was 26 when my grandfather died. Not that my age had really anything to do with it, but it serves to place events in time.
I did not know him well. My parents had moved to the another part of the country when I was young and kept only intermittent contact with the rest of the family, so it was with some surprise that I read the letter from his solicitor, asking me to visit him. It was a long way to travel and not a particularly convenient time as I was particularly busy so I decided to try to find out what it was he wanted. If the initial letter had been a surprise, it came as an even bigger surprise to find out that I had been remembered in my grandfather's will. The solicitor, a Mr Cavers, was most insistent that I visit him as soon as I could. We agreed a date and I made arrangements for time off work. My boss, as I had known, was very reluctant to release me at what was our busiest time of the year.
After a long and arduous drive - why do they always decide to start roadworks just at the most inconvenient times - I arrived in the small town that my grandparents had retired to. At the appointed hour, I presented myself to the solicitor's office.
"Ah, Mr Evers, come in. I'm glad you could come. Please take a seat. Would you like some coffee?" The solicitor, a small, skeletal man, positively gushed.
"Coffee? Yes please," I said, taking the proffered chair.
When the coffee had arrived and once the necessary pleasantries, if that is the right word for a meeting with one's deceased grandfather's solicitor, had been dealt with, Mr Cavers leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.
"Well now, I suppose you've been wondering why I asked you to come all this way personally?" I nodded politely. "Your grandfather maintained a keen interest in you, you know." I didn't and immediately felt guilty. "Yes, despite the circumstances regarding your father, he took quite a shine to you." He smiled thinly. "Not a case of 'like father, like son,' eh?"
I nodded again, not having the faintest idea of what he was on about. He shuffled the papers on his desk fussily and picked some up. Adjusting his spectacles he continued. "As I mentioned on the phone, your grandfather has mentioned you in his will. Specifically, he has left you some money - quite a substantial sum, I might say."
He cleared his throat and read from the will. I whistled in surprise.
"That is a substantial sum, isn't it? I had no idea he was so rich." A thought struck me. "Er, I suppose he made adequate provision for everybody else?"
Mr Cavers looked at me over the top of his spectacles. "Oh," he said at last. "You mean, will the will be contested?" Again the thin smile. "I don't think so, unless your father should, um, feel left out?"
I shook my head. "I don't know what happened between them, Dad never mentioned it, but I don't think he's likely to fight his will."
"Well, in that case, the money should be yours without any trouble. It'll take a few months to get the estate settled but you'll, no doubt, be hearing from me in due course. By the way, what do you intend to do with it?"
His attempt at a casual enquiry was as false as a whore's come-on. I looked at him askance. "I hardly know, just yet. It's all come as a bit of a surprise."
"Indeed. Indeed," he said too heartily. "Well, when you've had a chance to digest things, please bear in mind that I acted for your grandfather for quite a number of years. Very successfully, if I say so myself. I can recommend some sound investments."
He rose from his chair.
"Of course. Thank you, you've been most kind," I replied, also rising and shaking the proffered hand.
I left the office in a kind of daze. If I wasn't filthy rich, at least I had some solid capital behind me. The long drive home did not appeal just yet so I sat in a nearby park for some time, thinking of nothing at all.
Things sort of returned to normal after that and the experience receded into dim obscurity - until the cheque arrived. It was real. Having the thing in my hand and seeing the numbers made it real. I was in a state of panic. What was I going to do with all this money? For a brief moment I considered calling Mr Cavers, but his oily unctuousness and his obvious desire to get his hands on the money held me back. It was a chance conversation in the pub that decided me.
"If you had some money to invest, what would you do?" I asked Tim as casually as I could.
"Property," he said without hesitation. "Forget stocks and shares, property's the thing."
"Property? You mean houses and things?"
"Yeh, houses. Property." He was more than a trifle drunk.
"But how do you make money out of houses?"
"Buy 'em and sell 'em. Buy 'em and sell 'em."
"I think you're pulling my leg, Tim."
He looked at me owlishly. "Have you seen the way house prices are rising these days?" He sighed, theatrically. "If only I'd the capital…"
I laughed for Tim was notorious for being unable to save a penny, and the conversation turned to other things.
But Tim's words stuck in my mind and I found myself stopping outside estate agent's windows and looking at the prices. I was astounded. By chance I saw a house in my area up for sale and let out a low whistle. The asking price was considerably more than I had paid for mine. On a whim, I went in. A sharply dressed man about my own age rose to greet me. I asked him about the house and his face fell, slightly.
"Yes, nice property, that. Not big but ideal for a couple with a young family. Quiet area with nearby amenities. Are you interested in buying?"
"Not exactly. I'm interested in investing."
He raised an eyebrow. "How so."
"I happen to have some money and I've been informed that property is a good investment."
He beamed. "It certainly is. But I wouldn't advise buying that property as an investment."
"Oh? Why not."
"Too stable. You buy it - then what are you going to do with it? You could rent it, but who wants a rented house on a residential estate. No, I wouldn't advise that house."
"I hadn't actually intended buying it," I confessed. "But as I live in that area, it seemed like a good place to start."
He beamed again. "Good thinking. Good thinking. Now what sort of return are you looking for on your investment?"
I looked at him blankly. "I don't know. What would you advise?"
He peered at me owlishly for a moment then broke into a broad grin. He relaxed back in his chair and dropped the professional manner. "How much do you know about the property market?"
"Not a thing," I cheerfully confessed.
He laughed. "Then it's a good thing you came to me. There are many who would have… But I mustn't be unprofessional, must I?"
He spent the next half hour giving me the ins and outs of investing in property. Almost despite myself I found myself warming to him. He seemed to know his stuff and had an infectious enthusiasm. I became quite excited at the prospect of buying and selling property.
"Well, you certainly seem to know the property market," I grinned at him when he finally wound down.
"Oh, I do. I do. There's no point in being modest about it. I really enjoy it and I've made a point of studying everything I can. In fact, if I had a free hand…" He stopped suddenly and stared at me with disconcerting intensity. He leant forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Look, are you serious about this investment thing?" I nodded. "Can I ask how much you had in mind? Only you don't look like you're rolling in money, if you'll forgive me saying so."
I suddenly realised how it must appear to him - an average man, not particularly well dressed - talking about investing substantial sums of money in property. I smiled.
"Let's just say I have a reasonable sum - an inheritance," I said.
"Ah. And you really have no fixed plans for what to do with it?"
"None at all."
"Hmm. Are you willing to gamble - take a risk with your investment? Speculate a bit?"
"Well… I don't know. That is, I have no fixed plans for the money - no real plans at all, to be honest. I might be willing to take a risk - but I'd have to know more about it."
"Quite right. I wasn't suggesting you put it all on the favourite in the 3:30. It's just that I might have a business proposition for you. Are you free this evening?"
"Business proposition?"
"Oh, nothing shady, I can assure you. But I'd like to talk about it away from here. Somewhere we can discuss things over at leisure."
We agreed a place and time and I walked away with a strange feeling that somehow I'd turned a corner in my life without quite realising it.
Over the next few weeks, Quentin and I - yes, his name really was Quentin - thrashed out our plan. In essence it was that Quentin's boss was getting on a bit and Quentin was not happy about the way the place was run - he felt that, with the property market the way it was, his firm should have been doing much better than it was. His idea was to buy the old man out. He had some money saved but not nearly enough and he needed a partner. But if he threw his lot in with another estate agent they would have ideas about how the business should be run - and Quentin had very clear ideas about what he wanted to do. Then, by happy chance, I appeared. I would be the perfect partner as I knew nothing about buying and selling property and, therefore, wouldn't interfere with his goals.
Surprisingly, Quentin and I got on well together. We were exactly the opposite and each seemed to offer what the other lacked. He was extroverted, decisive, impulsive, gregarious while I was much more of a drifter, content to let things go where they would, and much in less of a rush to get there.
Eventually, we got all the loose ends tied up and signed our partnership deal which we celebrated by getting completely blotto. To our delight, Quentin's boss was happy to sell up. It appeared that he, too, was not happy with the way the business was going. He was getting on a bit and realised that the world was changing. In short he was looking for a way out. That Quentin was to take over the business made him happy. He seemed to have great faith in Quentin, which made me happy, too, for it meant I might see some return in my investment. Naturally several more weeks elapsed before the lawyers were satisfied and Quentin and I took possession of our new premises.
"A great day, Don," he said solemnly as we toasted ourselves with champagne. "You won't regret it."
"I'm sure I won't, Quentin."
("That wasn't quite what I meant by 'investing in property,' complained Tim when I told him the news.)
So Quentin started our adventure in buying and selling and I started learning. If I was to be an estate agent, I felt that I should at least know something about the business. I soon discovered that I had no real aptitude for it - the legal side left me baffled, the customer side left me cold, the construction side left me irritated. In fact, the only bit I was any good at was the financial side - for which I found I had quite a flair.
A large map of the local area adorned my office and I became intrigued by the fact that some properties sold quickly and others didn't although there seemed to be nothing to choose between them. I soon had the map covered in coloured pins and then graduated to recording details on a computer. I began to see patterns in the data and replaced all the pins with coloured areas. Having got that sorted I began to predict which properties would sell easily and which would not. Soon I was more often right than wrong and felt very pleased with myself. Oh, it wasn't rocket science, by any means. It's fairly obvious that some areas are more desirable then others and therefore have better prices. But I found I could predict where properties would sell at higher prices than they, theoretically, should. I then attempted to build a model on the computer and, after many frustrations, eventually succeeded.
I showed my model to Quentin. He was sceptical. "It's an art, old boy, not a science." Slightly offended I offered him a challenge - I would predict the selling price and ease of sale of any 10 properties of his choice. If I was wrong I'd forget the whole thing but if I was right, we would use my model to direct our business. Quentin chose some stinkers and I waited with some trepidation for the sales to complete. As it turned out, I was pretty accurate on nine of the ten. In fact I had slightly underestimated the final prices.
"But that," I said, "is because you're an expert salesman, Quentin. My model doesn't cater for that."
I was perturbed about why I had been wrong with the tenth prediction until Quentin admitted sheepishly that he'd cheated and given me false information. We ran it again with the correct information and, once again I was pretty close.
"There," I said triumphantly. "It would have been ten out of ten if someone hadn't cheated."
He threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. I surrender. I admit your little computer is a genius." He stopped suddenly. "Actually, the tenth result was valid too."
"How so?"
"Because it gave a bad result from bad information. I knew it was wrong for I knew the sort of price-range that property should have sold for. So your system is cleverer than I thought."
"You've lost me."
"I gave you bad information deliberately. But suppose we didn't know our information was bad. We'd feed it into your machine and it would give us a bad prediction. Are you with me so far?" He was becoming quite excited.
"Yes, but I'm not sure how that helps us. We'll still make the wrong decision."
"Ah, yes, but only if we trust the system completely. What we do is compare the prediction against our experience and knowledge. If the prediction seems wildly out, we assume it's because our information is bad. And we go and check it."
"But what if the information is really good?"
"Then your machine is correct."
"Yes, but…"
"Look, all I'm saying is that we use your system from now on. But we double-check any result that doesn't seem to be right. It'll cost us a bit more in research but, in the long run, it'll pay off. Trust me."
I didn't fully understand what he was driving at but he was agreeing to use my model so I agreed with his plan and we went out to celebrate.
As it turned out, the celebration was justified. The model was frighteningly accurate and we soon gained a reputation for somehow knowing just where the new markets were and being in there first. There were envious references to 'crystal balls' from our competitors. Quentin and I just exchanged knowing smiles.
With the reputation came expansion and, within another year, we had hired two additional agents and an office staff of three, including a very decorative receptionist.
Quentin, I had quickly discovered, had an eye for the ladies and, with his increased earnings and status was often seen in the trendiest nightclubs, escorting a variety of attractive young things - and equally often moaning about his headache the following morning. His taste for high living, however, didn't seem to impair his abilities and we continued to flourish.
In the early days he was always encouraging me to join him. "You should get out more, Don. Live a little," he would say.
But, somehow, the jet-set lifestyle did not sit easy with me. Not that I lived like a hermit. I'd moved to a bigger house, which my model told me was a very sound investment, and did my share of wining and dining. But my heart wasn't in it. I still felt uncomfortable with the trappings of success so tended to live simply and a trifle frugally.
And so we expanded. Nothing, it seemed could stop us. Clients were practically begging us to take their business and we had a some of very nice deals with a couple of large corporations in the offing. The future looked rosy - until that fateful day.