The Irresistible Inheritance Of Wilberforce by Paul Torday Read Free Book Online Page A

problem of money, and poured myself another glass of wine to help me think. The only thought that occurred to me was that I had better sell some more shares and transfer the money I raised to the bank. I rang my stockbroker and said, when I got through to him, ‘Chris, I need to sell some shares.’
    ‘Good morning, Wilberforce,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
    I had forgotten that Christopher Templeton was quite old-fashioned and one had to go through the ‘How’s the weather? How are the children?’ small talk before one could get down to business. He had originally been an adviser when we were thinking of floating my company on the stock market and, when we didn’t, I had given him some of my money to look after to make up for all the professional fees he hadn’t earned.
    ‘Never better. How’s the family?’
    ‘Oh, very well, thank you. Ivor is in the first eleven now and Maria . . .’ and he went on for some minutes with tedious details about his children whom I had once met when he asked me go to Lord’s to watch the cricket with him, in that period when I had had, for a while, a social life.
    After a while he must have detected a lack of sufficient enthusiasm in my ‘Oh, really?’ responses, and said in a brisker tone, ‘How much were you wanting to raise, and by when?’
    ‘A hundred thousand would suit me, by the end of this week, if possible.’
    ‘Well, it’s Friday today, so that might be difficult.’
    ‘Oh, is it?’
    ‘Just a second, while I get your account details up on the screen.’ There was a pause and some tapping noises in the background and then Chris said, in a different tone of voice, ‘Wilberforce, you haven’t got a hundred thousand pounds with us. I hadn’t looked at your account for a while, but I see there have been regular sales and the balance has been reducing for a couple of years now.’
    I paused to think. The information was disappointing, but not unexpected. I said, ‘Well, what can I raise?’
    ‘It depends on the market. You have some BP, and some Glaxo Smith Kline - both very good quality stocks. You’d probably get about fifty thousand. And then that’s the last of it.’
    ‘Please sell them, then.’
    Chris said, ‘You’ll have quite a big capital-gains tax bill on both of those trades.’
    I thought that I would worry about that when the time came. I thanked Chris for his help and asked him to close my account when the sale was done. There was some unenthusiastic talk of meeting up for a drink one day, but I don’t think Chris really meant it. I know I didn’t. Why go out for a drink, and risk drinking some wine bar’s ghastly house red, when you can drink real wine in the comfort of your own home?
    I went on opening the pile of brown envelopes that had accumulated over the last few days, putting them into two piles: those that had to be paid if I was to continue to enjoy the provision of basic services such as heat and light; and those that could wait until the next demand. Finally I came to one from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs Capital Taxes Office. I opened it, as I always opened letters from this source, with a certain amount of apprehension. It asked for immediate payment of tax overdue of fifty thousand pounds on share sales last year, plus interest running on the late payment.
    I sat at my desk, and again felt chilled and damp with sweat. I had just sold the last shares in a portfolio which had once run well into seven figures and had been intended as my pension fund. According to Colin, I was unlikely ever to live until I reached pensionable age so perhaps that was not a problem after all. But I had hoped to win a few weeks’, or even a few months’, grace from the conversation I had just had with Chris Templeton. Now it seemed as if the last of my capital would go into my account in five days’ time, and leave it again just as fast.
    I finished the bottle of wine and sat for a while thinking about my life. The trouble with spending