loan.’
‘You’ve decided then? You didn’t say.’
‘I thought about it. Now I’m sure. I need bigger premises, a proper workshop.’
Nancy said, ‘Ben? Are we speculating?’
‘We’re investing. Why do you ask?’
She tapped the paper and read aloud: ‘“Hoover warns of the dangers of rampant speculation.” I just thought: does the President know something we don’t know?’
‘Well now, “rampant”. D’you call a garage expansion rampant? Me neither. The bank’s looked at the books; it’s a safe bet, pay for itself in five years. Honey, now is the right time to expand.’
Later, recalling that decision, he would bleakly remind Nancy of her father’s old joke: ‘How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans.’
At first, the problem seemed a faraway affair: something that affected the big boys. The stock market might be rocky for a week or two, but everyday life must go on and small businesses were part of that. The newspapers ran encouraging stories and the local press was quick to offer reassurance to readers. Pinkerton took to reading aloud the optimistic headlines for Nancy’s benefit.
‘Listen to this, Irving Fisher in the New York Times : “There may be a recession in stock prices, but not anything in the nature of a crash”.’
‘The guy’s a leading economist, I guess he should know. Here’s another.’
But suddenly Wall Street ceased to be some distant place located in the financial pages of the newspaper; it criss-crossed the country on railroad tracks and telegraph wires. Wall Street was right here in the neighbourhood, it was next door, it was tapping on the window at night as Pinkerton drew the blanket close around him, and recalled a time when he had no trouble sleeping.
‘Dad? Where’s the crash?’ Joey asked. ‘One of the kids at school’s dad says there’s been a crash.’
‘That’s just wild talk. There’s no crash.’
And he read out from the newspaper what Arthur Reynolds, Chairman of the Continental Illinois Bank of Chicago was quoted as saying.
‘He says it won’t have much effect on business.’
That was 24 October. Five days later the Dow Jones Industrial Average lost 11.73 per cent of its value.
‘Ben?’ Nancy said that evening, ‘Is this going to affect us?’
‘Stocks and shares? I don’t see why. We’re not playing the market.’
People who knew the family said there had always been something of the golden boy about Ben Pinkerton. At high school and college the star swimmer, glittering like the water that won him prizes. In the navy he shone in white and brass buttons. When he opened the automobile garage – one of the first in town – he glowed with the sheen of steel and spray-paint. Like the business, he expanded. But now he dimmed, the gold dull, like neglected brass.
When the bank called him there seemed little sense of urgency. Could Mr Pinkerton drop by at his convenience? Mr Daniels would like to have a chat.
The chat was more formal than he expected. Not at first; Gerry Daniels, who had always been so friendly and helpful was still friendly:
‘How’s Nancy? And the boy? Good, fine little feller . . .’ But when he moved on, discussing the economic situation, the problems the government was facing, words like contract cancellations, falling values and crisis floated across his desk. He pulled a rueful face.
‘Some finance houses have actually collapsed, Ben. Unwise use of investors’ funds.’
‘Come on, you’re not telling me banks are going bust! Am I supposed to feel sorry for the rich guys?’ Ben laughed. Daniels did not.
‘It’s not just the big boys; we’re all in the same boat. Difficult times, money tight all round.’
‘What are you saying?’
Daniels shifted his inkwell, blotter and a framed photograph of his wife from one place on his desk to another an inch to left or right. He looked up and smiled, still friendly, but suddenly less helpful.
‘The loan, Ben. It’s payback time.’
‘Hey,
‘You’ve decided then? You didn’t say.’
‘I thought about it. Now I’m sure. I need bigger premises, a proper workshop.’
Nancy said, ‘Ben? Are we speculating?’
‘We’re investing. Why do you ask?’
She tapped the paper and read aloud: ‘“Hoover warns of the dangers of rampant speculation.” I just thought: does the President know something we don’t know?’
‘Well now, “rampant”. D’you call a garage expansion rampant? Me neither. The bank’s looked at the books; it’s a safe bet, pay for itself in five years. Honey, now is the right time to expand.’
Later, recalling that decision, he would bleakly remind Nancy of her father’s old joke: ‘How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans.’
At first, the problem seemed a faraway affair: something that affected the big boys. The stock market might be rocky for a week or two, but everyday life must go on and small businesses were part of that. The newspapers ran encouraging stories and the local press was quick to offer reassurance to readers. Pinkerton took to reading aloud the optimistic headlines for Nancy’s benefit.
‘Listen to this, Irving Fisher in the New York Times : “There may be a recession in stock prices, but not anything in the nature of a crash”.’
‘The guy’s a leading economist, I guess he should know. Here’s another.’
But suddenly Wall Street ceased to be some distant place located in the financial pages of the newspaper; it criss-crossed the country on railroad tracks and telegraph wires. Wall Street was right here in the neighbourhood, it was next door, it was tapping on the window at night as Pinkerton drew the blanket close around him, and recalled a time when he had no trouble sleeping.
‘Dad? Where’s the crash?’ Joey asked. ‘One of the kids at school’s dad says there’s been a crash.’
‘That’s just wild talk. There’s no crash.’
And he read out from the newspaper what Arthur Reynolds, Chairman of the Continental Illinois Bank of Chicago was quoted as saying.
‘He says it won’t have much effect on business.’
That was 24 October. Five days later the Dow Jones Industrial Average lost 11.73 per cent of its value.
‘Ben?’ Nancy said that evening, ‘Is this going to affect us?’
‘Stocks and shares? I don’t see why. We’re not playing the market.’
People who knew the family said there had always been something of the golden boy about Ben Pinkerton. At high school and college the star swimmer, glittering like the water that won him prizes. In the navy he shone in white and brass buttons. When he opened the automobile garage – one of the first in town – he glowed with the sheen of steel and spray-paint. Like the business, he expanded. But now he dimmed, the gold dull, like neglected brass.
When the bank called him there seemed little sense of urgency. Could Mr Pinkerton drop by at his convenience? Mr Daniels would like to have a chat.
The chat was more formal than he expected. Not at first; Gerry Daniels, who had always been so friendly and helpful was still friendly:
‘How’s Nancy? And the boy? Good, fine little feller . . .’ But when he moved on, discussing the economic situation, the problems the government was facing, words like contract cancellations, falling values and crisis floated across his desk. He pulled a rueful face.
‘Some finance houses have actually collapsed, Ben. Unwise use of investors’ funds.’
‘Come on, you’re not telling me banks are going bust! Am I supposed to feel sorry for the rich guys?’ Ben laughed. Daniels did not.
‘It’s not just the big boys; we’re all in the same boat. Difficult times, money tight all round.’
‘What are you saying?’
Daniels shifted his inkwell, blotter and a framed photograph of his wife from one place on his desk to another an inch to left or right. He looked up and smiled, still friendly, but suddenly less helpful.
‘The loan, Ben. It’s payback time.’
‘Hey,
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