The Money Makers

By Jeremy Taylor

Fifteen year old Brian Jones is not exactly Einstein but he is determined to enter the world of business. When a business club starts at school, Brian and his classmates begin a journey that leads to the biggest adventures of their lives.
The Money Makers is a 33,000 word novel, ideal for teenagers who are interested in the world of business.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeremy Taylor
• Release date: Dec 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466128736

Jeremy Taylor

I've been writing since 1984, had my first book published in 1989 and have published another 55 books since then. I write mostly for teenage learners of English but also write a lot of short stories.

Book preview

The Money Makers

Jeremy Taylor

Copyright 2011 by Jeremy Taylor

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CHAPTER 1

Come on now fourth years, settle down. After no detectable change in volume, Mr Drayton protested again. I said settle down! David, have you finished the map yet?

What map sir? came David’s disheartening reply.

The one on page forty three!

Not yet sir, said David as he thumbed through the dog-eared geography book to the appropriate ink-stained page.

Mr Drayton noticed an untidy scuffle at the back of the classroom. Girls at the back, what are you doing?

‘The girls at the back’ ran giggling away from the scene of the crime, leaving Alan Williams to pick himself up off the floor. As he stood up the nature of the crime became apparent. Alan’s large, dark eyes were brightly embellished with wide, untidy rings of blue eyeshadow. When he blinked, a sprinkling of mascara fell from his eyelashes and stuck to the smear of lipstick that had strayed from the gaudy ring of scarlet around his mouth. Alan stood, feebly holding onto the back of his chair, for moral, rather than physical, support.

Right, I’ll see you girls at the end of the lesson. This, he had been told at Teacher Training College, was a ‘veiled threat’, forcing the unfortunate pupils to quake in their shoes until the end of the lesson, when a suitable punishment could be given. This, however, was not Teacher Training College. It was the frightening reality of Greenbrook Comprehensive School.

But we ain’t done nuffin’ sir, said Sharon Smith, with almost believable innocence.

That’s not true, Sharon, said Mr Drayton. Alan, go to the toilets and clean yourself up.

A snigger of laughter rippled across 4B as Alan’s dishevelled figure shuffled awkwardly towards the door.

Aw sir, we was only havin’ a bit o’ fun, said Melissa Jenkins, once Alan had left the room.

I doubt very much if Alan considered it ‘a bit o’ fun’, said Mr Drayton, imitating Melissa. Now come on, all of you. I want you to finish the map on page forty three and answer the questions. What you don’t finish now, you’ll do for homework.

This rallying speech seemed to have some effect on 4B, who, rather like a lawn mower with the clutch depressed, had calmed to a low buzz of noise. Mr Drayton sank wearily into his chair. When he looked up he saw a tall figure, wearing a long blue cardigan, as he looked further up he saw a long, thin face, topped by a neat wave of blonde hair. This was Anthea Pringleton.

Yes Anthea? said Mr Drayton.

Please sir, she said, almost apologetically, I’ve finished.

Let me have a look then Anthea, said Mr Drayton, reaching across his desk for the book. Then, peering anxiously over the top of the exercise book, he glanced quickly at the neatly shaded map of Wales showing the principle sheep farming areas.

This is very good Anthea, he said to his prize pupil. Fourth years, I’d like you to stop what you’re doing and look at Anthea’s book.

Mr Drayton held the book up and twenty eight faces stared at the meticulous handwriting and detailed diagrams. Anthea, meanwhile, stood nervously at the side of the desk, pulling her socks up, which didn’t need pulling up and scratching an ear, which didn’t really need scratching. She smiled uncomfortably at the rest of the class, her wide metal brace gleaming at them in the sunlight.

Creep! said a voice from the back.

She is not a creep Melissa, said Mr Drayton, who was ready for some remark from the ‘girls at the back’. She is merely a good geographer who is interested in doing well in her exams.

But geography’s borin’ sir, retorted Melissa.

No it’s not Melissa, said Mr Drayton, defending a point of view that he did not really hold. You can learn all about foreign countries; America, Japan, Australia...

But we don’t sir.

Don’t what Melissa?

We don’t learn about America and that. All we do is bloody sheep farming in Wales.

Mr Drayton halted the wave of applause and laughter by shouting Melissa Jenkins! One hundred lines, I must not swear in class.

Aw sir, said Melissa.

She’s right though, thought Mr Drayton to himself, It is bloody boring.

Suddenly, the bell rang and there was a rush to collect things together and get out of the door. Don’t forget your homework! called Mr Drayton to the mass of bodies squeezing through the door. The map on page forty three AND the questions. He then sighed as he remembered his veiled threat to ‘the girls at the back’. Still, he would get them next lesson. Mr Drayton turned to clean his blackboard and noticed a picture of two excessively woolly sheep being excessively friendly with each other in the corner of the blackboard. He smiled at the passionate sheep before rubbing them into a cloud of chalk dust.

She’s right, isn’t she sir?

On hearing Duncan Bradley’s voice behind him, Mr Drayton turned quickly around, surprised that he was not alone. What do you mean Duncan?

About geography being boring, said Duncan, adjusting his glasses, which didn’t really need adjusting.

Mr Drayton was quite tempted to confess his own distaste for geography to Duncan. Well, I admit there are some areas of the syllabus which could be a little more exciting.

I think it’s all boring sir.

But Duncan, said Mr Drayton, surprised at this mutinous behaviour by one of his best pupils. You’re a good geographer. You’re going to do well in your exams.

That doesn’t stop it being boring sir, replied Duncan with annoying logic.

No, no, I suppose it doesn’t, said Mr Drayton stalling for time. Oh damn! I’m on duty today. For once he was thankful for this odious task from the headmistress to get him out of this awkward conversation. Run along now Duncan.

All right sir, said Duncan, but I still say that Melissa was right.

Mr Drayton watched Duncan Bradley leave the room. He stood for a moment, thinking of their conversation, before suddenly remembering the conversation the headmistress would have with him if he missed his duty. He picked up his briefcase, scanned the classroom, turned out the lights and closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER 2

And then she said, ‘all we do is bloody sheep farming in Wales!’ Helen laughed and reached for some more Brussels sprouts.

What did you say?

I gave her a hundred lines.

Oh Graham, you cruel thing! said Helen, who was always willing to take the side of his pupils against her hard-hearted husband.

I had to, school rules, said Graham, defending his position as he scraped the last of the French beans onto his plate.

There must be something interesting in the syllabus, said Helen, who now appeared to be trying to defend the examination boards.

Two minutes later, Graham and Helen Drayton were sitting together by the fire, scanning a copy of the geography syllabus for anything that could remotely be called interesting. Climatology, meteorology, soils and vegetation soon bit the dust. Other topics quickly followed; tin mining in Cornwall, wheat cultivation in East Anglia and of course, the by now infamous, sheep farming in Wales.

By half past eleven they had massacred the syllabus, leaving just two parts which could possibly be called interesting; volcanoes and something vaguely termed ‘economic geography’.

What’s that? asked Helen.

It’s where we get the kids to learn the Gross National Product of loads of countries and the reason why it varies.

Gross National what?

Gross National Product, how much people earn.

I thought economics was to do with business, said Helen.

Well it is, sort of, replied her husband, who had never liked _definitions, particularly of rather complicated subjects like economics.

_Business could be fun, said Helen. I remember you once told me about a business you had at school. Selling beer, wasn’t it?

Lager, said Graham with a smile on his face. It was true. As a sixth former he had brewed and sold many bottles of foul tasting lager to other sixth formers. They had bought it, not because of its taste, which some likened to dish water, but simply because it was against school rules. It had been a successful little venture with which he had actually made some money. But I’m not going to tell them about that! said Graham, who was keen to make a good impression, not only with the pupils, but also on Mr Grimes, his head of department.

Well change the product, said Helen, now getting quite interested in the subject. Teach them about how a business works and then, at the end of the lesson, tell them about your business.

With a different product, said Graham, who liked the idea of an interesting lesson.

Exactly!

Like what? asked Graham optimistically.

That’s your problem, said Helen, satisfied that her role as advisor was now complete. but make it something that they can relate to, something they could do themselves.

It was two o’ clock in the morning when Graham Drayton finally crawled into bed. He had dug out his old University text books and had planned, what he considered to be, an interesting lesson: An introduction to economic geography. A look at the Stock Exchange, something about big businesses, raising of capital, factory location, government intervention and the Laissez-Faire policy. (Madame Blot, the French teacher, would be pleased if he threw in a bit of French.)