As the Crow Flies

Chapter 25

I was walking down Chelsea Terrace with Tom Arnold on our Monday morning round when he first offered an opinion.

"It will never happen," I said.

"You could be right, sir, but at the moment a lot of the shopkeepers are beginning to panic."

"Bunch of cowards," I told him. "With nearly a million already unemployed there'll be only a handful who would be foolish enough to consider an all-out strike."

"Perhaps, but the Shops Committee is still advising its members to board up their windows."

"Syd Wrexall would advise his members to board up their windows if a Pekingese put a leg up against the front door of the Musketeer. What's more, the bloody animal wouldn't even have to piss."

A smile flickered across Tom's lips. "So you're prepared for a fight, Mr. Trumper?"

"You bet I am. I'll back Mr. Churchill all the way on this one." I stopped to check the window of hats and scarves. "How many people do we currently employ?"

"Seventy-one."

"And how many of those do you reckon are considering strike action?"

"Half a dozen, ten at the most would be my bet—and then only those who are members of the Shopworkers' Union. But there could still be the problem for some of our employees who wouldn't find it easy to get to work because of a public transport stoppage."

"Then give me all the names of those you're not sure of by this evening and I'll have a word with every one of them during the week. At least that way I might be able to convince one or two of them about their long-term future with the company."

"What about the company's long-term future if the strike were to go ahead?"

"When will you get it into your head, Tom, that nothing is going to happen that will affect Trumper's?"

"Syd Wrexall thinks—"

"I can assure you that's the one thing he doesn't do."

"—thinks that at least three shops will come on the market during the next month, and if there were to be a general strike there might be a whole lot more suddenly available. The miners are persuading—"

"They're not persuading Charlie Trumper," I told him. "So let me know the moment you hear of anyone who wants to sell, because I'm still a buyer."

"While everyone else is a seller?"

"That's exactly when you should buy," I replied. "The time to get on a tram is when everyone else is getting off. So let me have those names, Tom. Meanwhile, I'm going to the bank." I strode off in the direction of Knightsbridge.

In the privacy of his new Brompton Road office Hadlow informed me that Trumper's was now holding a little over twelve thousand pounds on deposit: an adequate buttress, he considered, were there to be a general strike.

"Not you as well," I said in exasperation. "The strike will never take place. Even if it does, I predict it'll be over in a matter of days."

"Like the last war?" said Hadlow as he peered back at me over his half-moon spectacles. "I am by nature a cautious man, Mr. Trumper—"

"Well, I'm not," I said, interrupting him. "So be prepared to see that cash being put to good use."

"I have already earmarked around half the sum, should Mrs. Trentham fail to take up her option on Number 1," he reminded me. "She still has"—he turned to check the calendar on the wall—"fifty-two days left to do so."

"Then I would suggest this is going to be a time for keeping our nerve."

"If the market were to collapse, it might be wise not to risk everything. Don't you think, Mr. Trumper?"

"No, I don't, but that's why I'm—" I began, only just managing to stop myself venting my true feelings.

"It is indeed," replied Hadlow, making me feel even more embarrassed. "And that is also the reason I have backed you so wholeheartedly in the past," he added magnanimously.

As the days passed I had to admit that a general strike did look more and more likely. The air of uncertainty and lack of confidence in the future meant that first one shop and then another found its way onto the market.

I purchased the first two at knockdown prices, on the condition that the settlement was immediate, and thanks to the speed with which Crowther completed the paperwork and Hadlow released the cash, I was even able to add boots and shoes, followed by the chemist's, to my side of the ledger.

When the general strike finally began—on Tuesday, 4 May 1926—the colonel and I were out on the streets at first light. We checked over every one of our properties from the north end to the south. All Syd Wrexall's committee members had already boarded up their shops, which I considered tantamount to giving in to the strikers. I did agree, however, to the colonel's plan for "operation lock-up," which on a given signal from me allowed Tom Arnold to have all thirteen shops locked and bolted within three minutes. On the previous Saturday I had watched Tom carry out several "practice runs," as he called them, to the amusement of the passersby.

Although on the first morning of the strike the weather was fine and the streets were crowded the only concession I made to the milling throng was to keep all foodstuff from numbers 147 and 131 off the pavements.

At eight Tom Arnold reported to me that only five employees had failed to turn up for work, despite spectacular traffic jams causing public transport to be held up for hours on end—and even one of those was genuinely ill.

As the colonel and I strolled up and down Chelsea Terrace we were met by the occasional insult but I didn't sense any real mood of violence and, everything considered, most people were surprisingly good-humored. Some of the lads even started playing football in the street.

The first sign of any real unrest came on the second morning, when a brick was hurled through the front window of Number 5, jewelry and watches. I saw two or three young thugs grab whatever they could from the main window display before running off down the Terrace. The crowd became restless and began shouting slogans so I gave the signal to Tom Arnold, who was about fifty yards up the road, and he immediately blew six blasts on his whistle. Within the three minutes the colonel had stipulated every one of our shops was locked and bolted. I stood my ground while the police moved in and several people were arrested. Although there was a lot of hot air blowing about, within an hour I was able to instruct Tom that the shops could be reopened and that we should continue serving customers as if nothing had happened. Within three hours hardware had replaced the window of Number 5—not that it was a morning for buying jewelry.

By Thursday, only three people failed to turn up for work, but I counted four more shops in the Terrace that had been boarded up. The streets seemed a lot calmer. Over a snatched breakfast I learned from Becky that there would be no copy of The Times that morning because the printers were on strike, but in defiance the government had brought out their own paper, the British Gazette, a brainchild of Mr. Churchill, which informed its readers that the railway and transport workers were now returning to work in droves. Despite this, Norman Cosgrave, the fishmonger at Number 11, told me that he'd had enough, and asked how much I was prepared to offer him for his business. Having agreed on a price in the morning we walked over to the bank that same afternoon to close the deal. One phone call made sure that Crowther had the necessary documents typed up, and Hadlow had filled in a check by the time we arrived, so all that was required of me was a signature. When I returned to Chelsea Terrace I immediately put Tom Arnold in charge of the fishmonger's until he could find the right manager to take Cosgrave's place. I never said anything to him at the time, but it was to be several weeks after Tom had handed over to a lad from Billingsgate before he finally rid himself of the lingering smell.

The general strike officially ended on the ninth morning, and by the last day of the month I had acquired another seven shops in all. I seemed to be running constantly backwards and forwards to the bank, but at least every one of my acquisitions was at a price that allowed Hadlow an accompanying smile, even if he warned me that funds were running low.

At our next board meeting, I was able to report that Trumper's now owned twenty shops in Chelsea Terrace, which was more than the Shops Committee membership combined. However, Hadlow did express a view to the board that we should now embark on a long period of consolidation if we wanted our recently acquired properties to attain the same quality and standard as the original thirteen. I made only one other proposal of any significance at that meeting, which received the unanimous backing of my colleagues—that Tom Arnold be invited to join the board.

I still couldn't resist spending the odd hour sitting on the bench opposite Number 147 and watching the transformation of Chelsea Terrace as it took place before my eyes. For the first time I could differentiate between those shops I owned and those that I still needed to acquire, which included the fourteen owned by Wrexall's committee members—not forgetting either the prestigious Number 1 or the Musketeer.

Seventy-two days had passed since the auction, and although Mr. Fothergill still purchased his fruit and vegetables regularly from Number 147 he never uttered a word to me as to whether or not Mrs. Trentham had fulfilled her contract. Joan Moore informed my wife that her former mistress had recently received a visit from Mr. Fothergill, and although the cook had not been able to hear all the conversation there had definitely been raised voices.

When Daphne came to visit me at the shop the following week I inquired if she had any inside information on what Mrs. Trentham was up to.

"Stop worrying about the damned woman," was all Daphne had to say on the subject. "In any case," she added, "the ninety days will be up soon enough, and frankly, you should be more worried about your Part 11 than Mrs. Trentham's financial problems."

"I agree. But if I go on at this rate, I won't have completed the necessary work before next year," I said, having selected twelve perfect plums for her before placing them on the weighing machine.

"You're always in such a hurry, Charlie. Why do things always have to be finished by a certain date?"

"Because that's what keeps me going."

"But Becky will be just as impressed by your achievement if you manage to finish a year later."

"It wouldn't be the same," I told her. "I'll just have to work harder."

"There are only a given number of hours in each day," Daphne reminded me. "Even for you."

"Well, that's one thing I can't be blamed for."

Daphne laughed. "How's Becky's thesis on Luini coming along?"

"She's completed the bloody thing. Just about to check over the final draft of thirty thousand words, so she's still well ahead of me. But what with the general strike and acquiring all the new properties, not to mention Mrs. Trentham, I haven't even had time to take Daniel to see West Ham this season." Charlie started placing her order in a large brown paper bag.

"Has Becky discovered what you're up to yet?" Daphne asked.

"No, and I make sure I only disappear completely whenever she's working late at Sotheby's or off cataloguing some grand collection. She still hasn't noticed that I get up every morning at four-thirty, which is when I put in the real work." I passed over the bag of plums and seven and tenpence change.

"Proper little Trollope, aren't we?" remarked Daphne. "By the way, I still haven't let Percy in on our secret, but I can't wait to see the expression on their faces when—"

"Shhh, not a word . . ."

When you have been chasing something for a long time it's strange how the final prize so often lands in your lap just when you least expect it.

I was serving at Number 147 that morning. It always annoyed Bob Makins to see me roll up my sleeves, but I do enjoy a little chat with my old customers, and lately it was about the only chance I had to catch up on the gossip, as well as an occasional insight into what the customers really thought of my other shops. However, I confess that by the time I served Mr. Fothergill the queue stretched nearly all the way to the grocery shop which I knew Bob still regarded as a rival.

"Good morning," I said, when Mr. Fothergill reached the front of the queue. "And what can I offer you today, sir? I've got some lovely—"

"I wondered if we could have a word in private, Mr. Trumper?"

I was so taken by surprise that I didn't reply immediately. I knew Mrs. Trentham still had another nine days to go before she had to complete her contract and I had assumed I would hear nothing before then. After all, she must have had her own Hadlows and Crowthers to do all the paperwork.

"I'm afraid the storeroom is the only place available at the moment," I warned. I removed my green overall, rolled down my sleeves and replaced my jacket. "You see, my manager now occupies the flat above," I explained as I led the auctioneer through to the back of the shop.

I offered him a seat on an upturned orange box while pulling up another box opposite him. We faced each other, just a few feet apart, like rival chess players. Strange surroundings, I considered, to discuss the biggest deal of my life. I tried to remain calm.

"I'll come to the point straight away," said Fothergill. "Mrs. Trentham has not been in touch for several weeks and lately she has been refusing to answer my calls. What's more, Savill's has made it abundantly clear that they have had no instruction to complete the transaction on her behalf. They have gone as far as to say that they are now given to understand that she is no longer interested in the property."

"Still, you got your one thousand, two hundred pounds deposit," I reminded him, trying to stifle a grin.

"I don't deny it," replied Fothergill. "But I have since made other commitments, and what with the general strike—"

"Hard times, I agree," I told him. I felt the palms of my hands begin to sweat.

"But you've never hidden your desire to be the owner of Number 1."

"True enough, but since the auction I've been buying up several other properties with the cash I had originally put on one side for your shop."

"I know, Mr. Trumper. But I would now be willing to settle for a far more reasonable price—"

"And three thousand, five hundred pounds is what I was willing to bid, as no doubt you recall."

"Twelve thousand was your final bid, if I remember correctly."

"Tactics, Mr. Fothergill, nothing more than tactics. I never had any intention of paying twelve thousand, as I feel sure you are only too aware."

"But your wife bid five thousand, five hundred pounds, even forgetting her later bid of fourteen thousand."

"I can't disagree with that," I told him, dropping back into my cockney accent. "But if you 'ad ever married, Mr. Fothergill, you would know only too well why we in the East End always refer to them as the trouble and strife."

"I'd let the property go for seven thousand pounds," he said. "But only to you."

"You'd let the property go for five thousand," I replied, "to anyone who'd cough up."

"Never," said Fothergill.

"In nine days' time would be my bet, but I'll tell you what I'll do," I added, leaning forward and nearly falling off my box. "I'll honor my wife's commitment of five thousand, five 'undred pounds, which I confess was the limit the board 'ad allowed us to go to, but only if you 'ave all the paperwork ready for me to sign before midnight." Mr. Fothergill opened his mouth indignantly. "Of course," I added before he could protest, "it shouldn't be too much work for you. After all, the contract's been sitting on your desk for the last eighty-one days. All you have to do is change the name and knock off the odd nought. Well, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Fothergill, I must be getting back to my customers."

"I have never been treated in such a cavalier way before, sir," declared Mr. Fothergill, jumping up angrily. He turned and marched out, leaving me sitting in the storeroom on my own.

"I have never thought of myself as a cavalier," I told the upturned orange box. "More of a roundhead, I would have said."

Once I had read another chapter of Through the Looking-Glass to Daniel and waited for him to fall asleep, I went downstairs to join Becky for dinner. While she served me a bowl of soup I told her the details of my conversation with Fothergill.

"Pity," was her immediate reaction. "I only wish he'd approached me in the first place. Now we may never get our hands on Number 1"—a sentiment she repeated just before climbing into bed. I turned down the gaslight beside me, thinking that perhaps Becky could be right. I was just beginning to feel drowsy when I heard the front doorbell sound.

"It's past eleven-thirty," Becky said sleepily. "Who could that possibly be?"

"A man who understands deadlines?" I suggested as I turned the gaslight back up. I climbed out of bed, donned my dressing gown and went downstairs to answer the door.

"Do come through to my study, Peregrine," I said, after I had welcomed Mr. Fothergill.

"Thank you, Charles," he replied. I only just stopped myself laughing as I moved a copy of Mathematics, Part Two from my desk, so that I could get to the drawer that housed the company checks.

"Five thousand, five hundred, if I remember correctly," I said, as I unscrewed the top of my pen and checked the clock on the mantelpiece. At eleven thirty-seven I handed over the full and final settlement to Mr. Fothergill in exchange for the freehold of Number 1 Chelsea Terrace.

We shook hands on the deal and I showed the former auctioneer out. Once I had climbed back up the stairs and returned to the bedroom I found to my surprise that Becky was sitting at her writing desk.

"What are you up to?" I demanded.

"Writing my letter of resignation to Sotheby's."

Tom Arnold began going through Number 1 with far more than a fine-tooth comb in preparation for Becky joining us a month later as managing director of Trumper's Auctioneers and Fine Art Specialists. He realized that I considered our new acquisition should quickly become the flagship of the entire Trumper empire, even if—to the dismay of Hadlow—the costs were beginning to resemble those of a battleship.

Becky completed her notice at Sotheby's on Friday, 16 July 1926. She walked into Trumper's, née Fothergill's, the following morning at seven o'clock to take over the responsibility of refurbishing the building, at the same time releasing Tom so that he could get back to his normal duties. She immediately set about turning the basement of Number 1 into a storeroom, with the main reception remaining on the ground floor and the auction room on the first floor.

Becky and her team of specialists were to be housed on the second and third floors while the top floor, which had previously been Mr. Fothergill's flat, became the company's administrative offices, with a room left over that turned out to be ideal for board meetings.

The full board met for the first time at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace on 17 October 1926.

Within three months of leaving Sotheby's Becky had "stolen" seven of the eleven staff she had wanted to join her and picked up another four from Bonham's and Phillips. At her first board meeting she warned us all that it could take anything up to three years to clear the debts incurred by the purchase and refurbishment of Number 1, and it might even be another three before she could be sure they would be making a serious contribution to the group's profits.

"Not like my first shop," I informed the board. "Made a profit within three weeks, you know, Chairman."

"Stop looking so pleased with yourself, Charlie Trumper, and try to remember I'm not selling potatoes," my wife told me.

"Oh, I don't know," I replied and on 21 October 1926, to celebrate our sixth wedding anniversary, I presented my wife with an oil painting by van Gogh called The Potato Eaters.

Mr. Reed of the Lefevre Gallery, who had been a personal friend of the artist, claimed it was almost as good an example as the one that hung in the Rijksmuseum.

I had to agree even if I felt the asking price a little extravagant, but after some bargaining we settled on a price of six hundred guineas.

For some considerable time everything seemed to go quiet on the Mrs. Trentham front. This state of affairs always worried me, because I assumed she must be up to no good. Whenever a shop came up for sale I expected her to be bidding against me, and if there was ever any trouble in the Terrace I wondered if somehow she might be behind it. Becky agreed with Daphne that I was becoming paranoid, until Arnold told me he had been having a drink at the pub when Wrexall had received a call from Mrs. Trentham. Arnold was unable to report anything of significance because Syd went into a back room to take the call. After that my wife was willing to admit that the passing of time had obviously not lessened Mrs. Trentham's desire for revenge.

It was some time in March 1927 that Joan informed us that her former mistress had spent two days packing before being driven to Southampton, where she boarded a liner for Australia. Daphne was able to confirm this piece of information when she came round to dinner at Gilston Road the following week.

"So one can only assume, darlings, that she's paying a visit to that dreadful son of hers."

"In the past she's been only too willing to give lengthy reports on the bloody man's progress to anyone and everyone who cared to listen, so why's she not letting us know what she's up to this time?"

"Can't imagine," said Daphne.

"Do you think it's possible Guy might be planning to return to England now that things have settled down a little?"

"I doubt it." Daphne's brow furrowed. "Otherwise the ship would have been sailing in the opposition direction, wouldn't it? In any case, if his father's feelings are anything to go by, should Guy ever dare to show his face at Ashurst Hall he won't exactly be treated like the prodigal son."

"Something's still not quite right," I told her. "This veil of secrecy Mrs. Trentham's been going in for lately requires some explanation."

It was three months later, in June 1927, that the colonel drew my attention to the announcement in The Times of Guy Trentham's death. "What a terrible way to die," was his only comment.

Daphne attended the funeral at Ashurst parish church because, as she explained later, she wanted to see the coffin lowered into the grave before she was finally convinced that Guy Trentham was no longer among us.

Percy informed me later that he had only just been able to restrain her from joining the gravediggers as they filled up the hole with good English sods. However, Daphne told us that she remained skeptical about the cause of death, despite the absence of any proof to the contrary.

"At least you'll have no more trouble from that quarter," were Percy's final words on the subject.

I scowled. "They'll have to bury Mrs. Trentham alongside him before I'll believe that."

Chapter 26

In 1929 the Trumpers moved to a larger house in the Little Boltons. Daphne assured them that although it was "the Little," at least it was a step in the right direction. With a glance at Becky she added, "However, it's still a considerable way from being Eaton Square, darlings."

The housewarming party the Trumpers gave held a double significance for Becky, because the following day she was to be presented with her master of arts degree. When Percy teased her about the length of time she had taken to complete the thesis on her unrequited lover, Bernardino Luini, she cited her husband as the corespondent.

Charlie made no attempt to defend himself, just poured Percy another brandy before clipping off the end of a cigar.

"Hoskins will be driving us to the ceremony," Daphne announced, "so we'll see you there. That is, assuming on this occasion they've been considerate enough to allow us to be seated in the first thirty rows."

Charlie was pleased to find that Daphne and Percy had been placed only a row behind them so this time were close enough to the stage to follow the entire proceedings.

"Who are they?" demanded Daniel, when fourteen dignified old gentlemen walked onto the platform wearing long black gowns and purple hoods, and took their places in the empty chairs.

"The Senate," explained Becky to her eight-year-old son. "They recommend who shall be awarded degrees. But you mustn't ask too many questions, Daniel, or you'll only annoy all the people sitting around us."

At that point, the vice-chancellor rose to present the scrolls.

"I'm afraid we'll have to sit through all the BAs before they reach me," said Becky.

"Do stop being so pompous, darling," said Daphne. "Some of us can remember when you considered being awarded a degree was the most important day in your life."

"Why hasn't Daddy got a degree?" asked Daniel as he picked up Becky's program off the floor. "He's just as clever as you are, Mummy."

"True," said Becky. "But his daddy didn't make him stay at school as long as mine did."

Charlie leaned across. "But his granpa taught him instead how to sell fruit and vegetables, so he could do something useful for the rest of his life."

Daniel was silenced for a moment, as he weighed the value of these two contrary opinions.

"The ceremony's going to take an awfully long time if it keeps going at this rate," whispered Becky when after half an hour they had only reached the P's.

"We can wait," whispered Daphne cheerfully. "Percy and I haven't a lot planned before Goodwood."

"Oh, look, Mummy," said Daniel. "I've found another Arnold, another Moore and another Trumper on my list."

"They're all fairly common names," said Becky, not bothering to check the program as she placed Daniel on the edge of her seat.

"Wonder what he looks like?" asked Daniel. "Do all Trumpers look the same, Mummy?"

"No, silly, they come in all shapes and sizes."

"But he's got the same first initial as Dad," Daniel said, loudly enough for everyone in the three rows in front of them to feel they were now part of the conversation.

"Shhh," said Becky, as one or two people turned round and stared in their direction.

"Bachelor of Arts," declared the vice-chancellor. "Mathematics second class, Charles George Trumper."

"And he even looks like your dad," said Charlie as he rose from his place and walked up to receive his degree from the vice-chancellor. The applause increased once the assembled gathering became aware of the age of this particular graduate. Becky's mouth opened wide in disbelief, Percy rubbed his glasses, while Daphne showed no surprise at all.

"How long have you known?" demanded Becky through clenched teeth.

"He registered at Birkbeck College the day after you were awarded your degree."

"But when has he found the time?"

"It's taken him nearly eight years and an awful lot of early mornings while you were sound asleep."

By the end of her second year Becky's financial forecasts for Number 1 had begun to look a little too optimistic. As each month passed by the overdraft seemed to remain constant, and it was not until the twenty-seventh month that she first began to make small inroads on the capital debt.

She complained to the board that although the managing director was continually helping with the turnover he was not actually contributing to the profits because he always assumed he could purchase their most sought-after items at the buy-in cost.

"But we are at the same time building a major art collection, Mrs. Trumper," he reminded her.

"And saving a great deal on tax while also making a sound investment," Hadlow pointed out. "Might even prove useful as collateral at some later date."

"Perhaps, but in the meantime it doesn't help my balance sheet, Chairman, if the managing director is always making off with my most saleable stock—and it certainly doesn't help that he's worked out the auctioneer's code so that he always knows what our reserve price is."

"You must look upon yourself as part of the company and not as an individual, Mrs. Trumper," said Charlie with a grin, adding, "though I confess it might have been a lot cheaper if we had left you at Sotheby's in the first place."

"Not to be minuted," said the chairman sternly. "By the way, what is this auctioneer's code?"

"A series of letters from a chosen word or words that indicate numbers; for example, Charlie would be C-1, H-2, A-3 but if any letter is repeated then it has to be ignored. So once you've worked out the two words we are substituting for one to zero and can get your hands on our master catalogue you will always know the reserve price we have set for each painting."

"So why don't you change the words from time to time?"

"Because once you've mastered the code, you can always work out the new words. In any case, it takes hours of practice to glance down at QNHH, and know immediately it's—"

"One thousand, three hundred pounds," said Charlie with a smile of satisfaction.

While Becky tried to build up Number 1, Charlie had captured four more shops, including the barber and the newsagent, without any further interference from Mrs. Trentham. As he told his fellow-directors, "I no longer believe she possesses the finances to challenge us."

"Until her father dies," Becky pointed out. "Once she inherits that fortune she could challenge Mr. Selfridge and then there will be nothing Charlie can do about it."

Charlie agreed, but went on to assure the board that he had plans to get his hands on the rest of the block long before that eventuality. "No reason to believe the man hasn't got a good few years left in him yet."

"Which reminds me," said the colonel, "I'll be sixty-five next May, and feel that would be an appropriate time for me to step down as chairman."

Charlie and Becky were stunned by this sudden announcement, as neither of them had ever given a moment's thought as to when the colonel might retire.

"Couldn't you at least stay on until you're seventy?" asked Charlie quietly.

"No, Charlie, though it's kind of you to suggest it. You see, I've promised Elizabeth that we will spend our last few years on her beloved Isle of Skye. In any case, I think it's time you became chairman."

The colonel officially retired the following May. Charlie threw a party for him at the Savoy to which he invited every member of staff along with their husbands or wives. He laid on a five-course dinner with three wines for an evening that he hoped the colonel would never forget.

When the meal came to an end, Charlie rose from his place to toast the first chairman of Trumper's before presenting him with a silver barrow which held a bottle of Glenlivet, the colonel's favorite brand of whisky. The staff all banged on their tables and demanded the outgoing chairman should reply.

The colonel rose, still straight as a ramrod, and began by thanking everyone for their good wishes for his retirement. He went on to remind those present that when he had first joined Mr. Trumper and Miss Salmon in 1920 they only possessed one shop in Chelsea Terrace, Number 147. It sold fruit and vegetables, and they had acquired it for the princely sum of one hundred pounds. Charlie could see as he glanced around the tables that many of the younger staff—and Daniel, who was wearing long trousers for the first time—just didn't believe the old soldier.

"Now," the colonel continued, "we have twenty-four shops and a staff of one hundred and seventy-two. I told my wife all those years ago that I hoped I would live to see Charlie"—there was a ripple of laughter—"Mr. Trumper, own the whole block, and build the biggest barrow in the world. Now I'm convinced I will." Turning to Charlie he raised his glass and said, "And I wish you luck, sir."

They cheered when he resumed his seat as chairman for the last time.

Charlie rose to reply. "Chairman," he began, "let no one in this room be in any doubt that Becky and I could not have built up Trumper's to the position it enjoys today without your support. In fact, if the truth be known, we wouldn't even have been able to purchase shops numbers 2 and 3. I am proud to follow you and be the company's second chairman, and whenever I make a decision of any real importance I shall always imagine you are looking over my shoulder. The last proposal you made as chairman of the company will take effect tomorrow. Tom Arnold will become managing director and Ned Denning and Bob Makins will join the board. Because it will always be Trumper's policy to promote from within."

"You are the new generation," said Charlie as he looked out into the ballroom at his staff, "and this is the first occasion at which we have all been together under the same roof. So let us set a date tonight for when we will all work under one roof, Trumper's of Chelsea Terrace. I give you—1940."

The entire staff rose as one and all cried "1940" and cheered their new chairman. As Charlie sat down the conductor raised his baton to indicate that the dancing would begin.

The colonel rose from his place and invited Becky to join him for the opening waltz. He accompanied her onto an empty dance floor.

"Do you remember when you first asked me to dance?" said Becky.

"I certainly do," said the colonel. "And to quote Mr. Hardy, 'That's another fine mess you've got us into.'"

"Blame him," said Becky as Charlie glided by leading Elizabeth Hamilton around the dance floor.

The colonel smiled. "What a speech they'll make when Charlie retires," he said wistfully to Becky. "And I can't imagine who will dare follow him."

"A woman, perhaps?"

Chapter 27

The Silver Jubilee of King George V and Queen Mary in 1935 was celebrated by everyone at Trumper's. There were colored posters and pictures of the royal couple in every shop window, and Tom Arnold ran a competition to see which shop could come up with the most imaginative display to commemorate the occasion.

Charlie took charge of Number 147, which he still looked upon as his personal fiefdom, and with the help of Bob Makins' daughter, who was in her first year at the Chelsea School of Art, they produced a model of the King and Queen made up of every fruit and vegetable that hailed from the British Empire.

Charlie was livid when the judges—the colonel and the Marquess and Marchioness of Wiltshire, awarded Number 147 second place behind the flower shop which was doing a roaring trade selling bunches of red, white and blue chrysanthemums; what had put them in first place was a vast map of the world made up entirely of flowers, with the British Empire set in red roses.

Charlie gave all the staff the day off and he escorted Becky and Daniel up to the mall at four-thirty in the morning so that they could find a good vantage point to watch the King and Queen proceed from Buckingham Palace to St. Paul's Cathedral, where a service of thanksgiving was to be conducted.

They arrived at the mall only to discover that thousands of people were already covering every inch of the pavements with sleeping bags, blankets and even tents, some having already begun their breakfast or simply fixed themselves to the spot.

The hours of waiting passed quickly as Charlie made friends with visitors who had traveled from all over the Empire. When the procession finally began, Daniel was speechless with delight as he watched the different soldiers from India, Africa, Australia, Canada and thirty-six other nations march past him. When the King and Queen drove by in the royal carriage Charlie stood to attention and removed his hat, an action he repeated when the Royal Fusiliers marched past playing their regimental anthem. Once they had all disappeared out of sight, he thought enviously of Daphne and Percy, who had been invited to attend the service at St. Paul's.

After the King and Queen had returned to Buckingham Palace—well in time for their lunch, as Daniel explained to those around him—the Trumpers began their journey home. On the way back they passed Chelsea Terrace, where Daniel spotted the big "2nd Place" in the window of Number 147.

"Why's that there, Dad?" he immediately demanded. His mother took great delight in explaining to her son how the competition had worked.

"Where did you come, Mum?"

"Sixteenth out of twenty-six," said Charlie. "And then only because all three judges were longstanding friends."

Eight months later the King was dead.

Charlie hoped that with the accession of Edward VIII a new era would begin, and decided that the time was well overdue for him to make a pilgrimage to America.

He warned the board of his proposed trip at their next meeting.

"Any real problems for me to worry about while I'm away?" the chairman asked his managing director.

"I'm still looking for a new manager at jewelry and a couple of assistants for women's clothes," replied Arnold. "Otherwise it's fairly peaceful at the moment."

Confident that Tom Arnold and the board could hold the fort for the month they planned to be away, Charlie was finally convinced he should go when he read of the preparation for the launching of the Queen Mary. He booked a cabin for two on her maiden voyage.

Becky spent five glorious days on the Queen during the journey over, and was delighted to find that even her husband began to relax once he realized he had no way of getting in touch with Tom Arnold, or even Daniel, who was settling into his first boarding school. In fact, once Charlie accepted that he couldn't bother anyone he seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself as he discovered the various facilities that the liner had to offer a slightly overweight, unfit, middle-aged man.

The great Queen sailed into the Port of New York on a Monday morning to be greeted by a crowd of thousands; Charlie could only wonder how different it must have been for the Pilgrim Fathers bobbing along in the Mayflower with no welcoming party and unsure of what to expect from the natives. In truth, Charlie wasn't quite sure what to expect from the natives either.

Charlie had booked into the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, on the recommendation of Daphne, but once he and Becky had unpacked their suitcases, there was no longer any necessity to sit around and relax. He rose the following morning at four-thirty and, browsing through the New York Times, learned of the name of Mrs. Wallis Simpson for the first time. Once he had devoured the newspapers, Charlie left the Waldorf Astoria and strolled up and down Fifth Avenue studying the different displays in the shop windows. He quickly became absorbed by how inventive and original the Manhattanites were compared with his opposite numbers in Oxford Street.

As soon as the shops opened at nine, he was able to explore everything in greater detail. This time he walked up and down the aisles of the fashionable stores that made up most street corners. He checked their stock, watched the assistants and even followed certain customers around the store to see what they purchased. After each of those first two days in New York he arrived back at the hotel in the evening exhausted.

It was not until the third morning that Charlie, having completed Fifth Avenue and Madison, moved on to Lexington, where he discovered Bloomingdale's, and from that moment Becky realized that she had lost her husband for the rest of their stay in New York.

Throughout the first two hours Charlie did nothing more than travel up and down the escalators until he had completely mastered the layout of the building. He then began to study each floor, department by department, making copious notes. On the ground floor they sold perfume, leather goods, jewelry; on the first floor, scarves, hats, gloves, stationery; on the second floor were men's clothes and on the third floor women's clothes; on the fourth floor, household goods and on up and up until he discovered that the company offices were on the twelfth floor, discreetly hidden behind a "No Entry" sign. Charlie longed to discover how that floor was laid out, but had no means of finding out.

On the fourth day he made a close study of how each of the counters was positioned, and began to draw their individual layouts. As he proceeded up the escalator to the third floor that morning, he found two athletic young men blocking his way. Charlie had no choice but to stop or try to go back down the escalator the wrong way.

"Something wrong?"

"We're not sure, sir," said one of the thick-set men. "We are store detectives and wondered if you would be kind enough to come along with us."

"Delighted," said Charlie, unable to work out what their problem might be.

He was whisked up in a lift to the one floor he'd never had a chance to look round and led down a long corridor through an unmarked door and on into a bare room. There were no pictures on the wall, no carpet on the floor, and the only furniture consisted of three wooden chairs and a table. They left him alone. Moments later two older men came in to join him.

"I wonder if you would mind answering a few questions for us, sir?" began the taller of the two.

"Certainly," said Charlie, puzzled by the strange treatment he was receiving.

"Where do you come from?" asked the first.

"England."

"And how did you get here?" asked the second.

"On the maiden voyage of the Queen Mary." He could see that they both showed signs of nervousness when they learned this piece of information.

"Then why, sir, have you been walking all over the store for two days, making notes, but not attempted to purchase a single item?"

Charlie burst out laughing. "Because I own twenty-six shops of my own in London," he explained. "I was simply comparing the way you do things in America to the way I conduct my business in England."

The two men began to whisper to each other nervously.

"May I ask your name, sir?"

"Trumper, Charlie Trumper."

One of the men rose to his feet and left. Charlie had the distinct feeling that they found his story hard to believe. It brought beck memories of when he had told Tommy about his first shop. The man who remained seated opposite him still did not offer an opinion, so the two of them sat silently opposite each other for several minutes before the door burst open and in walked a tall, elegantly dressed gentleman in a dark brown suit, brown shoes and a golden cravat. He almost ran forward, arms outstretched to engulf Charlie.

"I must apologize, Mr. Trumper," were his opening words. "We had no idea you were in New York, let alone on the premises. My name is John Bloomingdale, and this is my little store which I hear you've been checking out."

"I certainly have," said Charlie.

Before he could say another word, Mr. Bloomingdale added, "That's only fair, because I also checked over your famous barrows in Chelsea Terrace, and took one or two great ideas away with me."

"From Trumper's?" said Charlie in disbelief.

"Oh, certainly. Didn't you see the flag of America in our front window with all forty-eight states represented by different colored flowers?"

"Well, yes," began Charlie, "but—"

"Stolen from you when my wife and I made a trip to see the Silver Jubilee. So consider me at your service, sir."

The two detectives were now smiling.

That night Becky and Charlie joined the Bloomingdales at their brownstone house on Sixty-first and Madison for dinner, and John Bloomingdale answered all Charlie's many questions until the early hours.

The following day Charlie was given an official tour of "my little store" by its owner while Patty Bloomingdale introduced Becky to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Frick, pumping her with endless questions about Mrs. Simpson, to which Becky was unable to offer any answers as she had never heard of the lady before they'd set foot in America.

The Trumpers were sorry to say goodbye to the Bloomingdales before they continued their journey on to Chicago by train, where they had been booked into the Stevens. On their arrival in the windy city they found their room had been upgraded to a suite and Mr. Joseph Field, of Marshall Field, had left a handwritten note expressing the hope that they would be able to join him and his wife for a meal the following evening.

Over dinner in the Fields' home on Lake Shore Drive, Charlie reminded Mr. Field of his advertisement describing his store as one of the biggest in the world, and warned him that Chelsea Terrace was seven feet longer.

"Ah, but will they let you build on twenty-one floors, Mr. Trumper?"

"Twenty-two," countered Charlie, without the slightest idea of what the London County Council was likely to permit.

The next day Charlie added to his growing knowledge of a major store by seeing Marshall Field's from the inside. He particularly admired the way the staff appeared to work as a team, all the girls dressed in smart green outfits with a gold "MF" on their lapels and all the floor walkers in gray suits, while the managers wore dark blue double-breasted blazers.

"Makes it easy for customers to spot a member of my staff when they're in need of someone to help them, especially when the store becomes overcrowded," explained Mr. Field.

While Charlie became engrossed in the workings of Marshall Field, Becky spent countless hours at the Chicago Art Institute, and came away particularly admiring the works of Wyeth and Remington, whom she felt should be given exhibitions in London. She was to return to England with one example of each artist tucked into newly acquired suitcases, but the British public never saw either the oil or the sculpture until years later, because once they had been unpacked Charlie wouldn't let them out of the house.

By the end of the month they were both exhausted, and sure of only one thing: they wanted to return to America again and again, though they feared they could never match the hospitality they had received, should either the Fields or the Bloomingdales ever decide to turn up in Chelsea Terrace. However, Joseph Field requested a small favor of Charlie, which he promised he would deal with personally the moment he got back to London.

The rumors of the King's affair with Mrs. Simpson that Charlie had seen chronicled in such detail by the American press were now beginning to reach the ears of the English, and Charlie was saddened when the King finally felt it necessary to announce his abdication. The unexpected responsibility was suddenly placed on the unprepared shoulders of the Duke of York, who became King George VI.

The other piece of news that Charlie followed on the front pages was the rise to power of Adolf Hitler in Nazi Germany. He could never understand why the Prime Minister, Mr. Chamberlain, didn't use a little street sense and give the man a good thump on the nose.

"Neville Chamberlain's not a barrow boy from the East End," Becky explained to her husband over breakfast. "He's the Prime Minister."

"More's the pity," said Charlie. "Because that's exactly what would happen to Herr Hitler if he ever dared show his face in Whitechapel."

Tom Arnold didn't have a great deal to report to Charlie on his return, but he quickly became aware of the effect that the visit to America had had on his chairman, by the ceaseless rat-tat-tat of orders and ideas that came flying at him from all directions during the days that followed.

"The Shops Committee," Arnold warned the chairman at their Monday morning meeting, after Charlie had finished extolling the virtues of America yet again, "is now talking seriously of the effect a war with Germany might have on business."

"That lot would," said Charlie, taking a seat behind his desk. "Appeasers to a man. In any case, Germany won't declare war on any of Britain's allies—they wouldn't dare. After all, they can't have forgotten the hiding we gave them last time. So what other problems are we facing?"

"At a more mundane level," replied Tom from the other side of the desk, "I still haven't found the right person to manage the jewelry shop since Jack Slade's retirement."

"Then start advertising in the trade magazines and let me see anyone who appears suitable. Anything else?"

"Yes, a Mr. Ben Schubert has been asking to see you."

"And what does he want?"

"He's a Jewish refugee from Germany, but he refused to say why he needed to see you."

"Then make an appointment for him when he gets back in touch with you."

"But he's sitting in the waiting room outside your office right now."

"In the waiting room?" said Charlie in disbelief.

"Yes. He turns up every morning and just sits there in silence."

"But didn't you explain to him I was in America?"

"Yes, I did," said Tom. "But it didn't seem to make a blind bit of difference."

"Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe," murmured Charlie. "Show the man in."

A small, bent, tired-looking figure whom Charlie suspected was not much older than himself entered the office and waited to be offered a seat. Charlie rose from behind his desk and ushered his visitor into an armchair near the fireplace before asking him how he could help.

Mr. Schubert spent some time explaining to Charlie how he had escaped from Hamburg with his wife and two daughters, after so many of his friends had been sent off to concentration camps, never to be heard of again.

Charlie listened to Mr. Schubert's account of his experiences at the hands of the Nazis without uttering a word. The man's escape and his description of what was taking place in Germany could have come straight off the pages of a John Buchan novel and was far more vivid than any newspaper report of recent months.

"How can I help?" asked Charlie when Mr. Schubert appeared to have finished his sad tale.

The refugee smiled for the first time, revealing two gold teeth. He picked up the little briefcase by his side, placed it on Charlie's desk and then slowly opened it. Charlie stared down at the finest array of stones he had ever seen, diamonds and amethysts, some of them in the most magnificent settings. His visitor then removed what turned out to be nothing more than a thin tray to reveal loose stones, more rubies, topaz, diamonds, pearls and jade filling every inch of the deep box.

"They are but a tiny sample of what I had to leave behind, in a business that was built up by my father and his father before him. Now I must sell everything that is left to be sure that my family doesn't starve."

"You were in the jewelry business?"

"Twenty-six years," replied Mr. Schubert. "Man and boy."

"And how much are you hoping to get for this lot?" Charlie pointed to the open case.

"Three thousand pounds," Mr. Schubert said without hesitation. "That is far less than they are worth, but I am no longer left with the time or the will to bargain."

Charlie pulled open the drawer by his right hand, removed a checkbook and wrote out the words "Pay Mr. Schubert three thousand pounds." He pushed it across the desk.

"But you have not checked their value," said Mr. Schubert.

"Not necessary," said Charlie, as he rose from his chair. "Because you're going to sell them as the new manager of my jewelry shop. Which also means that you'll have to explain to me personally if they don't fetch the price you claim they are worth. Once you've repaid the advance, then we'll discuss your commission."

A smile came over Mr. Schubert's face. "They teach you well in the East End, Mr. Trumper."

"There are a lot of you down there to keep us on our toes," replied Charlie with a grin. "And don't forget, my father-in-law was one."

Ben Schubert stood up and hugged his new boss.

What Charlie hadn't anticipated was just how many Jewish refugees would find their way to Trumper's the Jeweler, closing deals with Mr. Schubert that ensured Charlie never had to worry about the jewelry side of his business again.

It must have been about a week later that Tom Arnold entered the chairman's office without knocking. Charlie could see what an agitated state his managing director was in so he simply asked, "What's the problem, Tom?"

"Shoplifting."

"Where?"

"Number 133—women's clothes."

"What's been stolen?"

"Two pairs of shoes and a skirt."

"Then follow the standard procedure as laid down in company regulations. First thing you do is call in the police."

"It's not that easy."

"Of course it's that easy. A thief is a thief."

"But she's claiming—"

"That her mother is ninety and dying of cancer, not to mention the fact that her children are all crippled?"

"No, that she's your sister."

Charlie rocked back in his chair, paused for a moment and then sighed heavily. "What have you done?"

"Nothing yet. I told the manager to hold on to her while I had a word with you."

"Then let's get on with it," said Charlie. He rose from behind his desk and began to march towards the door.

Neither man spoke again until they had reached Number 133, where an agitated manager was waiting for them by the front door.

"Sorry, Chairman," were Jim Grey's opening words.

"There's nothing for you to be sorry about, Jim," said Charlie as he was led through to the back room where they found Kitty sitting at a table, compact in hand, checking her lipstick in a hand mirror.

The moment she saw Charlie she clicked the compact lid closed and dropped it into her bag. On the table in front of her lay two pairs of fashionable leather shoes and a purple pleated skirt. Kitty clearly still liked the best, as her selection was all from the top price range. She smiled up at her brother. The lipstick didn't help.

"Now that the big boss himself has arrived you'll find out exactly who I am," said Kitty, glaring at Jim Grey.

"You're a thief," said Charlie. "That's what you are."

"Come on, Charlie, you can afford it." Her voice showed no sign of remorse.

"That's not the point, Kitty. If I—"

"If you put me up in front of the beak claimin' I'm a tea leaf the press'll 'ave a field day. You wouldn't dare 'ave me arrested, Charlie, and you know it."

"Not this time, perhaps," said Charlie, "but it's the last occasion, that I promise you." He turned to the manager and added, "If this lady ever tries to leave again without paying for something, call in the police and see that she is charged without any reference to me. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Grey?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir. Don't worry yourself, Charlie, I won't be botherin' you again."

Charlie looked unconvinced.

"You see, I'm off to Canada next week where it seems there's at least one member of our family who actually cares about what happens to me."

Charlie was about to protest when Kitty picked up the skirt and both pairs of shoes and dropped them in the bag. She walked straight past the three men.

"Just a moment," said Tom Arnold.

"Bugger off," said Kitty over her shoulder as she marched through the shop.

Tom turned towards the chairman, who stood and watched his sister as she stepped out onto the pavement without even looking back.

"Don't bother yourself, Tom. It's cheap at the price."

On 30 September 1938 the Prime Minister resumed from Munich where he had been in talks with the German Chancellor. Charlie remained unconvinced by the "peace in our time, peace with honor" document that Chamberlain kept waving in front of the cameras, because after listening to Ben Schubert's firsthand description of what was taking place in the Third Reich, he had become convinced that war with Germany was inevitable. Introducing conscription for those over twenty had already been debated in Parliament, and with Daniel in his last year at St. Paul's waiting to sit his university entrance papers, Charlie couldn't bear the thought of losing a son to another war with the Germans. When a few weeks later Daniel was awarded a scholarship to Trinity College, Cambridge, it only added to his fears.

Hitler marched into Poland on 1 September 1939, and Charlie realized that Ben Schubert's stories had not been exaggerated. Two days later Britain was at war.

For the first few weeks after the declaration of hostilities there was a lull, almost an anticlimax, and if it hadn't been for the increased number of men in uniforms marching up and down Chelsea Terrace and a drop in sales Charlie might have been forgiven for not realizing Britain was engaged in a war at all.

During this time only the restaurant came up for sale. Charlie offered Mr. Scallini a fair price, which he accepted without question before fleeing back to his native Florence. He was luckier than some, who were interned for no more reason than that they possessed a German or an Italian name. Charlie immediately locked up the restaurant because he wasn't sure what he could do with the premises—eating out was hardly a top priority for Londoners in 1940. Once the Scallini lease had been transferred only the antiquarian bookshop and the syndicate chaired by Mr. Wrexall still remained in other traders' hands; but the significance of Mrs. Trentham's large block of unoccupied flats became more obvious for all to see as each day went by.

On 7 September 1940 the false lull ended when the Luftwaffe carried out its mass raid on the capital. After that Londoners started to emigrate to the country in droves. Charlie still refused to budge, and even ordered that "Business as Usual" signs be placed in every one of his shop windows. In fact, the only concessions he made to Herr Hitler were to move his bedroom to the basement and have all the curtains changed to black drape.

Two months later, in the middle of the night Charlie was woken by a duly constable to be told that the first bomb had fallen on Chelsea Terrace. He ran all the way from the Little Boltons down Tregunter Road in his dressing gown and slippers to inspect the damage.

"Anyone killed?" he asked while on the move.

"Not that we know of," replied the constable, trying to keep up with him.

"Which shop did the bomb land on?"

"Can't tell you the answer to that, Mr. Trumper. All I know is that it looks as if the whole of Chelsea Terrace is on fire."

As Charlie turned the corner of Fulham Road he was confronted by bright flames and dark smoke soaring up into the sky. The bomb had landed right in the middle of Mrs. Trentham's flats, completely demolishing them, while at the same time shattering three of Charlie's shop windows and badly damaging the roof of hats and scarves.

By the time the fire brigade finally departed from the Terrace all that was left of the flats was a gray, smoldering bombed-out shell, right in the middle of the block. As the weeks passed, Charlie became only too aware of the obvious—Mrs. Trentham had no intention of doing anything about the heap of rubble that now dominated the center of Chelsea Terrace.

In May 1940 Mr. Churchill took over from Mr. Chamberlain as Prime Minister, which gave Charlie a little more confidence about the future. He even talked to Becky of joining up again.

"Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?" asked his wife, laughing.

"I could get fit again, I know I could," said Charlie, pulling in his stomach. "In any case they don't only need troops for the front line."

"You can do a far more worthwhile job by keeping those shops open and stocked up for the general public."

"Arnold could do that just as well as me," said Charlie. "What's more, he's fifteen years older than I am."

However, Charlie reluctantly came to the conclusion that Becky was right when Daphne came round to tell them that Percy had rejoined his old regiment. "Thank God they've told him he's too old to serve abroad this time," she confided in them. "So he's landed a desk job at the War Office."

The following afternoon, while Charlie was carrying out an inspection of repairs after another night of bombing, Tom Arnold warned him that Syd Wrexall's committee had begun to make noises about selling the remaining eleven of their shops, as well as the Musketeer itself.

"There's no hurry to do anything about them," said Charlie. "He'll be giving those shops away within a year."

"But by then Mrs. Trentham could have bought them all at a knockdown price."

"Not while there's a war on, she won't. In any case, the damned woman knows only too well that I can't do a lot while that bloody great crater remains in the middle of Chelsea Terrace."

"Oh, hell," said Tom as the Klaxon whine of the siren started up. "They must be on their way again."

"They certainly are," said Charlie, as he looked towards the sky. "You'd better get all the staff into the basement—sharpish." Charlie ran out onto the street, to find an Air Raid Patrol man cycling down the middle of the road, shouting instructions that everyone should head for the nearest Underground as quickly as possible. Tom Arnold had trained his managers to lock up the shops and have all the staff and customers safely in the basement with their torches and a small supply of food within five minutes. It always put Charlie in mind of the general strike. As they sat in the large storeroom under Number 1 waiting for the all-clear, Charlie looked around the gathering of his fellow Londoners and became aware of just how many of his best young men had already left Trumper's to join up; he was now down to fewer than two-thirds of his permanent staff, the majority of whom were women.

Some cradled young children in their arms, while others tried to sleep. Two regulars in a corner continued a game of chess as if the war were no more than an inconvenience. A couple of young girls practiced the latest dance step on the small space left unoccupied in the center of the basement while others just slept.

They could all hear the bombs falling above them, and Becky told Charlie she felt sure one had landed nearby. "On Syd Wrexall's pub, perhaps?" said Charlie, trying to hide a grin. "That'll teach him to serve short measures." The all-clear Klaxon eventually sounded, and they emerged back into an evening air filled with dust and ashes.

"You were right about Syd Wrexall's pub," said Becky, looking at the far corner of the block, but Charlie's eyes were not fixed on the Musketeer.

Becky's gaze eventually turned to where Charlie was staring. A bomb had landed right in the middle of his fruit and vegetable shop.

"The bastards," he said. "They've gone too far this time. Now I will join up."

"But what good will that do?"

"I don't know," said Charlie, "but at least I'll feel I'm involved in this war and not just sitting around watching."

"And what about the shops? Who's going to take charge of them?"

"Arnold can take care of them while I'm away."

"But what about Daniel and me? Can Tom take care of us while you're away?" she asked, her voice rising.

Charlie was silent for a moment while he considered Becky's plea. "Daniel's old enough to take care of himself, and you'll have your time fully occupied seeing that Trumper's keeps its head above water. So don't say another word, Becky, because I've made up my mind."

After that nothing his wife could say or do would dissuade Charlie from signing up. To her surprise the Fusiliers were only too happy to accept their old sergeant back in the ranks, and immediately sent him off to a training camp near Cardiff.

With Tom Arnold looking anxiously on, Charlie kissed his wife and hugged his son, then shook hands with his managing director before waving goodbye to all three of them.

As he traveled down to Cardiff in a train full of fresh-faced, eager youths not much older than Daniel—most of whom insisted on calling him "sir"—Charlie felt like an old man. A battered truck met the new recruits at the station and delivered them safely into barracks.

"Nice to have you back, Trumper," said a voice, as he stepped onto the parade ground for the first time in more than twenty years.

"Stan Russell. Good heavens, are you the company sergeant major now? You were only a lance corporal when—"

"I am, sir," Stan said. His voice dropped to a whisper. "And I'll see to it that you don't get the same treatment as the others, me old mate."

"No, you'd better not do that, Stan. I need worse than the same treatment," said Charlie, placing both hands on his stomach.

Although the senior NCOs were gentler on Charlie than they were on the raw recruits, he still found the first week of basic training a painful reminder of how little exercise he had done over the previous twenty years. When he became hungry he quickly discovered that what the NAAFI had to offer could hardly be described as appetizing, and trying to get to sleep each night on a bed of unrelenting springs held together by a two-inch horsehair mattress made him less than delighted with Herr Hitler.

By the end of the second week Charlie was made up to corporal and told that if he wanted to stay on in Cardiff as an instructor they would immediately commission him as a training officer, with the rank of captain.

"The Germans are expected in Cardiff, are they, boyo?" asked Charlie. "I had no idea they played rugby football."

His exact words on the subject were relayed back to the commanding officer, so Charlie continued as a corporal, completing his basic training. By the eighth week he had been promoted to sergeant and given his own platoon to knock into shape, ready for wherever it was they were going to be sent. From that moment on there wasn't a competition, from the rifle range to the boxing ring, that his men were allowed to lose, and "Trumper's Terriers" set the standard for the rest of the battalion for the remaining four weeks.

With only ten days left before they completed their training, Stan Russell informed Charlie that the battalion was destined for Africa, where they would join Wavell in the desert. Charlie was delighted by the news, as he had long admired the reputation of the "poet general."

Sergeant Trumper spent most of that final week helping his lads write letters to their families and girlfriends. He didn't intend to put pen to paper himself until the last moment. With a week to go he admitted to Stan that he wasn't ready to take on the Germans in anything much more than a verbal bathe.

He was in the middle of a Bren demonstration with his platoon, explaining cocking and reloading, when a red-faced lieutenant came running up.

"Trumper."

"Sir," said Charlie, leaping to attention.

"The commanding officer wants to see you immediately."

"Yes, sir," said Charlie. He instructed his corporal to carry on with the lesson and then chased after the lieutenant.

"Why are we running so fast?" asked Charlie.

"Because the commanding officer was running when he came looking for me."

"Then it has to be at least high treason," said Charlie.

"Heaven knows what it is, Sergeant, but you'll find out soon enough," said the lieutenant, as they arrived outside the CO's door. The lieutenant, closely followed by Charlie, entered the colonel's office without knocking.

"Sergeant Trumper, 7312087, reporting—"

"You can cut all that bullshit out, Trumper," said the colonel, as Charlie watched the commanding officer pacing up and down, slapping his side with a swagger stick. "My car is waiting for you at the gate. You are to go straight to London."

"London, sir?"

"Yes, Trumper, London. Mr. Churchill's just been on the blower. Wants to see you soonest."

Chapter 28

The colonel's driver did everything in his power to get Sergeant Trumper to London as quickly as possible. He pressed his foot to the floor again and again as he tried to keep the speedometer above eighty. However, as they were continually held up en route by convoys of troops, transportation lorries, and even at one point Warrior tanks, the task was daunting. When Charlie finally reached Chiswick on the outskirts of London they were then faced with the blackout, followed by an air raid, followed by the all-clear, followed by countless more roadblocks all the way to Downing Street.

Despite having six hours to ponder as to why Mr. Churchill could possibly want to see him, when the car came to a halt outside Number 10 Charlie was no nearer a conclusion than he had been when he left the barracks at Cardiff earlier that afternoon.

When he explained to the policeman on the door who he was, the constable checked his clipboard, then gave a sharp rap on the brass knocker before inviting Sergeant Trumper to step into the hall. Charlie's first reaction on being inside Number 10 was surprise at discovering how small the house was compared with Daphne's home in Eaton Square.

A young Wren officer came forward to greet the middle-aged sergeant before ushering him through to an anteroom.

"The Prime Minister has the American ambassador with him at the moment," she explained. "But he doesn't expect his meeting with Mr. Kennedy to last much longer."

"Thank you," said Charlie.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No, thank you." Charlie was too nervous to think about drinking tea. As she closed the door, he picked up a copy of Lilliput from a side table and leafed through the pages, but didn't attempt to take in the words.

After he had thumbed through every magazine on the table—and they were even more out of date at Number 10 than at his dentist—he began to take an interest in the pictures on the wall. Wellington, Palmerston and Disraeli: all inferior portraits that Becky would not have bothered to offer for sale at Number 1. Becky. Good heavens, he thought, she doesn't even know I'm in London. He stared at the telephone that rested on the sideboard aware that he couldn't possibly call her from Number 10. In frustration he began to pace round the room feeling like a patient waiting for the doctor to tell him if the diagnosis was terminal. Suddenly the door swung open and the Wren reappeared.

"The Prime Minister will see you now, Mr. Trumper," she said, then proceeded to lead him up a narrow staircase, past the framed photographs of former prime ministers. By the time he reached Churchill he found himself on the landing facing a man of five feet nine inches in height who stood, arms on hips, legs apart, staring defiantly at him.

"Trumper," said Churchill, thrusting out his hand. "Good of you to come at such short notice. Hope I didn't tear you away from anything important."

Just a Bren lesson, thought Charlie, but decided not to mention the fact as he followed the shambling figure through to his study. Churchill waved his guest into a comfortable winged chair near a roaring fire; Charlie looked at the burning logs and remembered the Prime Minister's strictures to the nation on wasting coal.

"You must be wondering what this is all about," the Prime Minister said, as he lit up a cigar and opened a file that was resting on his knee. He started to read.

"Yes, sir," said Charlie, but his reply failed to elicit any explanation. Churchill continued to read from the copious notes in front of him.

"I see we have something in common."

"We do, Prime Minister?"

"We both served in the Great War."

"The war to end all wars."

"Yes, wrong again, wasn't he?" said Churchill. "But then he was a politician." The Prime Minister chuckled before continuing to read from the files. Suddenly he looked up. "However, we both have a far more important role to play in this war, Trumper, and I can't waste your time on teaching recruits Bren lessons in Cardiff."

The damned man knew all along, thought Charlie.

"When a nation is at war, Trumper," said the Prime Minister, closing the file, "people imagine victory will be guaranteed so long as we have more troops and better equipment than the enemy. But battles can be lost or won by something that the generals in the field have no control over. A little cog that stops the wheels going round smoothly. Only today I've had to set up a new department in the War Office to deal with code-breaking. I've stolen the two best professors they have at Cambridge, along with their assistants, to help solve the problem. Invaluable cogs, Trumper."

"Yes, sir," said Charlie, without a clue as to what the old man was talking about.

"And I have a problem with another of those cogs, Trumper, and my advisers tell me you're the best man to come up with a solution."

"Thank you, sir."

"Food, Trumper, and more important its distribution. I understand from Lord Woolton the minister in charge that supplies are fast running out. We can't even get enough potatoes shipped over from Ireland. So one of the biggest problems I'm facing at this moment is how to keep the nation's stomach full while waging a war on the enemy's shores and at the same time keeping our supply routes open. The minister tells me that when the food arrives in the ports it can often be weeks before the damned stuff is moved, and sometimes even then it ends up in the wrong place.

"Added to this," continued the Prime Minister, "our farmers are complaining that they can't do the job properly because we're recruiting their best men for the armed forces, and they're not receiving any backup from the government in exchange." He paused for a moment to relight his cigar. "So what I'm looking for is a man who has spent his life buying, selling and distributing food, someone who has lived in the marketplace and who the farmers and the suppliers both will respect. In short, Trumper, I need you. I want you to join Woolton as his right-hand man, and see that we get the supplies, and then that those supplies are distributed to the right quarters. Can't think of a more important job. I hope you'll be willing to take on the challenge."

The desire to get started must have shown in Charlie's eyes, because the Prime Minister didn't even bother to wait for his reply. "Good, I can see you've got the basic idea. I'd like you to report to the Ministry of Food at eight tomorrow morning. A car will come to pick you up from your home at seven forty-five."

"Thank you, sir," said Charlie, not bothering to explain to the Prime Minister that if a car did turn up at seven forty-five the driver would have missed him by over three hours.

"And, Trumper, I'm going to make you up to a brigadier so you've got some clout."

"I'd prefer to remain plain Charlie Trumper."

"Why?"

"I might at some time find it necessary to be rude to a general."

The Prime Minister removed his cigar and roared with laughter before he accompanied his guest to the door. "And, Trumper," he said, placing a hand on Charlie's shoulder, "should the need ever arise, don't hesitate to contact me direct, if you think it could make the difference. Night or day. I don't bother with sleep, you know."

"Thank you, sir," said Charlie, as he proceeded down the staircase.

"Good luck, Trumper, and see you feed the people."

The Wren escorted Charlie back to his car and saluted him as he took his place in the front seat which surprised Charlie because he was still dressed as a sergeant.

He asked the driver to take him to the Little Boltons via Chelsea Terrace. As they traveled slowly through the streets of the West End, it saddened him to find old familiar landmarks so badly damaged by the Luftwaffe, although he realized no one in London had escaped the Germans' relentless air bombardment.

When he arrived home, Becky opened the front door and threw her arms around her husband. "What did Mr. Churchill want?" was her first question.

"How did you know I was seeing the Prime Minister?"

"Number 10 rang here first to ask where they could get hold of you. So what did he want?"

"Someone who can deliver his fruit and veg on a regular basis."

Charlie liked his new boss from the moment they met. Although James Woolton had come to the Ministry of Food with the reputation of being a brilliant businessman, he admitted that he was not an expert in Charlie's particular field but said his department was there to see that Charlie was given every assistance he required.

Charlie was allocated a large office on the same corridor as the minister and supplied with a staff of fourteen headed by a young personal assistant called Arthur Selwyn who hadn't been long down from Oxford.

Charlie soon learned that Selwyn had a brain as sharp as a razor, and although he had no experience of Charlie's world he only ever needed to be told something once.

The navy supplied Charlie with a personal secretary called Jessica Allen, who appeared to be willing to work the same hours as he did. Charlie wondered why such an attractive, intelligent girl appeared to have no social life until he studied her file more carefully and discovered that her young fiancé had been killed on the beach at Dunkirk.

Charlie quickly returned to his old routine of coming into the office at four-thirty, even before the cleaners had arrived, which allowed him to read through his papers until eight without fear of being disturbed.

Because of the special nature of his assignment and the obvious support of his minister, doors opened whenever he appeared. Within a month most of his staff were coming in by five, although Selwyn turned out to be the only one of them who also had the stamina to stick with him through the night.

For that first month Charlie did nothing but read reports and listen to Selwyn's detailed assessment of the problems they had been facing for the best part of a year, while occasionally popping in to see the minister to clarify a point that he didn't fully understand.

During the second month Charlie decided to visit every major port in the kingdom to find out what was holding up the distribution of food, food that was sometimes simply being left to rot for days on end in the storehouses on the docksides throughout the country. When he reached Liverpool he quickly discovered that supplies were rightly not getting priority over tanks or men when it came to movement, so he requested that his ministry should operate a fleet of its own vehicles, with no purpose other than to distribute food supplies across the nation.

Woolton somehow managed to come up with sixty-two trucks, most of them, he admitted, rejects from war surplus. "Not unlike me," Charlie admitted. However, the minister still couldn't spare the men to drive them.

"If men aren't available, Minister, I need two hundred women," Charlie suggested, and despite the cartoonists' genre jibes about women drivers it only took another month before the food started to move out of the docks within hours of its arrival.

The dockers themselves responded well to the women drivers, while trade union leaders never found out that Charlie spoke to them with one accent while using quite another when he was back at the ministry.

Once Charlie had begun to solve the distribution problem, he came up against two more dilemmas. On the one hand, the farmers were complaining that they couldn't produce enough food at home because the armed forces were taking away all their best men; on the other, Charlie found he just wasn't getting enough supplies coming in from abroad because of the success of the German U-boat campaign.

He came up with two solutions for Woolton's consideration. "You supplied me with lorry girls, now you must give me land girls," Charlie told him. "I need five thousand this time, because that's what the farmers are saying they're short of."

The next day Woolton was interviewed on the BBC and made a special appeal to the nation for land girls. Five hundred applied in the first twenty-four hours and the minister had the five thousand Charlie requested within ten weeks. Charlie allowed the applications to continue pouring in until he had seven thousand and could clearly identify a smile on the face of the president of the National Farmers' Union.

Over the second problem—of lack of supplies—Charlie advised Woolton to buy rice as a substitute diet staple because of the hardship the nation was facing with a potato shortage. "But where do we find such a commodity?" asked Woolton. "China and the Far East is much too hazardous a journey for us even to consider right now."

"I'm aware of that," said Charlie, "but I know a supplier in Egypt who could let us have a million tons a month."

"Can he be trusted?"

"Certainly not," said Charlie. "But his brother still works in the East End, and if we were to intern him for a few months I reckon I could pull off some sort of deal with the family."

"If the press ever found out what we were up to, Charlie, they'd have my guts for garters."

"I'm not going to tell them, Minister."

The following day Eli Calil found himself interned in Brixton Prison while Charlie flew off to Cairo to close a deal with his brother for a million tons of rice per month, rice that had been originally earmarked for the Italians.

Charlie agreed with Nasim Calil that the payments could be made half in pounds sterling and half in piastres, and as long as the shipments always arrived on time no paperwork concerning the money needed be evident on the Cairo end. Failing this, Calil's government would be informed of the full details of their transaction.

"Very fair, Charlie, but then you always were. But what about my brother Eli?" asked Nasim Calil.

"We'll release him at the end of the war but then only if every shipment is delivered on time."

"Also most considerate," Nasim replied. "A couple of years in jail will do Eli no harm. He is, after all, one of the few members of my family who hasn't yet been detained at His Majesty's pleasure."

Charlie tried to spend at least a couple of hours a week with Tom Arnold so that he could be kept up to date on what was happening in Chelsea Terrace. Tom had to report that Trumper's was now losing money steadily and he had found it necessary to close five of the premises and board up another four; this saddened Charlie because Syd Wrexall had recently written to him offering his entire group of shops and the bombed-out corner pub for only six thousand pounds, a sum Wrexall was claiming Charlie had once made him a firm offer on. All Charlie had to do now, Wrexall reminded Arnold in an accompanying letter, was to sign the check.

Charlie studied the contract that Wrexall had enclosed and said, "I made that offer long before the outbreak of war. Send all the documents back. I'm confident he'll let those shops go for around four thousand by this time next year. But try and keep him happy, Tom."

"That might prove a little difficult," replied Tom. "Since that bomb landed on the Musketeer Syd's gone off to live in Cheshire. He's now the landlord of a country pub in some place called Hatherton."

"Even better," said Charlie. "We'll never see him again. Now I'm even more convinced that within a year he'll be ready to make a deal, so for the time being just ignore his letter; after all, the post is very unreliable at the moment."

Charlie had to leave Tom and travel on down to Southampton, where Calil's first shipment of rice had arrived. His lorry girls had gone to pick up the bags, but the manager of the port was refusing to release them without proper signed documentation. It was a trip Charlie could have well done without, and one he certainly didn't intend to make every month.

When he arrived on the dockside he quickly discovered that there was no problem with the trade unions, who were quite willing to unload the entire cargo, or with his girls, who were just sitting on the mudguards of their lorries waiting to take delivery.

Over a pint at the local pub, Alf Redwood, the dockers' leader, warned Charlie that Mr. Simkins, the general manager of the Docks and Harbour Board, was a stickler when it came to paperwork and liked everything done by the book.

"Does he?" said Charlie. "Then I'll have to stick by the book, won't I?" After paying for his round, he walked over to the administration block where he asked to see Mr. Simkins.

"He's rather busy at the moment," said a receptionist, not bothering to look up from painting her nails. Charlie walked straight past her and into Simkins' office, to find a thin, balding man sitting alone behind a very large desk dipping a biscuit into a cup of tea.

"And who are you?" asked the port's official, taken so completely by surprise that he dropped his biscuit into the tea.

"Charlie Trumper. And I'm here to find out why you won't release my rice."

"I don't have the proper authority," said Simkins, as he tried to rescue his biscuit, which was now floating on the top of his morning beverage. "No official papers have come from Cairo, and your forms from London are inadequate, quite inadequate." He gave Charlie a smile of satisfaction.

"But it could take days for me to get the necessary paperwork sorted out."

"That's not my problem."

"But we're at war, man."

"Which is why we must all try to keep to the regulations. I'm sure the Germans do."

"I don't give a damn what the Germans do," said Charlie. "I've got a million tons of rice coming through this port every month and I want to distribute every last grain of it as quickly as possible. Do I make myself clear?"

"You certainly do, Mr. Trumper, but I shall still require the official papers correctly completed before you get your rice."

"I order you to release that rice immediately," said Charlie, barking at him for the first time.

"No need to raise your voice, Mr. Trumper, because as I've already explained you don't have the authority to order me to do anything. This is the Docks and Harbour Board and it doesn't, as I'm sure you know, come under the Ministry of Food. I should go back to London, and this time do try a little harder to see that we get the correct forms properly filled in."

Charlie felt he was too old to hit the man, so he simply picked up the telephone on Simkins' desk and asked for a number.

"What are you doing?" demanded Simkins. "That's my telephone—you don't have the proper authority to use my telephone."

Charlie clung to the phone and turned his back on Simkins. When he heard the voice on the other end of the line, he said, "It's Charlie Trumper. Can you put me through to the Prime Minister?"

Simkins' cheeks turned first red, then white, as the blood drained quickly from his face. "There's really no need—" he began.

"Good morning, sir," said Charlie. "I'm down in Southampton. The rice problem I mentioned to you last night. There turns out to be a bit of a hold-up at this end. I don't seem to be able—"

Simkins was now frantically waving his hands like a semaphore sailor in an attempt to gain Charlie's attention, while at the same time nodding his head energetically up and down.

"I've got a million tons coming in every month, Prime Minister, and the girls are just sitting on their—"

"It will be all right," whispered Simkins as he began to circle Charlie. "It will be all right, I can assure you."

"Do you want to speak to the man in charge yourself, sir?"

"No, no," said Simkins. "That won't be necessary. I have all the forms, all the forms you need, all the forms."

"I'll let him know, sir," said Charlie, pausing for a moment. "I'm due back in London this evening. Yes, sir, yes, I'll brief you the moment I return. Goodbye, Prime Minister."

"Goodbye," said Becky as she put down the telephone. "And no doubt you'll tell me what all that was about when you do get home tonight."

The minister roared with laughter when Charlie repeated the whole story to him and Jessica Allen later that evening.

"You know, the Prime Minister would have been quite happy to speak to the man if you had wanted him to," said Woolton.

"If he'd done that Simkins would have had a heart attack," said Charlie. "And then my rice, not to mention my drivers, would have been stuck in that port forever. In any case, with the food shortage the way it is I wouldn't have wanted the wretched man to waste another of his biscuits."

Charlie was in Carlisle attending a farmers' conference when an urgent call came through for him from London.

"Who is it?" he asked as he tried to concentrate on a delegate who was explaining the problems of increasing turnip yields.

"The Marchioness of Wiltshire," whispered Arthur Selwyn.

"Then I'll take it," said Charlie, and left the conference room to return to his bedroom, where the hotel operator put the call through.

"Daphne, what can I do for you, my luv?"

"No, darling, it's what I can do for you, as usual. Have you read your Times this morning?"

"Glanced at the headlines. Why?" asked Charlie.

"Then you'd better check the obituaries page more carefully. In particular, the last line of one of them. I won't waste any more of your time, darling, as the Prime Minister keeps reminding us just what a vital role you're playing in winning the war."

Charlie laughed as the line went dead.

"Anything I can do to help?" asked Selwyn.

"Yes, Arthur, I need a copy of today's Times."

When Selwyn returned with a copy of the morning paper, Charlie flicked quickly through the pages until he came to the obituaries: Admiral Sir Alexander Dexter, a First World War commander of outstanding tactical ability; J. T. Macpherson, the balloonist and author; and Sir Raymond Hardcastle, the industrialist . . .

Charlie skimmed through the bare details of Sir Raymond's career: born and educated in Yorkshire; built up his father's engineering firm at the turn of the century. During the twenties Hardcastle's had expanded from a fledgling company into one of the great industrial forces in the north of England. In 1937 Hardcastle sold his shareholding to John Brown and Company for seven hundred and eighty thousand pounds. But Daphne was right—the last line was the only one that really concerned Charlie.

"Sir Raymond, whose wife died in 1914, is survived by two daughters, Miss Amy Hardcastle and Mrs. Gerald Trentham."

Charlie picked up the telephone on the desk beside him and asked to be put through to a Chelsea number. A few moments later Tom Arnold came on the line.

"Where the hell did you say Wrexall was to be found?" was the only question Charlie asked.

"As I explained when you last inquired, Chairman, he now runs a pub in Cheshire, the Happy Poacher, in a village called Hatherton."

Charlie thanked his managing director and replaced the receiver without another word.

"Can I be of any assistance?" asked Selwyn dryly.

"What's my program for the rest of the day looking like, Arthur?"

"Well, they haven't quite finished with the turnips yet, then you're meant to be attending more sessions all afternoon. This evening you're proposing the health of the government at the conference dinner before finally presenting the farmers' annual dairy awards tomorrow morning."

"Then pray I'm back in time for the dinner," said Charlie. He stood up and grabbed his overcoat.

"Do you want me to come with you?" asked Selwyn, trying to keep up with his master.

"No, thank you, Arthur. It's a personal matter. Just cover for me if I'm not back in time."

Charlie ran down the stairs and out into the yard. His driver was dozing peacefully behind the wheel.

Charlie jumped into his car and the slammed door woke him up. "Take me to Hatherton."

"Hatherton, sir?"

"Yes, Hatherton. Head south out of Carlisle, and by then I should be able to point you in the right direction." Charlie flicked open the road map, turned to the back and began running his finger down the H's. There were five Hathertons listed but luckily just the one in Cheshire. The only other word Charlie uttered on the entire journey was "Faster," which he repeated several times. They passed through Lancaster, Preston and Warrington before coming to a halt outside the Happy Poacher half an hour before the pub was due to close for the afternoon.

Syd Wrexall's eyes nearly popped out of his head when Charlie strolled in the front door.

"A Scotch egg and a pint of your best bitter, landlord, and no short measures," Charlie said with a grin, placing a briefcase by his side.

"Fancy seeing you in these parts, Mr. Trumper," declared Syd after he had shouted over his shoulder "Hilda, one Scotch egg, and come and see who's 'ere."

"I was just on my way to a farmers' conference in Carlisle," explained Charlie. "Thought I'd drop by and have a pint and a snack with an old friend."

"That's right neighborly of you," said Syd as he placed the pint of bitter on the counter in front of him. "Of course, we read about you in the papers a lot nowadays, and all the work you're doing with Lord Woolton for the war effort. You're becoming quite a celebrity."

"It's a fascinating job the Prime Minister has given me," said Charlie. "I can only hope that I'm doing some good," he added, hoping he sounded pompous enough.

"But what about your shops, Charlie? Who's taking care of them with you away so much of the time?"

"Arnold's back at base doing the best he can in the circumstances, but I'm afraid I've got four or five closed, not to mention those that were already boarded up. I can tell you, Syd, in confidence"—Charlie lowered his voice—"if things don't start brightening up before too long I shall soon be looking for a buyer myself." Wrexall's wife came bushing in carrying a plate of food.

"Hello, Mrs. Wrexall," said Charlie, as she put down a Scotch egg and a plate of salad in front of him. "Good to see you again, and why don't you and your husband have a drink on me?"

"Don't mind if I do, Charlie. Can you see to it, Hilda?" he said, as he leaned over the bar conspiratorially. "Don't suppose you know anyone who'd be interested in purchasing the syndicate's shops, and the pub, for that matter?"

"Can't say I do," said Charlie. "If I remember rightly, Syd, you were asking an awful lot of money for the Musketeer which is now nothing more than a bomb site. Not to mention the state of the few shops the syndicate still have boarded up."

"I came down to your figure of six thousand, which I thought we had already shaken hands on, but Arnold told me you were no longer interested," said Syd, as his wife placed two pints on the counter before going off to serve another customer.

"He told you that?" said Charlie, trying to sound surprised.

"Oh, yes," said Wrexall. "I accepted your offer of six thousand, even sent the signed contract for your approval, but he just returned the documents without so much as a by-your-leave."

"I don't believe it," said Charlie. "After I'd given my word, Syd. Why didn't you get in touch with me direct?"

"Not that easy nowadays," said Wrexall, "what with your new exalted position I didn't think you'd be available for the likes of me."

"Arnold had no right to do that," said Charlie. "He obviously didn't appreciate how long our relationship goes back. I do apologize, Syd, and remember, for you I'm always available. You don't still have the contract, by any chance?"

"Certainly do," said Wrexall. "And it'll prove I'm as good as my word." He disappeared, leaving Charlie to take a bite of Scotch egg and a slow swig of the local brew.

The publican returned a few minutes later and slammed down some documents on the bar top. "There you are, Charlie, true as I stand here."

Charlie studied the contract that he had been shown by Arnold some eighteen months before. It already bore the signature "Sydney Wrexall," with the figures "six thousand" written in after the words "for the consideration of—"

"All that it needed was the date and your signature," said Syd. "I never thought you'd do that to me Charlie, after all these years."

"As you well know, Syd, I'm a man of my word. I'm only sorry my managing director wasn't properly acquainted with our personal arrangement." Charlie removed a wallet from his pocket, took out a checkbook, and wrote out the words "Syd Wrexall" on the top line and "six thousand pounds" on the line below before signing it with a flourish.

"You're a gentleman, Charlie, I always said you were. Didn't I always say he was, Hilda?"

Mrs. Wrexall nodded enthusiastically as Charlie smiled, picked up the contract and placed all the papers inside his briefcase and then shook hands with the publican and his wife.

"How much is the damage?" he asked after he had drained the last drop of his beer.

"It's on the house," said Wrexall.

"But, Syd—"

"No, I insist, wouldn't dream of treating an old friend like a customer, Charlie. On the house," he repeated as the telephone rang and Hilda Wrexall went off to answer it.

"Well, I must be on my way," said Charlie. "Otherwise I'll be late for this conference, and I'm meant to be delivering another speech tonight. Nice to have done business with you, Syd." He had just reached the door of the pub as Mrs. Wrexall came rushing back to the counter.

"There's a lady on the line for you, Syd. Calling long distance. Says her name is Mrs. Trentham."

As the months passed Charlie became the master of his brief. No port directors could be sure when he might burst into their offices, no suppliers were surprised when he demanded to check their invoices and the president of the National Farmers' Union positively purred whenever Charlie's name came up in conversation.

He never found it necessary to phone the Prime Minister, although Mr. Churchill did phone him on one occasion. It was four forty-five in the morning when Charlie picked up the receiver on his desk.

"Good morning," he said.

"Trumper?"

"Yes, who's that?"

"Churchill."

"Good morning, Prime Minister. What can I do for you, sir?"

"Nothing. I was just checking that it was true what they say about you. By the way, thank you." The phone went dead.

Charlie even managed from time to time to have lunch with Daniel. The boy was now attached to the War Office, but would never talk about the work he was involved in. After he was promoted to captain, Charlie's only worry became what Becky's reaction would be if she ever saw him in uniform.

When Charlie visited Tom Arnold at the end of the month he learned that Mr. Hadlow had retired as manager of the bank and his replacement, a Mr. Paul Merrick, was not proving to be quite as amenable. "Says our overdraft is reaching unacceptable levels and perhaps it's time we did something about it," explained Tom.

"Does he?" said Charlie. "Then I shall obviously have to see this Mr. Merrick and tell him a few home truths."

Although Trumper's now owned all the shops in Chelsea Terrace, with the exception of the bookshop, Charlie was still faced with the problem of Mrs. Trentham and her bombed-out flats, not to mention the additional worry of Herr Hitler and his unfinished war: these he tended to place in roughly the same category, and nearly always in that order.

The war with Herr Hitler began to take a step in the right direction towards the end of 1942 with the victory of the Eighth Army at El Alamein. Charlie felt confident that Churchill was right when he declared that the tide had turned, as first Africa, followed by Italy, France and finally Germany were invaded.

But by then it was Mr. Merrick who was insisting on seeing Charlie.

When Charlie entered Mr. Merrick's office for the first time he was surprised to find how young Mr. Hadlow's replacement was. It also took him a few moments to get used to a bank manager who didn't wear a waistcoat or a black tie. Paul Merrick was a shade taller than Charlie and every bit as broad in everything except his smile. Charlie quickly discovered that Mr. Merrick had no small talk.

"Are you aware, Mr. Trumper, that your company account is overdrawn by some forty-seven thousand pounds and your present income doesn't even cover—"

"But the property must be worth four or five times that amount."

"Only if you're able to find someone who's willing to buy it."

"But I'm not a seller."

"You may be left with no choice, Mr. Trumper, if the bank decides to foreclose on you."

"Then I'll just have to change banks, won't I," said Charlie.

"You have obviously not had the time recently to read the minutes of your own board meetings because when they last met, your managing director Mr. Arnold reported that he had visited six banks in the past month and none of them had showed the slightest interest in taking over Trumper's account."

Merrick waited for his customer's response but as Charlie remained silent he continued. "Mr. Crowther also explained to the board on that occasion that the problem you are now facing has been caused by property prices being lower now than they have been at any time since the 1930s."

"But that will change overnight once the war is over."

"Possibly, but that might not be for several years and you could be insolvent long before then—"

"More like twelve months would be my guess."

"—especially if you continue to sign checks to the value of six thousand pounds for property worth about half that amount."

"But if I hadn't—"

"You might not be in such a precarious position."

Charlie remained silent for some time. "So what do you expect me to do about it?" he asked finally.

"I require you to sign over all the properties and stock held by your company as collateral against the overdraft. I have already drawn up the necessary papers."

Merrick swiveled round a document that lay on the middle of his desk. "If you feel able to sign," he added, pointing to a dotted line near the bottom of the page marked by two pencil crosses, "I would be willing to extend your credit for a further twelve months."

"And if I refuse?"

"I'll be left with no choice but to issue an insolvency notice within twenty-eight days."

Charlie stared down at the document and saw that Becky had already signed on the line above his. Both men remained silent for some time as Charlie weighed up the alternatives. Then without offering any further comment Charlie took out his pen, scrawled a signature between the two penciled crosses, swiveled the document back round, turned and marched out of the room without another word.

The surrender of Germany was signed by General Jodl and accepted on behalf of the Allies by General Bedell Smith at Reims on 7 May 1945.

Charlie would have joined the VE Day celebrations in Trafalgar Square had Becky not reminded him that their overdraft had reached nearly sixty thousand pounds and Merrick was once again threatening them with bankruptcy.

"He's got his hands on the property and all our stock—what else does he expect me to do?" demanded Charlie.

"He's now suggesting that we sell the one thing that could clear the debt, and would even leave some capital over to see us through the next couple of years."

"And what's that?"

"Van Gogh's The Potato Eaters."

"Never!"

"But Charlie, the painting belongs to . . ."

Charlie made an appointment to see Lord Woolton the following morning and explained to the minister he was now faced with his own problems that required his immediate attention. He therefore asked, now that the war in Europe was over, if he could be released from his present duties.

Lord Woolton fully understood Charlie's dilemma and made it clear how sad he and all at the department would be to see him go.

When Charlie left his office a month later the only thing he took with him was Jessica Allen.

Charlie's problems didn't ease up during 1945 as property prices continued to fall and inflation continued to rise. He was nevertheless touched when, after peace had been declared with Japan, the Prime Minister held a dinner in his honor at Number 10. Daphne admitted that she had never entered the building, and told Becky that she wasn't even sure she wanted to. Percy admitted he wanted to, and was envious.

There were several leading cabinet ministers present for the occasion. Becky was placed between Churchill and the rising young star Rab Butler, while Charlie was seated next to Mrs. Churchill and Lady Woolton. Becky watched her husband as he chatted in a relaxed way with the Prime Minister and Lord Woolton, and had to smile when Charlie had the nerve to offer the old man a cigar he had specially selected that afternoon from Number 139. No one in that room could possibly have guessed that they were on the verge of bankruptcy.

When the evening finally came to an end, Becky thanked the Prime Minister, who in turn thanked her.

"What for?" asked Becky.

"Taking telephone calls in my name, and making excellent decisions on my behalf," he said, as he accompanied them both down the long corridor to the front hall.

"I had no idea you knew," said Charlie, turning scarlet.

"Knew? Woolton told the entire cabinet the next day. Never seen them laugh so much."

When the Prime Minister reached the front door of Number 10, he gave Becky a slight bow and said, "Good night, Lady Trumper."

"You know what that means, don't you?" said Charlie as he drove out of Downing Street and turned right into Whitehall.

"That you're about to get a knighthood?"

"Yes, but more important, we're going to have to sell the van Gogh."