One morning Mr McCosh stood on the top doorstep of the house, berating the grocer, Mr Ives, who stood before him at the bottom of the steps with his brown shop coat and apron on and his cap in his hands. Mr McCosh was in an uncharacteristically bad temper because both the Malay Rubber Company and the Argentine Railway Company had failed to pay dividends on time, and consequently he was temporarily in a state of deep financial embarrassment. Mr Ives was a solid fellow with a glossy chestnut-brown moustache, and one of his ears flopped over where it had been creased by a bullet.
‘Ives, how dare you?’ bellowed Mr McCosh. ‘How dare you come here demanding money in broad daylight? Have you no respect, man?’
‘I have respect for those who pay their account when it’s due, sir. Those who don’t, sir, I consider to be thieves and scoundrels.’
Mr McCosh was astonished. ‘You are calling me a thief and a scoundrel, man?’
‘You owe me for six months’ provisions,’ replied Mr Ives. ‘I have four employees, a wife and four children. You are not doing your duty by them, sir, when you force me to put them off work, or when my children get no meat and can’t have shoes. You either pay me, sir, or you will oblige me to instruct a bailiff.’
‘A bailiff? A bailiff?!’
‘The bailiff, sir, will enter your property, by force if necessary, and remove goods to the value that you owe, sir.’
‘I know what a bailiff is, Ives. You are threatening me with a bailiff? Do you know who I am, my man? Do you know what I do? I am an investor, a speculator! I build ships and railways and invest in rubber and gas masks and gadgets! Sometimes I have no money at all and sometimes I have an absurd amount. I move it around the world. For six months I have had nothing, and next Monday I will have an absurd amount.’
‘Next Monday, sir?’
‘Yes, next Monday. Now get out of my sight, before I call the police.’
‘You are welcome to call the police,’ said Mr Ives.
‘Away with you, man, away with you!’
Mr Ives turned and walked away, with considerable dignity.
When he returned the following Monday, Millicent fetched Mr McCosh, who emerged moments later carrying an envelope. Instead of touching his cap and leaving, as expected, Mr Ives tore open the envelope and inspected its contents.
‘You have overpaid, sir,’ said Mr Ives.
‘No, I haven’t,’ retorted Mr McCosh impatiently, ‘I’ve paid not only the account but the outstanding interest on the money owed.’
‘That’s very good of you, sir,’ said Mr Ives, ‘but I would rather have the debts paid on time. In my business cash flow is everything. Without the flow, everything seizes up, sir.’
‘Quite, quite.’
Mr Ives withdrew an unsealed envelope from his pocket and handed it to Mr McCosh. ‘Be so kind as to deal with this now,’ he said.
Mr McCosh opened it and unfolded the paper within. He read: ‘ “I Hamilton McCosh promise henceforth to pay Mr Ives for his provisions promptly on the due date at the end of each month.” A contract?’
‘Yes, sir, it’s a contract. You sign and date it immediately, sir, or you will kindly take your business elsewhere.’
‘This is outrageous! It’s unheard of!’
‘You have the choice, sir. If you do not pay on time, the following week your kitchen will receive my third-quality box, and the week after it will receive nothing.’
‘Third quality, man?’
‘Third quality. It’s a box with the bruised apples and broken biscuits. Things a bit old and dried out, sir. Dented tins. Bread that’s about to turn or got some mildew you can scrape off. It’s what I do for those that’s down on their luck, sir, and that way nothing gets wasted and the poor folk get something to eat.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Hamilton McCosh. He could envisage Cookie’s reaction upon receipt of such a box, and the prospect was not one to be relished.
‘I will take my trade elsewhere!’ threatened Mr McCosh.
‘You won’t, sir, although you may attempt it. All of us round here, we have a blacklist, and we let each other know who not to do business with. You may find yourself, sir, going to market with a basket on your arm and buying third-quality stuff from duckers and divers.’
‘Wait here,’ said Mr McCosh, and he went into the morning room and signed and dated the contract.
‘I appreciate it, sir,’ said Mr Ives, tucking the sheet back into its envelope, and installing it in the pocket of his apron. ‘And another thing I’d appreciate, sir.’
‘Yes, man?’
‘You will no longer address me as “man” or “Ives”. I will address you as “sir”, and you will address me as “Mr Ives”. I was a company sergeant major by the end of the war and I got used to the officers calling me “mister”, so I am sticking with it.’
‘Good God! Whatever next?! Whatever happened to deference?’
‘Died of wounds at Wipers,’ replied Mr Ives. ‘When you’ve been lumped together with people from all walks of life, deference ends up going to those who’ve earned it.’ He touched his cap, turned on his heel and fetched his bicycle from where it had been leaning against the gate pillar. He mounted it and rode back to Mottingham with a light heart.