Flawed

By Oliver T. Spedding

Edward Horner was born with a silver spoon in his mouth but the spoon is tarnished as he suffers from a debilitating lack of self respect and self confidence. This has dire consequences for him in his later years as he squanders his inherited fortune due to his irrational determination to prove himself. It also creates an inability to confidently implement his own creative ideas.
Edward's marriage to Cynthia fails as he avoids the responsibilities of marriage and fatherhood. His relationships and the various enterprises that he attempts to establish all fail as a result of his lack of self-confidence and his failure to be forceful about his opinions. Frustration at his helplessness and fear of failure become his constant companions. Coupled with this is his failure to provide for his old age due to his incessant unrealistic imaginings of success and wealth. Dream follows dream until suddenly there is no time for another dream.
As Edward's deteriorating financial status gains momentum, he becomes the victim of his own naïve and desperate behaviour. The position of weakness that he constantly finds himself in adds to his frustration and despair. Belatedly he begins to see the error of his ways but is incapable of changing the debilitating self image and lack of confidence that he has been burdened with during his lifetime.
Edward's failure isn't solely of his own making though.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oliver Spedding
• Release date: Feb 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224733293

Oliver T. Spedding

I'm a freelance designer, writer, book illustrator and cartonist and artist.

Book preview

One day in late autumn, as I walked to the nearby shopping centre, a man carrying a large suitcase approached me. He was above average in height with black wavy hair, thick eyebrows above very dark brown eyes, a heavy moustache above a thick-lipped loose mouth and a weak chin.  Dressed in a shabby suit, a wrinkled white shirt and tie and dusty black shoes, he smiled confidently and spoke in a smooth, soft voice.

Good morning, sir. the man said, putting the suitcase down on the pavement beside him. I'm selling very good quality leather jackets. Would you be interested in looking at them?

With winter approaching, I needed a new jacket. I had torn the sleeve of my old one and the repair job that I'd done on it was very noticeable.

Okay. I said. As long as they're not stolen items.

No, no! the man exclaimed. I can assure you that they're not stolen.

He opened the suitcase and took out a jacket and held it up in front of me. It was a really good looking garment. I noticed that the stitching was sound and the garment had a substantial inner lining. The leather had a good sheen to it and the zipper was made of steel and not plastic. I tried it on and the fit was comfortable.

How much? I asked.

For you, sir, a very special price of one thousand Rand. the man said with a wide smile. In the shops it would sell for three times that price.

I was quite surprised at the price. For a garment of this quality it was a real bargain but I was still suspicious.

That's a great price. I said. Are you absolutely certain that it's not stolen?

Absolutely, sir. the man said. It is part of a large consignment of leather jackets that were brought into the country without the necessary permits and I was fortunate to be in the right place at the right time so I bought them from the Customs Department. If you are still worried about their origin, I can show you the receipt issued to me by the Customs Department.

No, I don't think that will be necessary. I said. Have you sold many?

Yes. the man replied. But I still have a great many to sell and there is only me and my assistant to sell them.

I stood looking at the jacket and thinking that this could be an opportunity for me.

Would you be prepared to sell me a quantity of the jackets? I asked. I have a lot of contacts and I'm sure that I could sell them quite easily.

Most definitely, sir. the man replied. I have far too many for me and my assistant to sell on our own. If you were to take a quantity of the jackets I would be prepared to give them to you at eight hundred Rand each.

What quantity would I have to take? I asked.

Fifty.

I did some sums in my head. Fifty jackets at eight hundred Rand each came to forty thousand, but if I could sell them even at two thousand Rand each I would make a killing. Sixty thousand Rand profit, to be exact. At two thousand Rand I felt sure that I could get a number of retailers to take them. They could then sell them at three thousand Rand which was still a very competitive price. And, perhaps there were more items where these came from.

Okay. I said. I'll need a few days to think about it and make enquiries with regard to the market. I'll also need a copy of the receipt from the Customs Department. Also, I want an exclusive area in which to sell the jackets. I don't want you selling in any area that I would be selling in. By the way, I'm Edward Horner.

My name's James Sleedy. the man replied as he reached into his shirt pocket and took out a card which he handed to me. Here are all my contact details. You can check up on them if you want to. If you decide to buy the jackets we can work out a suitable area for you to sell in and me and my assistant will not sell in that area

We shook hands.

Call me as soon as you've made your decision. James said. But don't wait too long. I need to sell the jackets as quickly as possible. In the mean time, take this jacket so that you can show your prospective customers.

I took the jacket and left.

When I got home I began thinking of how I would finance the deal. I had enough in my savings to finance the transaction myself and by doing so I would avoid paying interest on a loan from the bank. I had changed my three-month-notice savings account to a call account so that my money could be more easily accessed.

I showed the sample jacket to a number of clothing retailers all of whom were prepared to buy small quantities at two thousand Rand. They would then sell them at three thousand Rand. All of them though, insisted that I supply them with a copy of the receipt from the Customs Department, something that I assured them I would do. Once I was sure that I could move all fifty jackets, I 'phoned James.

James sounded very relieved when I told him that I would be able take fifty jackets. He insisted that payment had to be C.O.D. Once I had seen the jackets and accepted that they were in good order, payment had to be made in cash. I agreed to this but reminded him that without a certified copy of the receipt from the Customs Department there was no deal. He agreed to this. We arranged to meet in his office two days later.

I withdrew the money from my call account in small amounts over the next two days to avoid attracting attention to myself and laying myself open to the possibility of being mugged or robbed after leaving the bank. I hid the money in a drawer of my desk in the cottage and made a rough money belt to carry the money in when I went to collect the jackets. Fifty jackets would be quite bulky but I was sure that I would be able to fit them all into my little truck. When I spoke to James about it, he agreed.

On the appointed day I put on my money belt with the money in it under my shirt and left for James' office which was in a nearby town. I had some trouble finding the address as there was very little signage on any of the buildings in the area. Eventually I asked a pedestrian who pointed out the building to me. It was a dilapidated old building in a rather rundown area. Papers littered the pavement and there was a pungent odour of rotting trash in the air. I parked my small truck nearby, hoping that it wouldn't be stolen while I was doing the deal with James.

James' office was on the ground floor at the back of the building with a handwritten sign tacked onto the door with drawing pins announcing that these were the offices of SLEEDY CLOTHING SALES. I walked into the front office. The only furniture in the room was an old desk and two chairs. An old calendar, two years out of date, hung on the back wall. James got up from his chair behind the desk. We shook hands.

Have you brought the money? he asked. I only use these offices for meetings and to store my goods. That's why there's so little furniture. Most of the time me and my assistant, Simon, are on the road selling our wares. By the way, in a few weeks time I'll be getting a new stock of clothing. Mainly good quality denim jeans and good leather shoes. Would you be interested?

Yes. I replied. But first I must move the jackets. Are they here?

James pointed over his shoulder to the open doorway behind him.

Yes. Simon is busy packing them and he'll bring in shortly. Can we get the financial part done first?

Okay. I said. Have you got the certified copy of the receipt from the Customs Department?

James pushed an envelope that had been lying on the desk top towards me. I took out the document inside. It was headed with the Custom Department's name, logo and contact details, had an official stamp certifying that it was a certified copy and was signed by the Department's director. It stated that the bearer had purchased two hundred leather jackets from the Customs Department, the jackets being part of a consignment of goods brought into the country without the necessary permits. It looked sufficiently original and authentic and I accepted it.

I put the document back into the envelope, put it into my shirt pocket and took off my money belt. Carefully I counted out the notes while James watched intently. As soon as James was satisfied that all the money was there he gave me a receipt that he had already prepared. He put the money into his jacket pocket and shouted over his shoulder.

Simon! You can start bringing in the boxes of jackets!

A young man with long black hair and a swarthy complexion, dressed in a white T-shirt, blue denim jeans and white running shoes appeared in the doorway.

I won't be a minute. he said. Some of the boxes are damaged and I need to tape them up so that the bottoms don't break.

Okay. James said. Do it as quickly as you can. We don't want to keep Mister Horner waiting.

Simon disappeared into the back room and I heard him moving about busily.

So, have you managed to sell all the jackets? James asked.

Yes. I've sold most of them to retailers and a few to friends of mine.

Good! Good! James exclaimed with a big smile.

James glanced over his shoulder towards the open door behind him.

What's the problem, Simon? he shouted. Start bringing in the boxes. We haven't got all day!

Okay. Simon shouted back. I'm struggling a bit with this particular box. It's badly broken.

James got up from his chair.

I'll go and help him. he said to me, shaking his head.

James left the room and I heard him telling Simon how to repair the damaged box. I could hear the two men moving about and grunting as they struggled with the boxes. Then there was silence.

I waited for about a minute but when I still didn't hear any sounds coming from the back room I stood up and hurried to the door. I peered into the dimly lit room. The only items in the room were several boxes. James and Simon were not there. I opened the boxes. They were all empty. Then I saw the open door at the far end of the room. I rushed to it and looked out into the alley that led to the street. Apart from piles of rotting cardboard boxes and other rubbish, the lane was empty.

Then the realisation of what had happened hit me. James and Simon had disappeared with my money. The whole thing had been a big scam. I was so shocked that I lurched into the alleyway and vomited into some long grass. Then I staggered down the lane to the street. James and Simon were nowhere in sight. People walked past, some stared at me curiously, others ignored me. I tried to ask for help but I was so shocked that the only sound that came out of my mouth was a hoarse croak. I felt as if I was dreaming a nightmare. The hollow feeling in my stomach was back. I blinked my eyes rapidly as I tried to come to terms with my predicament. I had lost all my money. I was ruined. I stood on the pavement in a daze, no longer seeing anything, my whole body cold. I felt my will to live fade away. I collapsed against the wall of the building and began to cry.

***

I laid charges of fraud and theft at the police station but the police weren't very encouraging when I asked about the chances of catching the suspects. Obviously the name James Sleedy wasn't my adversary's real name and, although the fingerprint experts had dusted the two rooms thoroughly, they hadn't been able to lift any clear prints. The envelope and document as well as the receipt that I had been given also proved to be of no use. The only prints on them were so smudged that they were useless. Now I knew why James had pushed the envelope across the desk to me and not handed it to me.

I helped the police draw up an identikit of the two suspects and these, together with their descriptions, were circulated throughout the country. The police didn't hold out much hope that this would lead to an arrest though. The certified receipt from the customs department turned out to be a forgery and efforts to establish where it had originated, proved futile. The jacket that James had given to me as a sample had to be confiscated by the police as it had come from a consignment of clothing that had been stolen from a large importer and could be useful as evidence if the matter ever went to court.

I felt as if I was living in a nightmare. A large portion of my life's savings had been lost with absolutely no possibility of it ever being recovered. What I had left was pitiful. I struggled to cope with the disaster that had befallen me. I was sixty five and the prospect of me ending up on the street was becoming more and more of a reality. That night I lay in my bed, frightened and depressed. The image of my living the rest of my life in abject poverty terrified me. In the morning when I woke up I couldn't open my eyes. I wanted to stay in the darkness rather than face the reality that the day would bring.

The following morning I had to force my eyes to open, I had to force myself to get out of bed, force myself to shower and shave, force myself to get dressed, force myself to eat breakfast and force myself to go out and try and find a way to earn money with which to live.

I stopped going for my early morning run and began drinking more than usual. I began buying cheap boxed wine and although I tried to limit my drinking I always drank far more that I intended to. Life was a drag from morning to night and even then I got no respite. I struggled to fall asleep and when I did, I slept restlessly, waking up frequently and being aware of that familiar hollow feeling in my stomach. Fear of my future and what it held for me was my constant companion.

I avoided telling anyone about my experience for fear that they would ridicule me for my stupidity and greed. And that was really what it was. How could I have been so gullible? I asked myself. In hindsight I shook my head at my foolishness. I berated myself for not first trying to get a loan from the bank. They would have pointed out the error of my ways. They would have told me that the whole thing was a fraud. They probably would have even told me to go to the police. But no, my greed in wanting to save a few Rand in interest had led me to use my own money. Without a doubt the bank would have convinced me that I was making a mistake by entering into the arrangement with James, but it was too late now. I had lost once again. The spectre of living the rest of my life in abject poverty was becoming more and more of a reality and this horrified me.

CHAPTER 2

I was born in our small mining town in South Africa just as the Second World War in Europe was coming to an end. The town was divided into three distinct communities; the residential suburbs that surrounded the central business area were reserved for the white citizens of the town while its black inhabitants were restricted to a large township to the south-east and a smaller township to the north-west.

The dominant feature of the town was a huge mound of white sand over three hundred metres high to the south of the business area, a monument to the blood and sweat that had been required to establish the rich gold mine that was responsible for the settlement's existence. Regardless of where you were in the town, this man-built hill was always visible, and when the wind blew from the south in winter everything in the town was covered in a fine film of white sand.

The fact that this sand contained some very dangerous chemicals that were required for the extraction of the gold from the finely milled rock was ignored by the mining companies and the health authorities and the region was said to have the highest incidence of nose and throat complaints in the country. Thousands of miners had died in the past from phthisis, a disease of the respiratory system caused by the inhalation of dust in the mine shafts due to the absence of adequate dust protection equipment.  

My mother, Daphne, featured in most of my early memories. A woman of medium height with fair hair and brown eyes, she was an active person both socially and in pursuit of her own interests which were mainly art and music. Always soft-spoken, with a ready smile and a lovely sense of humour, she could also be stern and even pedantic when she thought it necessary. Her gentle nature showed up very noticeably in her art and the way she played the piano. She encouraged me to draw and paint and spent many hours explaining how shadows created shapes, where to put highlights, how to visualise what I wanted to draw and what perspective meant. My father took no interest in my art and scorned the renderings that my mother showed him.

Why do you waste your time teaching him about art? he would ask. Art won't get him anywhere in life. In fact, I don't think he'll succeed at anything. He's quite useless at everything he tries to do.

My father, Albert Horner, was also of medium height with black hair that he combed straight back from his forehead. His very pale blue eyes were small and watery. His large nose was underscored by a thin black moustache and his thin mouth sagged at the ends. Well known for his quick temper and his impatience with other people, he was quite old fashioned in his outlook preferring slightly out of date clothing and habits to anything more modern. Apart from his large manufacturing business and golf, he had no other interests. Wealth was something that always impressed my father and he was quick to judge others according to what they possessed and not for what they actually were.

He liked to frequent clubs and belonged to just about all the clubs in our town and served on most of their committees. He was also an accomplished name-dropper and would frequently exaggerate his relationships with famous people. This often backfired on him when the people he claimed to know so well, failed to recognise him. He also criticised people in their absence and to me, this habit of running other people down behind their backs seemed hypocritical. The fact that he often used his anger to get his way or win a point in an argument also confirmed this. His determination to succeed in business clouded his outlook and he often used his wealth to compare himself to other less wealthy people.

As an impressionable child I think that my father's use of anger to get his own way induced in me the same trait and I used it with mixed results for most of my life. However, whenever my anger was challenged I was quick to back down. In my early years I wasn't conscious of my use of anger to get my own way; all I was doing was duplicating my father's behaviour. Because my father did it, it must be right.

My father began his business career working in a large bank and it was here that he met Rowland Burle, a German immigrant who had worked in Germany as a lead burner, building and lining tanks with lead for the chemical industry. On arriving in South Africa Burle had set up his own lead burning business with some of the largest chemical companies in the country as his clients. He trained his own artisans and then began to branch out into lead products such as radiation shielding, lead sleeves for high voltage cables, roof washers, fishing sinkers, roof cladding and flashing and soundproof materials.

While working at the bank my father heard of an opportunity in the copper extraction industry for lead anodes that were used in the electrolytic process used to extract copper. He approached Burle with a proposition to arrange for Burle's company to be awarded the contract to supply the anodes. In return my father wanted a half-share in the business. Burle agreed and my father left the bank and began working into the lead business.

The new partnership was named Crown Lead Works and over the next fifteen years the business flourished. In 1938 though, Burle, who was single and had no children, died of a heart attack and in his will he left his share of the business to my father.

The business continued to grow under my father's stewardship and by the early nineteen sixties it had become one of the most prosperous manufacturing businesses in the area.

Every year during the summer break my parents and I would go on holiday to the seaside. One of my earliest memories of these holidays was when I was about six years old. We travelled by car to a port city that had long stretches of light beige beach. Because the wind tends to blow a great deal in this location the city is known as the windy city and one of the popular pastimes during the holiday season is kite flying.

My mother bought me a colourful kite with a long tail and a large ball of string to fly it with. On the first morning of our holiday we went to the beach, taking the kite with us. The wind was quite fresh and my mother and I began trying to fly the kite while my father sat in his deckchair and watched us. Neither of us knew anything about kite flying and we spent a long time trying to get the kite to stay in the air. The kite kept rising into the air and then diving down into the sand and we couldn't understand why.

Albert, why does the kite keep diving into the sand? my mother asked.

My father got up from his chair.

The tail's too short. he said. With the wind as strong as it is, it needs a longer tail.

My father walked to where our car was parked and returned with the piece of old cloth that he used to clean the windscreen. He tore it into strips and knotted the strips onto the end on the kite's tail.

The stronger the wind is, the longer the tail needs to be. my father said as he handed the kite to me and held the roll of string in his hand.

Walk away from me backwards with the kite held above your head while I let out some of the string. my father told me as he pointed in the direction that I should walk. "When I tell you to stop, keep the