‘Did you say chaos?’ she queried excitedly down the phone. It was nearly six o’clock and George Foster was still at his desk.
His voice came in staccato spasms: ‘Complete madness! Going crazy over there, selling… every last man jack – selling – for whatever they can get… The market there has crashed! Everyone’s going berserk – shares are tumbling, falling like rocks!’
She was having problems trying to catch his words, he was gabbling so – a man who always had control over himself no matter what, a soothing influence always.
‘I don’t understand,’ she stammered.
‘Then bloody well try to, Madeleine!’
Immediately controlling the outburst he began to voice his next words as if with an effort – slowly, deliberately, painfully even. ‘The American Stock Market in New York has crashed. It’s panic over there. People are selling – everything they have for anything they can get. Still going down as I speak. Do you understand what I am saying?’
Her earlier elation had plummeted and she found herself incapable of responding immediately, already seeing the implications, a disaster that could echo across the world. But what of her own investments, surely they wouldn’t be affected, not here in this country? She asked this question of him now.
‘We’ll have to wait and see.’
‘Should I consider selling?’ There was a long pause. ‘What are you thinking about your own portfolio?’ she pushed.
The pause lengthened then he said as if talking to himself. ‘Selling might be adding to the panic. It could be just a hiccup. Shares might easily recover by this evening. The only fear is that if they rise again after one’s got rid of them, one would look a fool – a broke fool. I don’t know.’
She’d never known him to be so uncertain. Fear caught hold of her. ‘What should I do?’ she said, her voice high and tiny.
There was another moment of silence before he said, ‘I can’t advise you, my dear, not in this instance.’
‘Then what do you intend doing?’
More silence. Then he said, slowly: ‘I think I’ll wait, see what happens. Trading may pick up later. You can never tell. It’s still around midday over there – still quite a few hours to go until the market closes. A lot can happen between now and then.’
His voice faded away leaving her wondering if she should trust in his superior judgement. She always had and had always profited by it, with very few exceptions, but this…
Perhaps tomorrow would see the market straightened out again and, come Monday, it would all be back to normal trading.
She relayed his words to Ronald. ‘Wait a while – see what happens over the next few hours.’
But he was being stubborn. ‘I feel I should sell now. I don’t care what he says,’ he said bullishly in the face of all her efforts to convince him, until she was near to losing her temper with him, something she had never done before.
‘All right, if that’s what you want,’ she snapped. ‘I’m done with trying to help and guide you. If you refuse to listen, I can’t make you.’
She was prepared to wait. If she made the wrong decision, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Her money was of course with her bank and more than healthy, able to deal with small setbacks. In the investment world one had to take into account the likelihood of a setback at any time; taking chances was all part of the game. But if Ronnie wanted to be silly it was up to him.
In her annoyance she vowed to wash her hands of helping him any more, moments later to ditch that decision. He would come to her, no doubt full of apologies and she, of course, would renew his losses, continue to fund him, as she’d always done. But he would have learned to take more note of what she said in future. In a way it gave a feeling of control.
But it was worrying, she and George Foster standing in the office reading the newspapers, all of them reporting what was happening on the other side of the Atlantic:
‘… an unprecedented wave of fear, confusion and panic – nearly thirteen million shares changed hands on the New York Stock Exchange today – dazed brokers waded through a sea of paper clutching frightened investors’ orders to “sell at any price”.’
Another paper reporting: ‘The market has ceased to function as such,’ and another: ‘mad clamour of salesmen looking for non-existent buyers. Stocks being dumped overboard for whatever they can bring.’
Yet another saying: ‘The spree of easy money and overconfidence is now ended, crushing the dreams of an army of small investors who have lost everything. Eleven said to have committed suicide.’
‘I think you should sell while you can,’ Foster said suddenly, his tone instantly alarming her even more.
The London market having opened, their tape machine was already showing a small drop in share prices. Yet something kept telling her not to yield to panic. Come tomorrow she would kick herself for yielding to a knee jerk reaction. What if she rushed out and sold huge parcels of shares at lower prices only to find that by Monday they would have gone up. To lose all that much over a moment of panic was stupid; to have to buy back at their higher price would be unthinkable. No, it was best to wait.
He didn’t argue. But she knew she was right and wondered at him for panicking. It wasn’t like him. Stubbornly she resisted the thought that he knew more than she and she’d be wise to take his advice as she had always done. He’d already dealt with Ronnie’s request, Ronnie all chirpy when she came back home, seeing a nice bank balance. So was she being a fool?
On Saturday she felt that she had made the right decision. Yes,
