off dead. ‘Does the letter say what she died of ?’

‘Not really. Aunt Olive,’ said Meg with bitterness, ‘suggests if I had been at home it wouldn’t have happened. She also suggests it was a broken heart she died of. Oh yes, somewhat aided and abetted by a bout of influenza she picked up from somewhere,’ Meg said dryly.

‘I read about it. It’s called Asian flu and they reckon a lot of people are dying from it, especially in the crowded continental cities and towns. Remember I showed you that piece in the newspaper a couple of months back?’

‘I remember. You know, Aunt Olive was like my mother, only more so. She finishes with the cry of what is to become of her now mother is dead? That’s typical of her. Why she never married I don’t know.’ She broke off to take the coffee and thanked me for it. ‘I should have stopped David. It would have been soon enough to have told Evan when he got home this evening.’