A Letter to a Lucky Man Read online

  With an understanding bank manager, personal savings and a substantial contribution from Margaret, Ricky was set up on his own. His first vehicle was a second-hand Foden flat-bed lorry. It was re-painted maroon. Cardinali Transport had been sign-written in gold script across the top and sides of the cab. As luck would have it, much of his start-up business came from the same factory which had delivered onto him, his redundancy cheque.

  It seemed that in no time at all the Cardinali’s were back on track. To the casual bystander Ricardo appeared to have the ‘magic touch’. Soon the Foden was replaced with a more modern, larger and longer lorry. Cargo vans were also added to the fleet, together with more drivers. Ricky appeared to be a natural sales man. Margaret ran the office in parallel with an existing career in city business.

  Times were good. Ricky and Phyllis were able to buy a house. It was a compact two-up-two-down mid terrace. Soon they had moved; a semi-detached with driveway, gardens front and rear. But as orders flowed in Ricky, Phyllis had to accept, never seemed to be within their new home long enough to enjoy his hard earned, so called, fortune.

  When he wasn’t delivering he was working underneath the fleet at his rented yard and garage-cum-workshop. At times he had barely finished his evening meal than he was gone again. She worried about him, about his health. She trusted that he was paying as much attention to the business side of their business as he was to the undersides of the fleet?

  As well, she was concerned about the effect that ‘the absentee father’ was having on Curtis. Time with his son had become rationed. That tall, tough, long-legged, clever, lean sportsman that she married had morphed into a gaunt, bony-framed aging man. His complexion, particularly his facial appearance had turned sallow, his nails constantly encrusted black.

  The harder and longer he worked the less it seemed that he had achieved. But it had been the ever cautious Margaret who brought things to a head. Standing, arms folded and looking down at her brother-in-law in the garage pit, she said, slowly and deliberately, ‘Ric-card-o? Ricky I know you can hear me. Now you listen to me because I’m advising today that Cardinali Transport have become, how shall I put it... busy fools.’

  ‘Agh, Margaret if you can’t find anything positive to say, bugger off. In fact,’ he paused before delivering his ‘end of conversation’ killer line. With a raised voice he said, ‘Go boil yer head. Do some paperwork somewhere, anywhere but here. Can’t you see I’m kinda busy?’ With that, Ricky had turned his back on her and continued to batter at something under the vehicle. When he was sure that she had gone, he gathered up his oily tools and extracted himself. He unwrapped himself from his once blue boiler suit now mostly a darker colour, blended by grease. He hung it on the door peg, stepped out into an evening sun and locked the garage. He checked his watch. Six forty seven. Time I was home. Time I was cleaned up and time I had a pint; it’s been a long, long week.

  The earlier warning had been as a result of Margaret being pulled aside at an industry function by two of Cardinali’s competitors. Margaret had been told in no uncertain terms of the wider affect that the Cardinali Transport’s pricing policy was having on standard industry rates for the area. Face to face she was told, ‘Either pull your man into line, or face the consequences.’

  The encounter had left Margaret shaken, embarrassed, but most of all, angry. By the time she had driven home that late afternoon she was livid. Everything that she had been discussing with Ricky about taking their business forward had it seemed, been ignored. It had sent a shiver through to her very bones.

  On walking away from Ricky and his pit she returned to her spacious top-floor flat. Slamming the front door with a backwards push of her leg she moved briskly towards her drinks cabinet. She poured a Bacardi but instantly remembered that there was no cola in the fridge. With a clean glass in hand she searched out an alternative. She chose Jack Daniels. The Tennessee whiskey would serve as a suitable substitute. It was downed it one. She shook her head as the liquid burned into her throat. Her temper remained raised as doors got slammed throughout her flat. She opened the files again. She rechecked the figures over and over. She finally said, ‘Enough!’ Why me? Why do I get all the shit? Oh that bloody man! Grabbing the phone, she dialled out. ...

  Ricky, having showered and changed had picked up his hall phone on that Friday evening (unlucky for him) as he was preparing to dander down to his local. Very quickly he knew that there would be no drinks tonight.

  The threat, or as much as he could understand, had dazed him. He’d not heard his sister-in-law deliver expletives with such force. She had arrived in less than a quarter of an hour – a bundle of files underarm. They retired to the front room. In no uncertain terms she was quick to remind Ricky of not only her official title in Cardinali Transport, but also...of her substantial financial investment.

  Sensibly, he didn’t respond. Clearly though, she had finally gained his attention. For how long, she couldn’t say. But he was listening. Ricky was a proud man so finding himself pinned against a financial wall, did not sit well with him.

  The appearance of Phyllis with a fully furnished tea tray had allowed him to gain some wriggle room. Margaret had backed off too. Light chit-chat with her sister prevailed until Phyllis, with some degree of diplomacy chose not to comment on the previous raised voices, or indeed what her sister’s gripe was. In her own way though, she knew exactly what it was all about. At the first opportunity, she withdrew.

  Ricky had used the time to compose himself. Voicing his response it was clear that his defence would remain two-fold, and consistent. ‘Margaret Curtis, Maggie,’ he always called her Maggie when he was in a corner, knowing that she hated the name, ‘how many times have I said that if I’m parked up, there is no income and if I don’t undercut the competition, there’ll be no work.’ Then, just as in previous exchanges he allowed his frustration to boil over towards anger. He didn’t possess his sister-in-law’s oratory skill. Trying to hold his tempter, he continued, ‘Aye, it’s okay for you sitting there picking out the worst bits of my business deals. Deals I’VE found. Yes, business that I’ve created. Okay, you’re right. I can’t deny that some of them have been dredged-up from the bottom of the barrel. That’s turnover, turnover that keeps wheels turning.’

  He paused in his retort. He stood up. A confidence had returned. He moved across to the empty fire place and rested on his tattooed forearm. Still, he said nothing. Margaret suddenly noticed the colour draining from his face. She stiffened. Then he turned and took a step across the room. His tall frame hovered over her. He held his silence. But just as she was about to speak his head lunged forward. She froze.

  With venom in his delivery, he launched. ‘And what the fuck were you doing talking with them buggers anyway. Going to sell me out were you?’ She attempted to defuse him. Phyllis, cloak-and-dagger-like had taken up station in the hall. She found herself in something of a quandary; whether to barge in, or go upstairs to check on Curtis.

  ‘No. NO! You great lump. It was them, they tackled me. You, you haven’t a bloody clue, have you? How many times have I warned you about poking your head above parapets? I mean we were ticking along nicely, but no. No, you had to be the guy in the big picture, John fucking Wayne. Give me a break partner. You just had to have a poke at the big boys. You had to steal a bit, then a bit more from them. R-i-c-k-y, you’ve brought this all down on yourself, on us... all of us. Do you even understand what I’m saying, DO YOU?’

  Standing even taller, his head tilted back and slightly to one side, he cut her off with a wave of his forearm. ‘Agh, you’re full of it with your fancy throw-away lines. What do half of them mean anyway? Maggie, leave all that crap talk for your high flyin’ chaps and dolly-birds. This is the working man’s world.’

  Then in an instant he had reverted to his defence mode. Arms folded he danced on alternate feet, his voice, now softer had dropped by an octave or two as well. Backing away, he returned to the mantelpiece. He stood on the dark marble hearth leaning his bac
k on the mantle shelf. Then with a wagging finger, he went back onto the offensive. He said, ‘Down here where the muck lies we talk in plain English, or at least in a language that the working man can understand. Maggie, we’ve got to grab anything that’s going. First and foremost I’ve got to keep my, our, drivers driving, or at least those who haven’t fucked off already.’

  A long pause followed as he took to staring down towards his winkle picker shoes. He lowered his arms to his sides, clenched his palms into fists and with his head still bowed he said in a tone which demanded, that he be listened to.

  ‘MAGGIE... I NEED TO FEED MY FAMILY. Can’t you see that? CAN’T YOU?’

  Margaret had heard it all before. Somehow she had to convince him to change his ways or Cardinali Transport would go under! Unlike her brother-in-law she had taken the threats seriously. Composing herself and rueing her earlier alcohol consumption, she said flatly, ‘The situation, my partner, has reached crisis point. Please Ricky, please, let me explain.’ She ploughed on not allowing him any room to start up his rant again. As it was nearing another year-end she had taken the opportunity to present him with the first draft of the company figures. The contents of the buff file, the file that she had checked and rechecked earlier, and regardless of how she dressed them up, did not make good reading.

  ‘Huh,’ she said timidly while slapping the folder with the back of her hand, ‘big turnover, zilch profit! Our competition have now, it seems, targeted us and, have further undercut our, your, activities to the extent that there was barely enough left in the kitty to pay the staff this month, never mind you, me, and your family.’

  With that, Margaret rose from the comfort of the armchair. She passed the file to Ricky then placed the half empty mugs onto the tray and made for the door. Phyllis had by then scurried back into the kitchen. Margaret, hand on the door handle stopped. She turned back to Ricky, who now sat on the arm of the sofa. He appeared to be absorbed in the file. She said in a forced but, upbeat tone, ‘Ricardo, remember that we’ve got the accountants this coming Thursday. No deliveries for you that day, please. A shirt and tie day too. Okay?’

  He muttered a reply. She didn’t decipher it entirely but knew exactly what he meant. ...Well at least he’ll be out of the oily overalls. I hope he can sort those fingernails too. Maybe Phyllis, sponge in hand, will join him in the bath?

  ⁎ ⁎ ⁎

  On the opening of that meeting flippancy was not something that Margaret had expected to hear. For them this could be the most important, life changing, business meeting of the Cardinali Transport drama. However, the lead accountant’s use of a David and Goliath metaphor (but one without a happy ending) was a way of getting inside Ricky’s head.

  He needed him to understand just how dire the Cardinali Transport’s financial standing was. In no uncertain terms he went on to express his point of view. Returns had continued to diminish as they had previously warned Ricky they would. It was clear that he hadn’t heeded their advice. But there was worse to come. Margaret got it, and crucially she believed that Ricky had too; there was no way back from this cliff face!

  The accountants had clinically delivered their message by offering three options: either close the business abruptly and sell off its assets while they still retained value. Restructure the business, assuming that the bank would cooperate. Put the business on the market, for a quick sale, as a going concern. That third and final option assumed that one of Cardinali’s frustrated competitors would buy them out... if, for nothing else but to remove the Cardinali name from the marketplace. Ricky never uttered a single word on the drive back to his house.

  Whilst a young Curtis or for that matter his mother did not comprehend the complexities of what was developing outside the family home, the penny had finally dropped for Ricardo Cardinali. Typical of the man, he had decided to hold back on telling Phyllis how bad things were. He just wanted to recapture what a family weekend was like again. Mostly he wanted to buy himself time.

  He had decided that on Monday, the start of another working week, and having got Curtis off to school he would then and only then place his cards on the table. But regardless of his impending ruin one thing he determined was not going to be blown off course; a much needed family Saturday followed by the Sunday morning league football match. His theory therefore, having cleared his head, would place him in a position to discuss with both Phyllis and Margaret the doomsday scenario.

  He had realised too, that he had a lot of catching up to do with his son. More so, with the Eleven Plus examination just around the corner he had to be seen to be standing in full support. Phyllis was the brains, so the least that he could do was deliver, the ‘pats on the back’ and the supportive hugs....

  * * *

  It was a top of the table clash – an away fixture. Ricky believed that his ongoing absenteeism at training had been the key factor in him being replaced as first choice goalkeeper. Therefore having been selected for this game, regardless of his advancing years (the other two ‘keepers were down with flu) this was his big chance to shine, again. He knew he was never going to emulate his idol, Bill Brown and the feats that he was producing for the mighty Spurs. What a year they were having. Top of the first Division Table and a great FA Cup run still going on. Talk was that they could do the ‘Double’. Ricky could hardly imagine. He was a long, long way from that level, but when he stood in the goals he felt the pressure just as much.

  The previous day’s family outing had been a wash-out, literally. A combination of torrential rain and Ricky’s mood swings the principal cause. To cap the day off, and after a series of sharp exchanges with Phyllis before, during, and after tea that evening, he stormed off to the pub.

  His later ‘falling up the stairs’ didn’t exactly sit well with his apologies or cosying-up. ...Profanity was something that Phyllis had no tolerance for, but that night even above his slurred speech he had detected a burbled, ‘Oh, just f... off, will you.’

  As he crunched through a quiet Sunday breakfast he spied his neatly folded orange patterned goalie strip and club tracksuit already packed in his open sports bag. His attempt to kiss Phyllis that morning missed its mark. He had settled for a wrap-around hug from Curtis.

  Slipping into the driver’s seat of the aged family saloon he turned and waved. He had caught Phyllis and Curtis framed within the downstairs front window. Both displayed a ‘thumbs up’ signal. As the wheels galumphed out onto the main road he was content that all was at peace again. Smiling, he said to the dashboard, ‘Today is for sport, for winning, for getting back into the frame. Let’s get this game done and dusted. Tomorrow... well, it’s back to business and those damned options. Sure, who knows what Tuesday will bring?’

  Ricky’s indigestion was playing up again. His nerves were on edge too. Before he knew what had happened, his team were a goal down. The report in the local paper would be far from complimentary. It would read along the lines of, ‘It was a goal keeper well short of match fitness who had allowed an otherwise straight forward catch slip from his gloves, bobble through his legs, and into his net.’

  Ricky’s team thereafter fought hard to equalise and equalise they did. It was just minutes before the half-time whistle blew and very much against the run of play. Their manager’s team talk was upbeat. ‘One each lads, it’s all to play for! So, come on let’s do this.’ As they filed out onto the heavy pitch he turned to Ricky and quietly said, ‘No more slips big lad, OK?’

  Ricky nodded. No further words were forthcoming or needed. The message had been received loud and clear.

  The second period of the game was intense. Ricky’s goalmouth had been peppered. He was now having the game of his life. But he, and only he, could sense that his energy was sapping. The heart-burn had continued to build – no doubt the payback from his previous evening’s ales, topped up by the morning fry. There had been no way for Ricky to refuse Phyllis’s offering.

  The point blank ball which smashed into his chest hadn’t helped either; the pat of v
omit in the rear of his net was testament. But still the visitors held on to the draw. Still, Ricky pulled off save after save. Then, in what would surely be the final assault on his goal area he had screamed at his big defender. It was to alert him of an incoming attack. In the conditions underfoot the big guy had mistimed his sliding tackle. It was an instant red card. A free kick awarded!

  Positioned inches outside the eighteen yard box it had all the makings of a disaster scenario for the visitors. As Ricky organised his remaining team into a wall of defence, all sorts of thoughts raced through his mind. ‘All that stands between a dogged draw and defeat is a tired old ‘keeper; me! Jeez, I gave away that the first goal, I can’t allow another one... I just can’t. Come on, concentrate man. Get this right, and it could be the boost that your current crappy life needs.’

  Ricky was finally happy, or as happy as he could be with the wall. Then crouched, he glanced again. His defeatist mode though had (re)emerged. ‘Oh shit, not him. Tell me it can’t get any worse.’ The taker of the free kick would be none other than the youngster who would be moving up to a semi-professional club at the end of the season.

  The huddle of supporters went quiet. Time had been frozen. Only Ricky, Ricky himself could avert the inevitable. The whistle sounded. The ‘whack’ indicated that the heavy ball had been connected with sweetly. It went off in a crash of spray. It curved around the wall. A trajectory towards the top corner of Ricky’s net. Early and spontaneous applause had erupted from the home camp.

  Ricky never heard his team’s applause. The post-match report in the local paper should have read as follows, ‘...the visitor’s keeper was seen to react with an almost impossible full length lunge. He tipped a scintillating free kick from just outside the eighteen yard box over the bar. It will surely be in the running for the save-of-the-season...’ It should have, but it didn’t.