Hitler's Sock: A novella in the Pratt International series

PART ONE

The Button Factory

Chapter 1

Until recently, Frederick Coate-Duffel had always been secure in the knowledge that the wealth generated by the business established by his ancestors would continue to provide a comfortable income for him, his family, and subsequent generations of Coate-Duffels.

The question of there being future generations of Coate-Duffels was however a delicate one. In spite of a series of spectacularly unsuccessful personal relationships, Frederick had no offspring of his own, and he knew that this subject was a major bee in the queen bee bonnet of Cecilia, his mother. As the undisputed matriarch of the Coate-Duffel dynasty, Cecilia was very much at odds with Primrose, Frederick’s current fiancee, over the question of lineage. Primrose’s philosophy was essentially that of an alternative lifestyle, green politics, eating vegetables and saving the planet. Family fortunes, bloodlines, and overpopulating the world with messy children who only contributed to carbon emissions and poisoning the environment, were certainly not on Primrose’s agenda.

Nor did the question of lineage appear to be high on the priority list for Frederick’s siblings. Their priorities consisted of ensuring that the income from the old family money was sufficient to ensure financial comfort while they pursued their various hedonistic and oddball activities.

His younger sister, Fenella, was obsessed with social status, a neurosis exacerbated by the fact that she was married to a particularly obnoxious politician, Sebastian Salt. Sebastian was the deputy leader of a shadowy extreme political group, striving to achieve a higher profile, with ambitions of forming a coalition at the next general election. The general direction of the Superior People’s Alliance, known by the acronym SUPA was unfortunately all too clear, but policy details had yet to be defined in their manifesto, shortly to be announced.

Then there was the youngest sibling, Archie. Archie had dropped out of university to pursue his passions of smoking dope, and collecting music festival programmes, old bus tickets and cigarette cards.

Try as he might, Frederick could not find a single valid reason why his mother’s obsession with perpetuating the Coate-Duffel line should be given the time of day. Apart from himself, tasked with keeping the family business going, none of the others had done a day’s work in their lives.

As he drove his shiny new black Range Rover through the suburbs of Grimston, Frederick could not suppress a smirk. The Coate-Duffel family were about to experience a shock. Mind you, he knew that it meant things would be changing for him as well. Just as well he be bought the Range Rover when he did.

He was now on the outer edge of the Grimston industrial estate, and turned the into a leafy country lane. It was a cul-de sac, at the end of which was an early Victorian red brick two storey factory building.

The sign at the entrance announced the building as being The Grimston Button Factory. Prop. Fred’k. K. Coate-Duffel.

Frederick turned into the car park, which was almost empty. Five years earlier, he would have had to rely on his reserved plot to guarantee a parking space. Now, the vehicles in the car park were limited to two other cars, both of them old bangers, an ancient moped and a couple of bicycles.

Frederick climbed out of the Range Rover, crossed the car park and entered the reception. Not so long ago this would have been a busy area with people milling around and a receptionist in attendance. Now there was no one except for Ernie the security guard, Grimston Buttons longest serving employee.

‘Morning Ernie. How’s it going?’ asked Frederick as he passed the reception desk where Ernie was sat with a mug of tea reading The Sun.

‘Quiet,’ murmered Ernie glumly, laying the paper down. ‘No telephone calls. No visitors. There was a little post. I’ve left it on your desk.’

Frederick stuck his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and shuffled to his office, stopping briefly to look at a series of large museum type display cabinets, now gathering dust, in the centre of the reception area. These showcases, together with several more mounted on the walls, contained exhibits of more than three hundred years of Grimston Buttons production, the artifacts that had been responsible for producing the wealth of the Coate-Duffel dynasty. There were military buttons, navel and air force buttons, buttons for the police, buttons for fashion houses, and buttons for work clothes. There were large buttons, small buttons, buttons made made of brass, steel, plastic and pearl.

This collection of literally thousands of buttons, many with specific historic or artistic significance, was generally acclaimed to be the most extensive, and the most valuable button collection in the world. Much to Frederick’s irritation, the collection was no longer limited solely to buttons. Of necessity the company had recently had to diversify to satisfy market demand, and now also produced various types of fabric and zip fasteners which were displayed in one of the less conspicuous corners of one of the more remote showcases.

Frederick passed into the corridor, opened the door to his comfortable, wood panelled office, and let out an audible sigh as he slumped into his high backed leather chair. He looked at the silver letter opener, unable to summon the will to open the first of the envelopes that Ernie had placed neatly on the blotter.

He put his elbows on the desk, and rested his chin in his hands. He could not really see there was anything more he could do. There was a global recession. Nobody wanted British buttons any more. They were being produced in China and India at a fraction of the price, and he just could not compete. There were cash flow problems, and the business was in freefall. There was a banking crisis, and the banks were just not lending.

He knew instinctively what the contents of two of the letters would be. The first was from the Grimston Building Society. Unbeknown to the rest of the family, Frederick had secured a mortgage on the button factory at the beginning of the downturn. It was the only source of finance available. This letter was not only rejecting his request for further funds, but was threatening foreclosure if he did not settle his rapidly amounting arrears.

The second letter was from the bank. The business had exceeded its’ overdraft facility by a considerable amount, and again no more funds were to be made available. They also were threatening action for recovery of monies owed.

It was just as well, thought Frederick, that his parasitic family had modest trust fund incomes, as their milking of the traditional family business was about to come to an abrupt end. But there was one last chance.

He picked up the third envelope, a large formal communication, and checked the sender’s address on the back. He had been waiting for this.

The wave of recent governmental austerity cuts had been accompanied by official