WELFARE STATE

WELFARE STATE

by

Albert Woods

Frederick Hogg and Percy Swanning were in the same year at Dukeswood Grammar School during the early sixties. Hogg had won a scholarship by passing the Eleven Plus, and was the first of his working class family to receive a ‘decent’ education, as they called it. On the other hand, Swanning's father was a successful motorcycle dealer, and leading member of the board of governors, able to secure a place for his son without the need to produce too much evidence of academic achievement. Although the lads were chums, on and off, their outlooks were diametrically opposed; Hogg hard working and studious, determined not to waste the opportunities before him; Swanning bone idle, and nothing more.

So it came as no surprise to anybody when Frederick went on to university – where he excelled - whilst Percy dropped out of the education system, at the first legal moment, to eventually preside over the ruination of his late father’s business.

The last that Frederick heard of Percy was what his mother told him in one of her letters while he was still at Cambridge; and that was not much; just a mention of the bankruptcy hearing, and repossession of the Swanning home. Frederick wasn’t at all surprised, and thought it just desserts.

By the time that Hogg had established his position as chairman, and virtual owner, of Blunderport Properties International, Percy was long forgotten. The businessman had far too much to concern himself with to dwell on his boyhood. The same could not be said about Percy. He had little to do other than think, and remembered Frederick very well; very well indeed; not least his scheming, money-grubbing nature. It was hard to forget the tycoon, seeing as his self-satisfied face beamed out of the newspapers most days of the week, usually accompanied by some triumphant banner-line:- 'Blunderport Take Over Grand Orion Hotels' or 'Midas Hogg Does It Again', and suchlike.

"I was at school with him," Percy would repeatedly bore his drinking acquaintances. "We're best friends to this day," he'd exaggerate, for effect.

The pub cronies doubted it, questioning, amongst themselves, how somebody claiming such a bond with the CBI committee member had come to be on the ‘Welfare’, living in a dilapidated council flat off the Commercial Road. Percy had not heard these misgivings, so continued to seek approval in the reflection of Frederick's glory which, he convinced himself, made him something of a minor celebrity.

Then, one afternoon in the Royal Oak, a relatively new regular - a one-eyed retired policeman called Dick Parrot - responded to Percy’s claims with an outright accusation. "What a load of codswallop," he said. "The likes of him wouldn't wipe his boots on a down-and-out like you. Best mates indeed."

"How much do you want to bet?" Percy challenged without a moment’s hesitation, surprising the bar crowd. Maybe there was some truth in his boast after all, they considered.

"Huh," the tormentor sneered. "A grand, if you like. Try that for size."

Everybody present started to tut and sneer as they turned away, but quickly turned back when Percy blurted, "Fine; make it two, if you want."

Parrot’s one eye swivelled skywards. "Do me a favour, Rockefeller," he mocked. "Where would you get dosh like that? You're boracic, we all know it."

"Don’t you worry; I'll get it. We got a bet, or not?”

"All right; but a grand’s the limit. Don’t want to completely scorch you.  Tell you what; you get the cash, and we'll ask Mrs. Moody, here, to hold on to it with mine; that way we can both be sure of each other. Then you get your old mucker, Hogg, to pop round your place in his Roller and acknowledge you as his bosom buddy by, let's say, midnight on Saturday, and the pot's yours. If he doesn't – which he won’t - I cop the lot."

 

Frederick Hogg couldn’t remember a time when he had given anything less than his all to everything he did for profit. Even now, when he could afford to relax, he just forged on and on; striving for even greater success and wealth. Achievement and the money it brought were his drugs; his addictions.

Failure was a different thing. He could just about tolerate it in others - so long as they had tried - but not in himself; and in his book, sloth was the cardinal sin he’d never forgive. The very thought of anybody sitting on their backside doing nothing filled him with disgust. Why should he support them? "Loafers!" he would snarl every time he had to sign a National Insurance or Inland Revenue cheque. Then he would look at his own payslip, ranting even louder as he stared, incredulously, at the swingeing personal deductions.

Frederick's fellow directors, and employees, were frequently treated to his feelings on the subject. "That's the trouble with this country today," he would complain. "Too much mollycoddling; no incentive for the shirkers to get out of their pits and do an honest day's work. Even less for a man, like me, to fight for an existence while subsidising them. Whole system needs a damn good shake up."

"Quite right sir," agreed one of the company’s many sycophants, during the latest outburst in the executive dining room. "Though could there ever be a satisfactory alternative?"

Hogg blinked. He was not used to being questioned by any of his yes men, but, "Good point," he admitted. "And it deserves an answer."

All of the management staff who were within earshot of the chairman's table ceased their clamour, and listened in. Mr. Hogg was about to expound his concept and, agree with it or not, they all wanted him to see that they did.

"When I finished at Cambridge," he began, "I had only one valuable thing to my name - my degree; and that, alone, wouldn't have bought me so much as a can of baked beans. So I decided I had to earn enough money to start my own business."

Some of the sideways glances around the room suggested that this story had been told before; many times.

"I spent four years with a West End property agent," he droned on, "learning the ropes, as they say, and saving every spare penny. When I had enough put by, I rented a one-room office and persuaded the bank to loan me the capital to buy up a near derelict block of flats, which I then refurbished..."

"Here comes the 'with my own hands' bit," whispered somebody.

"...and a lot of the work I did with my own two hands," boasted Frederick, holding up the appendages as by way of proof. "Anyway, the place made a modest profit, which enabled me to take on a secretary and, later on, an assistant. I worked damn hard then, I can tell you. It was a massive gamble, the whole thing, and I could have lost all of my savings and more. But with perseverance and tons of elbow grease, I came through, got on my feet - so to speak. And then it started. No sooner was the enterprise showing promise when it began. Demands for tax, National Insurance, Selective Employment Tax, Income Tax, Corporation Tax, this tax, that tax. Lifting it straight out of my hands, they were. And where do you think it was going? Where it all goes, of course; into the pockets of idlers. Still, I didn't let it put me off. No; I kept right on and succeeded, despite the growing demands for free handouts to the great unwashed.”

Already, some eyelids were drooping though, totally absorbed in his own legend, Hogg rattled on. “So now,” he said, “we have Blunderport as it is today; six subsidiaries, a staff of over five hundred and growing; yet still haemorrhaging profits into the begging bowls of useless spongers. Now, you ask me if there could ever be a satisfactory alternative. Well yes, there could. The elderly and the sick are one thing, but the rest are entitled to nothing, in my opinion. If it were up to me, I'd abolish the welfare state. Let them live on their initiative and wits - like I've had to do – and still do."

There was silence. Those he glared at nodded, but nobody knew quite what to say - not until Pratt cleared his throat.

"Did you want to contribute something?" the chairman had noticed the junior manager fidgeting.

"Yes sir," said Pratt.

"Well," invited Hogg, “enlighten us, if you will.”

Pratt stood up, unsure looking, like Oliver Twist about to ask for more. "I'm afraid I disagree with you sir," he said.

The rumblings of shock were plainly audible.

"Go on," encouraged Hogg, looking benignly bemused.

"Well sir, I think you’re right, in principle, but..."

"But what?"

"I can't believe you would really want to see people on the scrap heap."

One of the departmental managers leaned over to his neighbour and grinned. "Career suicide," he side-mouthed.

"And why wouldn’t I?" Hogg was challenging Pratt. "Do you think I'm going soft, or something?"

"No sir; but I think you're wise enough to foresee the outcome; the loss of business. I can't accept that you’d welcome that. There's no profit to be made from paupers."

"Sit down!" shouted somebody.

"Rubbish!" chimed in another.

"What's your name?" Hogg called across the growing hubbub.

"Pratt, sir. Dennis Pratt."

"Good gracious me," the chairman said, looking at his watch and frowning. "Is that really the time?"

It was only forty-five minutes into their hour lunch entitlement, but the assembly needed no further prompting. They all got up and filed out to their work stations.

 

Gaining access to the chairman's office was difficult, even with an appointment. Without one it was almost unheard of, happening only once in the past year; the bank manager having called in on the off-chance with a golf invitation. Normally, Hogg’s secretary would not have thought twice, and put up the barriers. But the peculiar appearance of today’s visitor, coupled with his claims of being an old schoolfriend of the chairman, got the better of her curiosity. She told her boss that there was a Percy Swanning in Reception.

Hogg rose from his chair. "By God," he said. "Not Percy? Well I'm damned. Show him in."

The secretary hesitated, twiddling her thumbs, looking decidedly ill at ease.

"Well, Miss Marshal, the chairman demanded impatiently, "what's the problem?"

Awkward as it was for the woman, she took the bull by the horns and came right out and told him that his old alumnus was dressed in rags, and looked like ‘a dosser’.

Hogg sat again, and thought for a moment. Then he spoke: "Show him in," he said again. Years of wheeling and dealing had acquired him the skill to prevent facial expressions betraying his thoughts. "Well hello Percy," he boomed, enthusiastically, when his guest entered. "It's wonderful to see you after all these years."

Swanning padded, gingerly, across the sumptuous office. He felt at an immediate disadvantage in these surroundings, and hoped that Hogg would not detect the acrid body odour that had repeatedly impregnated his filthy brown suit during the ten years that it had served him. "Let me make one thing clear, straight away, Fred," he opened. "I'm here on a social visit. I want you to understand that. I haven't come looking for charity."

"Of course you haven't," Hogg assured him verbally, mentally forming an image of yet another scrounger’s collection tin.

They talked for a while, mostly of their schooldays at first, then about their lives since. And the more Hogg heard of Swanning’s inactivity – and particularly the cocky pride he seemed to take in it - the more infuriated the mogul became, though didn’t show it. His revulsion was so well concealed that Percy was beginning to feel like the close friend he’d been claiming to be, ready to take Frederick into his confidence and get to the point.

"I told you that I didn't come here for charity," he repeated. "But to say that my visit was purely social is not entirely true."

"Oh yes?" Hogg raised his eyebrows, wondering just what it was the man wanted, as he had done since the start of the reunion.

"No," said Percy. "Actually, I've come to you for some financial advice; you see, I've been offered the chance to participate in a highly profitable business venture. I can't say exactly what it entails at the moment - it's all a bit hush hush, you understand - but I've never had a head for this sort of thing; and when it came up, the first person I thought of was you. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not," Hogg’s ears had pricked up, instantly. “Just how can I help?" he asked.

"Well," Percy said, "remarkable as it sounds, I have the unique opportunity to double my investment within a matter of days. Actually, it's a long story. That's why I was wondering if you'd come round to my place one evening, and we could discuss it over a drink. Would Saturday night suit – at eight, say?"

Double within days? Hogg took his time considering the invitation, all the while managing to maintain the genial smile that masked his morbid aversion to the idea of going into what he imagined must be a filthy hovel. Stalling even more, he looked in his desk diary, unnecessarily, whilst weighing up the potential for a quick profit. "Double within days, you say. Hmm.. yes," he eventually decided. "Saturday will be fine. Leave your address with my secretary."

 

Dennis Pratt's first thought, when he received the summons, was that the boss must have taken exception to his temerity at lunchtime. He was almost wilting when the secretary showed him into Hogg’s office; a palace in miniature that the nervous man had only heard about, and never seen.

"Are you all right?" Hogg asked, noticing his employee's apparent discomfort.

"Yes sir," said Pratt, taking a seat and beginning to feel less intimidated in the light of the smile on the big man's face. "You wanted to see me?"

Hogg looked over the top of his half-glasses. "Yes," he said. "I was impressed by your forthright attitude, earlier..."

"Thank you sir." Pratt interrupted, confidence restored, and imagining he had, straight away, done himself a power of good on the promotion front.

"Not that I approve of junior staff challenging their betters, you realise," Hogg sucked the wind back out of the man’s sails. "No; it was just something you said which I consider a challenge."

"What was that, sir?"

"About the lowlife; us not being able to make profit out of paupers."

Pratt frowned, wondering why the chairman should latch onto that particular point, and whether, even now, there might yet be a carpeting on the cards. "Well sir," he said, "it is a fact isn't it? People without money can't buy or rent our properties, stay in our hotels, can they. So it seems to me that where they get money from is neither here nor there to us; so long as they've got some – and we get it off them."

"Well, that’s bloody obvious," Hogg sniffed contemptuously, conveying the clear message that he did not need an economics lesson. "Anyway, I've got an assignment for you," he announced. "Something away from this office."

The junior manager sat up smartly, visualising the golden beaches beyond the Gran Canaria branch. "A posting?"

"No no; a one-off. Bit of detective work, actually... if you think you're up to it."

"Of course sir," the younger man was eager to impress, regardless of what doing so might entail.

"Good," Hogg’s smarmy greed-grin spread; then he imparted his instructions.

 

It was Thursday; and two unglamourous rainy days of shadowing Percy Swanning from one betting shop to another, one pub to another had, so far, rendered nothing of any value that the weary Pratt could take back to the boss. But then, something interesting happened. After his usual midday two and a half hours in the Oak, Swanning headed towards the town centre. Pratt followed, and watched him go into a building on the corner of Dover Street. He allowed sufficient time for his mark to get inside, then walked up to the door to read the nameplate. 'Brightwater Finance', it said.

A few minutes later, Swanning emerged, setting off back to his home territory. Pratt went into the Brightwater office, and came out again with a smile on his face. The people were nothing more than bucket shop moneylenders; and a ten pounds lubricant quickly loosened the proprietor's tongue. Swanning had wanted to borrow a thousand pounds, but had no job, no collateral, and no hope whatsoever.

"I'm from Brightwater Finance," Pratt lied to Swanning, that evening, when the latter opened his door. "Sorry about the confusion, but we've had second thoughts regarding your application."

Percy Swanning was puzzled, though allowed the visitor to come in. From what the man was saying, it seemed that they might be prepared to advance the money if they could have more details about the nature of the need for the loan.

"I believe it’s something to do with a surefire business venture, isn't it?" Pratt pumped.

"Of sorts," said Swanning guardedly, scratching his head. "Some might call it business, I suppose."

"Oh, don't worry," Pratt smiled, reassuringly. "We don't insist on schemes being entirely pukka – so long as they’re legal. We merely need to be fairly sure our investment’s sound; keep head office happy."

"That's all right then," Percy said, and proceeded to spill out the whole story about Fred Hogg and the bet.

"Would you object to my checking all this out with your Parrot chap?" asked the bogus finance man when Percy had finished. "If he confirms his end of the bargain, then I feel sure we’ll be able to accommodate you."

"No, of course not," Percy agreed, only too pleased to assist in clearing obstacles from his own path. It was a sizeable loan after all. "He’ll be in the Royal Oak; public bar,” he added. “Can’t miss him. Ex Plod. Wears an eye patch."

The visitor had left before it fully registered with Percy that, earlier on, the finance company had not let him get as far as telling them why he needed the cash. He’d said nothing about surefire schemes, nor given his address, and yet they had found him. He’d need a word with Dick Parrot as well, he concluded.

 

Dennis Pratt was feeling extremely pleased with himself when he telephoned Hogg and gave his report. "It's a dead cert," he told his boss. "He was desperate enough to agree to twenty percent a week interest so, by the weekend, you'll get twelve hundred pounds back."

"No I won't," was the icy reply. "I'll get a darned sight more than that."

 

Saturday came and, since agreeing to it, Gladys Moody had been permanently on edge over caretaking so much cash. Like most of her friends and neighbours on the estate, she had never operated a bank account and, over the past few days, come to bitterly regret the fact. To her, two thousand pounds-plus was a fortune; way more than she had held in her hands at any one time in her life, so it was a considerable load off her mind when she put the stakes on the greasy worktop in Swanning's greasy kitchen.

"Easiest money I've ever made," Percy boasted to the few other guests. Word that Hogg was approaching the flat indicated that Dick Parrot was losing the bet, and having Swanning crowing about it wasn’t too pleasant for him; though good news for  those with a few bob riding on Swanning.

At eight o'clock, on the dot, Mrs. Moody went to answer the door. This was an agreed precaution against either of the contenders ‘getting to’ the man before he came in. Percy laughed, and reached out to snatch his prize.

"Get your sticky mitts off that, Swanning!" Parrot ordered. "It's not yours yet."

Percy shrugged, still grinning contentedly. He was about to make another provocative grab for the pile but stopped when a sheepish looking Mrs. Moody sloped back into the room, followed by an extremely agitated Frederick Hogg.

"Hello mate," Percy beamed.

"I beg your pardon?" Hogg glared back at him.

"What can I get you; lager, cider? Afraid I don't have any champers."

"Now look here;" Hogg clenched his fists, "some bastard’s got me out on a wild-goose chase."

Percy looked taken aback. "What are you talking about?" he asked. "I invited you, didn't I?"

"Are you mad?" I've never seen any of you before in my life. I got a phone call earlier this evening telling me that my son had been taken ill in the street, and had been brought to this dump. Your wife, here," he pointed at Gladys Moody - who grimaced at the misplaced accreditation - "tells me this isn't so. Somebody's been playing a cruel hoax..."

"But Fred..."

"And how dare you be so familiar! I shall be going straight to the police. I don't know what your game is, but you'll regret it; I can promise you that."

Now, it was Parrot sporting a contented grin. Like the temporarily speechless Percy, he watched the businessman turn on his heels and depart. Mrs. Moody made clucking noises with her tongue, shook her head, and handed the victor his winnings. Then she left quietly; embarrassed by Percy's lunatic exaggeration, bursting to relay the result of it all to her neighbours.

 

Dennis Pratt was late for work on the Monday morning. "About bloody time," Hogg immediately went on the attack, preferring to address the matter in hand without wasting breath on unnecessary preliminaries. "Is the business done?"

"Sorry sir, I didn’t catch up with Swanning until this morning," explained the nervous junior executive.

"But you did see him?" Hogg insisted, more than asked.

"Yes."

"Marvellous," the chairman exhaled, his pent-up anxiety dissolving in an adrenalin rush of triumph. "Ha!" he snorted. "Ha! ha! Good work Dennis. You've done very well."

"As you instructed, I told him it was actually your money he borrowed, and explained that you now want it back with the agreed interest.”

"Excellent," Hogg nodded. "And you told him he could come here and work off the debt?"

"Yes, I did indeed."

"That'll teach the freeloader. A few weeks on night security should just about cover it. Bit of a change from paid idleness, wouldn't you say?"

"Actually, no sir," Pratt gulped.

"What do you mean no sir?"

"He won't be coming, sir."

The chairman's face flushed up crimson. "Explain yourself, damn you!"

Pratt bit his lip. "He denies all knowledge of you. Claims it's impossible to borrow money from somebody he’s never met, who doesn't know him. Says he's got witnesses to you saying as much, a whole room-full of them. And, as far as he’s concerned, the money came from Brightwater Finance."

Hogg had to get up from his chair and pace the office several times to keep his rising temper in check. Eventually, he sat back down. "Well, Mister Pratt," he instinctively apportioned, and shifted, the blame, "you've cocked this up, haven't you."

Pratt thought the accusation most unfair, but accepted the hopelessness of his situation. "If you say so, sir," he simpered.

There was a long silence, Pratt sitting shame-faced, and the chairman forcing himself to come to terms with failure. Then, much to the junior's surprise, Hogg laughed. "It's funny, in a way," he said, "but you have to learn to accept defeat sometimes. So long as you've tried; that's the most important thing."

Much as he failed to appreciate the sentiment as it applied in his own case, Pratt managed a further weak smile.

"Look lad," said Hogg. "I've decided not to hold it against you, this time. It was worth a go and, at least, we've lost nothing. This Parrot scumbag had no choice, did he. Hah! He was really up the creek without a paddle, that one. Either he agreed to hand over the winnings, and lose nothing himself, or I'd acknowledge Swanning, and he'd part with a sizeable chunk of his retirement nest egg. Astute, eh?"

Reaching the end of his smug summary, the chairman noticed the unmistakable gape of hopelessness washing across Pratt's face. "You did get the thousand from him, didn't you?" he started to loudly draw in air through his teeth, noisily.

"No sir."

"What?"

"He said he'd won his bet fairly and squarely, and has witnesses to prove it."

"Out!" the big man quaked, not bothering to qualify the instruction; whether he meant out of the office, or out of the firm.

 

Percy Swanning counted out twenty-five twenty pound notes, rolled them up, and slipped the wad into his breast pocket. "Very reasonable," he said, winking at his companion.

"Reasonable indeed," agreed the man, his own share having already been tucked away under his mattress. "And all tax-free. Here's your cut of the side bets," he added, handing over a further fifty. "You don't know any other local notables, I suppose?"

They chinked their beer glasses together in a toast, and sat sniggering over a corner table in the pub, until Percy looked at his watch. "Can't sit around loafing," he said, getting up to leave.

"One for the road, Perce, m’lad?"

Percy considered it. "Best not, Dick," he declined. "Later perhaps; got an appointment at the Welfare. Come to think of it,” he turned back at the doorway, “Danny Dowling was in our class, as well. He’s the top man round there, these days. Mind you, I can’t see anybody laying money on him not knowing me. Can you?”

* * * *

Copyright Albert Woods (2013)

 

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