On The Carousel

By JR Alexander

ON THE CAROUSEL is the story of a young man’s journey through the London of the 1980s – against the background of Thatcherism and Madonna and Cabbage Patch Dolls – as he enjoys the benefits of success, but then starts to re-assess his values and priorities.



In the early hours of New Year’s Day 1980, Adam Gough – a recent graduate, whose career was put on hold following a traumatic event the previous year - is walking home through the deserted City of London to his small bed-sit in Bow. He is suddenly confronted by three strange-looking women, one of whom addresses him with a prediction: “You will have riches. But you will also have a secret. A secret of death and fire”. Shortly afterwards, he takes up a post as a Junior Analyst with a firm of economic consultants.



Adam finds that the people with whom he is working are a mix of characters – the intelligent, the diligent, the vacuous, the bombastic, the spiteful, the useless. The Chief Economist - a media darling – is consistently and spectacularly wrong with his forecasts, but in continual demand for his views on the future economy. Another senior colleague - a continual fount of pretentious management jargon – is, to Adam’s astonishment, no less successful when dealing with the company’s major clients.



Adam thrives in this environment, progressing through the company’s hierarchy and up the property ladder. He is feted for his expertise in identifying the key business trends at home and overseas.



However, as the 1980s unfold, Adam derives a growing awareness of the variable fates of those with whom he comes into contact – whether on the walk from Holborn to Waterloo Station or on a trekking holiday in the Himalayas. This causes him to reflect on the values – love, family, respect – that he holds most dearly.



The decade produces winners and losers, the cast list of which extends to those with whom Adam is (or has been) most closely involved. The narrative concludes in a dramatic final climax, as the precise meaning of the woman’s prediction is revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: High Ridge Publishing
• Release date: Jan 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781839781438

Book preview

laughter.

PART ONE

Opportunities

CHAPTER ONE

New Year’s Eve, 1979

You realise, of course, that tonight is not really the end of the decade.

The voice came from behind Adam Gough and to his right. He half-turned and looked into the corner of the room. Slumped in a sofa, barely visible through the smoky haze, could be discerned a tall young man carefully tapping the ash from his cigarette into an empty beer can. The man’s hair was long and curly and parted neatly in the middle. He wore a bright red shirt and a pair of fragile spectacles with round thin frames. As he spoke, he slumped lower in the sofa, his back lazily arched, the deep collar of his shirt riding up on both sides on his neck.

It’s not really the end of the decade. There wasn’t a year zero, you see, and therefore the end of the first decade was at the end of the year ten. By the same token, the end of this decade is, well, this time next year. Still, who cares, if we are all enjoying ourselves?

The man was speaking to no-one in particular. While he was, no doubt, aware of the other partygoers around him, he appeared content in his own little world, smoking his cigarette and cradling his empty beer can, which he then rested on the arm of the sofa. Adam Gough turned his back on the man and, leaning over the table, selected another bottle of light ale from the array of drink available in front of him.

A firm hand grabbed his left shoulder, pressing down hard.

Adam. Great to see you. Are you OK now?

Norman Stockton’s booming voice sounded out, clearly audible above the background accompaniment of music and chatter. The volume of his question caused one or two heads to turn, temporarily, on the other side of the room. Adam’s response was quieter, but no less genuine in the warmth of its delivery.

Norman. I’m fine. Really, I’m fine. It’s good to see you, too. Thanks for the invitation to the party.

My pleasure. I have these New Year’s Eve shindigs here every year. What’s the point of having a London pad if you don’t use it? It’s a nice bolt-hole from my rooms in college.

Stockton was a short man with a thin moustache. Someone who did not know him might speculate from his appearance and demeanour - late forties, bright-eyed, sprightly, inquisitive, busy - that he was some sort of academic. It would be an accurate assessment, though he was no ordinary academic. He was a Professor of Mathematical Economics at the University of Cambridge and a world authority on the application of game theory to the resolution of industrial disputes. He extended his enthusiastic welcome to his visitor.

It’s really good to see you. And I must congratulate you on your examination result. To get a First, under your circumstances, was a terrific performance. It’s very rare for someone to take the Finals late - in the autumn, as you did, and not in the summer - and come out with a First Class degree. Very rare. Anyway, what are you going to do with yourself? Have you got a job?

Adam felt appreciative of his host’s attention. But here, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, he was not inclined to reveal much about his immediate plans. The crowded living room of a 1930s semi-detached house generated a sense of unreal intimacy, with which Adam was not comfortable. He decided that he would use his natural reticence and keep his answer brief. Then, as he began to reply, Adam heard the background music increase in volume. The chorus of the record was boisterously amplified by the party guests:

All...... another...... brick...... wall.

Adam found himself speaking louder than he would have preferred. He enunciated the words carefully against the competition from the record player and its supporters.

Well, I had Christmas with the family up in Yorkshire, of course. But I’m now staying with some friends in the East End. In Bow, actually. They’ve got a spare room in a house just off the Roman Road. It’s something of a culture shock after living in a Cambridge college for over three years, but I’m going to stay there for a while until I get myself sorted out and decide what I am going to do......

Stockton interrupted.

Listen, what’s the point of having the university connection, if you can’t exploit it? A thought has just occurred to me.

Adam looked at Stockton, his mind already attending to the detail of the message he was being given. Has just occurred? Really? Has just occurred? Stockton continued to deliver his thoughts.

Why don’t I put you in touch with another former student of mine - a man called Michael Connor. He graduated about ten years ago. I bumped into him again at the Varsity Match at Twickenham earlier this month. Actually - to be strictly accurate - it was after the game in the Orange Tree in Richmond. Anyway, he is now the senior partner in a small business consultancy. CDM Partners, I think they’re called. You know the sort of thing - economic forecasting, advising companies, and so on. If you like, I’ll give him a call. He’d be worth having a chat with. In fact, I think there’s one of his staff here tonight.

Stockton looked over his shoulder.

Talk of the devil. Hello, Jamie. How are you keeping?

Adam recognised the gangling youth in the thin-framed spectacles and the red shirt with the deep collar. He had risen from the sofa in search of another beer can.

Jamie, this is Adam Gough. He’s just graduated from Cambridge. First in Economics. Adam, can I introduce Jamie Sanders. He works for CDM Partners. On the technical side. Anyway, I’ll leave you to chat.

Stockton started to back away, having acknowledged an enticing wave from a young woman who had caught his attention on the far side of the room. Adam strained to hear his parting remark above the noise level.

I’ll give Michael Connor a ring next week, if you want to talk to him.

Adam nodded vaguely.

Yes. Why not? Thanks, Norman

Adam and the other party guest stood together cradling their respective beers. At this stage of the evening, Adam was not enthusiastic about the prospect of striking up a conversation with a stranger about his place of work. He suspected that the other man probably felt the same. Adam’s preference - his strong preference - would have been to latch on to a small group standing in one corner, among whom was a girl he thought he recognised from Stockton’s lecture course. Jackie, he thought her name was, from Newnham. She was tall and slim with long straight blond hair. But the chance of introducing himself was disappearing and, Adam knew, it would soon be gone.

And then it was gone. As Adam looked across, his direct line of sight to the girl was suddenly blocked as three other students - or, like him, ex-students - joined the group. One of them was slightly older than the others, a bearded man with an open shirt and a silver chain around his neck. On his arrival, the girl stretched forward to place both her hands on the back of his head. As they embraced, Adam turned away and poured some more light ale into his plastic cup.

CDM. I’ve seen one or two of your guys on the television, I think.

Jamie Sanders responded dutifully.

Yes, probably. Michael Connor is on occasionally. He’s the boss. He spends half his time jetting around the world giving presentations and seminars or pitching for business. You’ve probably also seen Henry Montague. He’s our Chief Economist. Always on the box, talking about this and that. Sometimes, it’s even on an issue he knows something about, though that’s rare. Still, it’s good publicity for us, I suppose.

Is that what your job is, economic forecasting?

No, I’m more concerned with the computing side, such as it is. Number-crunching, really. Nothing too sophisticated. Typing out the punchcards. Loading them into the machine. Trying to sort things out when the error messages come back.

Jamie Sanders made a slight grimace, as if reconciling to himself the essential role played by this tedious part of his job. Then, he took a drink of his beer, which he toyed with in his mouth before swallowing emphatically. As Adam looked across the room again towards the blond girl and her bearded friend, Sanders seemed to lose - and then regain - his chain of thought.

Ah yes. Norman Stockton’s right. If you’re interested, you should ring...... Look out, here’s the ogre.

A stocky, frumpy woman entered the room. She was of late middle-age with prematurely greying hair. The sleeves of a functional pullover were aggressively rolled up to the elbow. Adam instantly deduced that, if there were causes for celebration for the New Year festivities, she hadn’t recognised them.

For goodness sake, Norman. What’s this cigarette doing stubbed out on the floor? For goodness sake.

As she passed, Adam heard her muttering under her breath.

Oh, why do we have these parties?

That’s his wife, said Jamie quietly, Life and soul of the party, isn’t she? If she had her way, she’d celebrate New Year’s Eve by going to bed at ten o’clock with a cup of hot chocolate and a copy of Undertakers Weekly.

Adam grinned in Doreen Stockton’s direction. Unfortunately, it was at that precise instant that she chose to look back towards the drinks table with its rapidly diminishing stocks. Adam was immediately disconcerted to find himself confronted by her reciprocated stare - cold and harsh. He turned away quickly to reach over for another bottle of mild beer and was relieved to notice that, by the time he had located the bottle opener and had summoned up the courage to look back cautiously in her direction, the focus of her attention was elsewhere. Doreen Stockton was examining the arm of the sofa, on which the stained outline of the bottom of a beer can could be detected. Viewed in profile, she seemed to be talking to herself with some urgency. Although Adam could not hear what she was saying, his rudimentary lip-reading skills told him enough.

For goodness sake, Norman.

The awkwardness of the moment quickly forgotten, Adam drew on his freshly poured beer. Before long, the busy house, the warmth of the company and the effects of the drink had induced that pleasant sensation of mild euphoria, when all is well and the uncertainties of life are banished. When the earlier record was replayed, Adam’s voice was added loudly to the chorus.

Three hours later, it was thirty minutes into the New Year. Adam felt different now. As he stood with Stockton on the driveway at the entrance to the house, the cold, clear air served to sharpen his reflexes. His mind was active and alert.

It has been great to see you, Norman. Thanks for the party. And thanks again for your help in the summer. I’ll always be grateful for your insistence at the Examinations Board that I should be able to sit the exams in the autumn after...... Well, you know the background.

Take care, said Stockton, I’ll give Michael Connor a ring. You’ll like him. He works hard and plays hard. Just like you.

Adam Gough stepped out into the Fulham street, his long trenchcoat betraying its design for a taller man, rather than for his average height. His hands reached deeply into the pockets, in each of which was a bottle of light ale. His fingers caressed the glass shape of the bottles, as if he were a gunfighter reaching to locate the triggers of pistols in their holsters prior to their withdrawal and explosion. Underneath the coat, Adam wore his college scarf, though this was carefully hidden from view.

The night was quiet: surprisingly so, Adam thought. A taxi slowed down as it passed, the driver peering over in the search for a fare. But Adam kept on walking. The resources at his disposal - the handful of change and a scruffy pound note in his pocket under one of the bottles - did not permit the luxury of a long taxi ride to Bow.

Adam walked quickly, the route established in his mind from an earlier perusal of a London A to Z in Smith’s: he would head for the Fulham Road and then through Victoria and then the Embankment and then the City and then out on to the long stretch up Whitechapel Road and Mile End Road. It was when Adam had reached about the half-way point of his journey - when he was passing through the City - that he was approached by the three women.

He was walking along Leadenhall Street. He thought that he was the only person in the vicinity when, suddenly, the women stepped out from a sidestreet about twenty yards in front of him. At first, Adam did not pay them any attention. But he soon noticed that they were straddling across the full width of the pavement. As the women approached, Adam stopped and then took a pace to one side so that his back was against the stone wall of one of the buildings. The women walked up to him and then they also stopped. The one in the middle took a couple of paces towards Adam and stood directly in front of him. Adam looked at her. She was thin and wiry, with a slightly stooped back. She wore a black cloak that, at some time in the past, had been splashed with mud, now dried. Her face was pale and stern; her teeth were yellow. Her hair was long and grey and matted. Her age was difficult to guess: about fifty, perhaps.

Where hast thou been, brother?

The woman’s voice was clear and precise. Adam tried to step forward, but his path was now blocked by the second woman, who was of almost identical appearance to the first, the only difference being that her hair was darker and shorter. She spoke next.

Hail to thee.

Adam thought about he might respond, but his mind was working slowly, its thinking capacity reduced by the earlier consumption of beer and spirits and the later peace of the quite walk. He knew that he was not in any danger; there was no intention of physical assault. But, while he knew that he could break free at any time, he was also aware that he was - temporarily at least - trapped by the witches, the third of whom took her turn to speak.

Hail to thee, brother.

Adam now studied her appearance. It was different: she was younger - almost attractive - with a smoothness of skin and the absence of creases below the eyes. Unlike the other two, she had a flush of colour in her cheeks; her eyes were bright and piercing. However, she wore the same type of cloak as her companions, dark and dirty. Adam looked down to the pavement in front of him and saw that all three women were wearing thick woollen socks and rough sandals.

He looked up again at the leader, the woman in the middle, as she addressed him again.

There will be riches. You will have riches. But you will also have a secret. A secret of death and fire.

Adam stared firmly into her face, again trying to compose a suitable response. He heard his own words blurt out.

Thank you. And a Happy New Year to you also.

The expressions on the women’s face did not change. Instead, as one, they stepped aside to let Adam pass. As he departed, they bade a chorused farewell.

All hail.

Adam did not hesitate. He started to walk quickly for ten or twelve paces towards Aldgate. Then, when he considered that he had reached a safe distance, he turned around to see where the women were. The street was empty.

Adam’s mind was clearer now. He stretched out again and, as he progressed, his thoughts began to focus on his immediate future. Jamie Sanders may or may not have been technically correct, but, for Adam, the position was clear.

It was a new decade. It was time to get moving.

Nine days later

At ten minutes to five, Adam Gough, dressed in his best suit - that is to say, his only suit - ascended one of the long escalators at Holborn Underground station. It was not an easy journey. Not only was the escalator stationary, it was also being used by those travellers heading downwards, as its counterpart was under repair and cordoned off. Adam followed at a consistent distance of three steps behind the large feet of a young man shaped like a prop forward - an unwitting and useful ally - as he pushed his way against the stream on homeward commuters.

Adam exited the station at the top of Kingsway. The CDM Partners office was no more than a couple of minutes walk away, south towards Aldwych and then along a right hand turn down a sidestreet. On his arrival at the front door of the office, Adam paused briefly in the light drizzle of rain and looked up at a rather nondescript building of four storeys, the sandy light brown stonework of which had blackened through several decades of exposure to the exhaust fumes and other constituent hazards of the London atmosphere.

Initially, Adam had thought it unusual that Michael Connor had arranged the interview for five o’clock. However, he had soon cast aside any doubts by assuming that the senior partner was a busy man who could only fit interviews in at strange times in a hectic schedule. Besides, the interview itself had been fixed up at a strange hour, the telephone call from Connor himself to the flat in Bow being made, not during the conventional office hours, but at nine thirty the previous evening. Adam entered the door and, having followed the arrowed sign to the reception, quietly announced his presence to a bored looking young girl, who was alternately blowing on her newly painted fingernails and looking at her watch.

The girl lifted up a telephone and pressed a couple of the digits on the exchange in front of her. Adam heard the change in the dialling tone as, somewhere else in the building, another receiver was picked up.

He’s here, said the receptionist, brusquely.

Maintaining her air of total disinterest, the girl then put down the phone and gestured with her head towards a low sofa in the corner of the small reception area. Adam started towards it, but then noticed, against the opposite wall, a stand of promotional material, from which he picked up a brochure entitled CDM Partners: Management Consultants. He was about half way through reading the short introduction - written by Michael P Connor, senior partner - when a voice from behind him offered a more friendly welcome than that he had received so far.

Hello, Mr Gough. My name is Rachel Steiner. I’m Michael Connor’s secretary. Would you like to come this way?

Adam was being addressed by a woman in her mid to late twenties, whose buxom appearance was generated by a full, frilly blouse and a tight black skirt on generous hips. The skirt was complemented by a warm pair of grey tights. The hips and the skirt and the tights led the way up two flights of carpeted stairs and Adam duly followed at a respectful distance. He was ushered into the senior partner’s office.

As Adam walked into the room, he was immediately struck by the heavy atmosphere of cigarette smoke. It was as if he had mistakenly entered the smoking compartment of an Underground train, from which the smell of dead staleness always provided a powerful rebuke. Adam braced himself quickly, not wishing to betray this sudden shock.

On the far side of the large office stood a well-built, stocky man looking out of the window. The man then turned on his heel and stepped forward to stretch out his right hand. As he spoke, he nodded his head slightly, but respectfully.

Hello, come and sit down. Michael P Connor. Pleased to meet you. Delighted you could come at such short notice.

Adam sat down awkwardly in a low armchair that was slightly too plush to offer consistency with the rest of the room, which was otherwise furnished in a functional, rather than a noticeably decorative, manner. Two of the walls were lined with dark wooden bookshelves, above one of which was a painting of a nineteenth century London street scene. Michael Connor moved back behind his desk, which was covered - without any apparent sense of order - by papers, reports, correspondence and what may have been source books of government economic statistics. An ashtray, full with a couple of dozen cigarette butts, occupied a prime space on the right-hand corner of the desk. Connor sat down on a sturdy high-backed wooden chair.

Listen. Do you fancy a drink? Let’s go round the corner.

Before Adam could respond, Michael Connor had bounced out of his chair again and was striding across the room. He opened his door and leaned outside to address his secretary.

Rachel, we’re just nipping round the corner. I’ve got my keys. You can lock my room when you go.

Connor had already descended the first four stairs by the time Adam reached the door. As Adam reached the top of the stairs, Connor turned around.

Oh, Rachel. Sorry. One last thing. I’d like to add an extra three paragraphs to the second page of that section of the report you were typing this afternoon. I’ve written out the text on the A4 pad on my desk.

Connor turned again, quickly, to continue his journey. As Adam moved past Rachel, she looked at him with what Adam interpreted as being the routine combination of exasperation and resignation. She spoke quietly, almost under her breath, to herself.

It’s only an extra three paragraphs. That’s all. Nothing much. To be followed by re-typing the remainder of the twenty pages.

Adam halted, briefly, in the half-belief that he was expected to return some sympathetic note of consolation. But the moment had passed, as Rachel Steiner was already entering Connor’s office. Besides, within what could only have been a few seconds, the senior partner had completed his descent of the stairs, left the building and turned the corner into the next street. Adam followed behind, struggling to keep up.

At the junction of the next side street, hidden from view from the main road, nestled a pub called The Ploughman. The two men entered quickly, the one slightly behind the other, and approached the bar.

Here, let me. What can I get you?

That’s very kind, said Adam. He paused, Half a mild will do fine, thanks.

No mild here, I’m afraid. Is bitter OK? Two pints, please, Arthur.

They took their drinks and moved across to the corner of the room. The bar was almost deserted, apart from four men in builders’ clothes, who had probably come from the construction site opposite the CDM Partners office, and a middle-aged man in a pinstripe suit talking to a young girl with ginger hair. The couple were sitting on either side of a small empty table and the man was leaning across and holding the girl’s hands firmly together in his grasp. Adam thought that she was about to burst into tears. There was a drama being enacted here, he sensed: a small drama not unlike a million others taking place in the world at that very instant. A private drama, to which he was not invited.

Adam put his drink down on a scratched wooden table and sat down on the long seat than ran along the wall on one side of the pub. He noticed that the plastic covering of the seat had split to reveal the fading yellow sponge inside. Behind him, a dark patch - of damp, perhaps, or of spilled beer - stained the wall. Adam was about to conclude - silently, to himself - that this was not the most salubrious public house that he had ever entered, when his attention was diverted by his potential employer.

It’s a wonderful thing, the English language.

Connor took a long drink from his beer glass before expounding his theory.

It’s a wonderful thing. I suppose that’s why it has fascinated Irishmen throughout the ages - including third generation expatriates such as me. Take your surname.

Connor spelled out the letters: G, O, U, G, H.

"How many variations in pronunciation are possible? Gough - rhyming with the bough of a tree. Gough - rhyming with tough. Gough - rhyming with though. Gough - rhyming with through. Gough - rhyming with thorough. Gough - rhyming with cough......

Adam interrupted.

That’s the one.

Connor took another deep drink, with the result that his pint glass was already half empty. As Adam assessed the respective speeds of consumption, the line of questioning changed.

So, Norman Stockton tells me you got a First in Economics. He thinks you might fit in with us. I’m always on the look-out for smart young graduates. Tell me, why do you think youth unemployment is so high?

Adam sipped his drink, the action of reaching forward and raising the glass to his mouth giving him some extra time to consider his current circumstances as well as the specific question which had been put to him. His concentration was not disturbed by the sight of the pinstriped man and the ginger-haired girl getting up to leave the bar.

I suppose it’s basically attributable to supply and demand in the labour market, he said, without a great deal of conviction. And then, warming to the task, The supply of young people looking for jobs has risen with the demographic changes. There are many more people leaving school than there were a few years ago. At the same time, the demand for labour has levelled off as the boom in economic activity has come to a halt.

That’s interesting, said Michael. But economic theory would suggest that, when a good or service is in over-supply, its price should fall. Wouldn’t you expect the price of young employees - in other words, their wages - to fall, so that they became more attractive to employers?

Adam responded quickly.

In theory, yes. But the labour market does not necessarily operate in the competitive way that the textbooks would suggest. There may be institutional imperfections. There is some academic research on the effects of trade union regulations on the relative wages of apprentices, for example.

Ok, said Michael. Here’s another one.

Connor reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a packet of cigarettes. He flicked it open and offered it to Adam, who declined the invitation by silently raising an open hand. Connor took out a cigarette and, after swiftly lighting it, took a long drag which he exhaled by turning his head to one side and blowing out.

Do you have the average number of legs?

Sorry, said Michael.

Would you say that you have the average number of legs for a human being?

Adam took another sip of his drink, adopting the same stalling tactics as before. His answer reflected the clarity of his thinking.

It depends what you mean by ‘average’. I can think of three types of measure. The median is the number at which 50% of the scores are above and 50% below. So, yes, I have the median number of legs. The mode is the most frequent number in a distribution. In this case, two. So yes, again, I have the modal number of legs. But the mean is calculated by dividing the total number of legs by the total number of people. And, of course, not everyone has two legs. The mean number will be 1.99 something – not two.

Connor took another drag from his cigarette, inhaling and exhaling as before.

I see, he resumed. And aside from mastering a degree in Economics – clearly with a strong statistics component - what else did you do in Cambridge? Any sport? Drama? Music?

Adam was relieved that the discussion had moved on again.

Some sport. The facilities were very good. There were plenty of opportunities.

Norman tells me that you were a pretty good boxer. A Boxing Blue no less.

Adam paused before replying. He bit his lower lip, gently. He wondered why he had been asked whether he played sport, when the answer was already known. Besides, the detailed circumstances of his activities in the boxing ring were not those he particularly wished to discuss.

Yes, I did box. And I did win a Blue. You had to win your bout in the Varsity Match against Oxford to win a Blue. If you lost, you got something called a Half-blue. I won mine.

Adam did not venture any more. He did not wish to discuss how he had been taught the skills of boxing, as a young boy, by his older brother. And Phillip Gough had been a good instructor. Adam’s tuition had been not only in the rudimentary skills of standing guard with his arms and shoulders and head correctly positioned, but also in the advanced techniques of efficient movement, of retaining balance and of punching and counter-punching. Nor did he wish to discuss the circumstances of his final bout, in the Varsity Match against Oxford. He swallowed and reached over to take another drink from his glass. Michael Connor inhaled from his cigarette and then, turning his head away, carefully blew a couple of smoke rings towards the empty centre of the room.

Let me tell you a bit more about what CDM Partners does. I’m the senior partner and the principal international economic forecaster. I run the partnership, even though I spend a considerable amount of the time away from the office. I do a lot of travelling and speaking at engagements overseas. Indeed, statistically, given the amount of air travel I’ve done and the probability of air crashes, I should be dead by now.

Adam sensed Michael Connor’s silent interrogation as he made this last remark, as if he expected some type of response. He offered none and so Connor continued.

There are two other partners. Henry Montague, you’ve probably heard of. He’s our principal UK economic forecaster. He’s sometimes seen as rather posh - arrogant, even - as is often the case with someone who has been educated at one of the minor public schools and who wishes that he had been educated at one of the major ones. But he does get some terrific media coverage for us. Personally, I think he speaks rubbish half the time, but that doesn’t matter. The third partner is Jeremy Draper. He’s really my deputy senior partner. He is responsible for the management consultancy work, which means that he speaks in a jargon that even economists can’t understand. But he does have an extraordinary capacity for nailing deals and getting us business.

Michael took another drag on his cigarette and blew two more perfect smoke rings.

The three of us decided to set up the partnership six or seven years ago. Initially, we called it Connor Draper Montague, but after a short while we decided - at Jeremy Draper’s suggestion actually - that CDM Partners had a more dynamic feel to it. These days, in addition to the partners, we’ve got ten or eleven bright analysts and half a dozen support staff on the admin side. Norman tells me you bumped into one of them - Jamie Sanders - at his party. And Rachel Steiner, my secretary, you’ve already met.

Adam listened as the senior partner spoke. This was not the type of interview he had been expecting. For one thing, it was being held in a downmarket pub, rather than in the formal surroundings of an office. For another, he was actually saying very little. Apart from answering the questions about youth unemployment and his number of legs and then briefly discussing his boxing experience at university, Adam had not been required to contribute much to the discussion at all. It was almost as if Michael Connor was selling CDM Partners to him, rather than the other way round.

Michael Connor spoke about many things. His Irish ancestry - hence Michael Patrick Connor. His upbringing in Manchester, which accounted for the suggestion of a Lancastrian accent. His rugby-playing days at university, where a cruel knee injury had prevented his appearance as a flank forward in the big match at Twickenham. Adam felt somewhat uneasy at hearing this, as Connor had thus been deprived of his Rugby Blue, the sole determinant of which is the appearance against Oxford. He wondered whether Connor would use this to affect the appearance of the slighted sporting inferior. But there was no sign of this, as Connor was quickly on to other subjects. He described some of his recent international travel commitments, especially on the conference circuit, where there was a considerable demand for him to expound his views on future energy prices. Somewhat to Adam’s surprise - indeed, to his considerable surprise - Connor’s description of his overseas trips extended into some areas that were rather tangential to the formal business in hand. These included some hints at the nocturnal exploits he had undertaken in his hotel room with an air stewardess during an economists’ seminar in Stockholm. Adam listened patiently as it was explained how, under the correct circumstances, the trend in crude oil prices could be used to advantage as a crude chatting up line.

Adam remembered Norman Stockton’s description of Michael Connor. He judged that, on the immediately available evidence in front of him about his interviewer - the slightly paunched midriff, the deepening lines beneath his eyes, the general appearance of a man older than his early thirties - the description was at least partly confirmed. Michael Connor certainly appeared to play hard. But what about the work?

Adam’s doubts on this were addressed immediately, as if his mind were being read. Connor posed his rhetorical question.

What types of work is CDM Partners concerned with? Well, anything, really. We forecast anything. If we had an advertising slogan, that would be it: ‘we forecast anything’. I suppose, in today’s jargon, we might be called an independent think tank. Our turnover is about three quarters of a million pounds and we make a profit that you could probably count in small change. We undertake high quality economic forecasting and management consultancy. And we also have some fun.

Connor sat up and addressed Adam directly.

Shall we get the formalities out of the way. You’re straight out of university. You graduated later than normal because you were unable to take your exams in the summer.

I was ill......, said Adam.

Connor interrupted to continue his verbal summary of the applicant’s curriculum vitae.

You were allowed to stay on for an extra term in order to take the final examinations in the autumn. And you did well.

I got a First......

You’re twenty-two years old. Even allowing for the fact that you’re a Yorkshireman, I’m going to offer you a job as a junior economic analyst. Six thousand, three hundred a year. What do you think? I don’t want you to decide now. You’ve probably got other irons in the fire, but perhaps you could give me a ring back in a few days. Let’s say by the end of the week and then I’ll know where I stand.

Connor blew out two more smoke rings into the heady atmosphere of The Ploughman.

I hope that you’ll agree to join. I can guarantee an interesting ride.

Later that night, Adam pondered on these words as he lay on his bed in the small room in the shared house