As the Crow Flies (45 page)

Then
suddenly, just at the point when Mrs. Trentham had begun to believe that the
time might be right to put the next stage of her plan into action, a cable
arrived from Melbourne. The address from which the missive had been sent left
Mrs. Trentham with no choice but to leave for that distant city without delay.

When,
over dinner that night, she informed Gerald that she intended to depart for the
Antipodes on the first possible tide her news was greeted with polite
indifference. This came as no surprise, as Guy’s name had rarely passed her
husband’s lips since that day he had visited the War Office over four years
before. In fact, the only sign that still remained of their firstborn’s
existence at either Ashurst Hall or Chester Square was the one picture of him
in full dress uniform that stood on her bedroom table and the MC that Gerald
had allowed to remain on the mantelpiece.

As
far as Gerald was concerned, Nigel was their only child.

Gerald
Trentham was well aware that his wife told all his and her friends that Guy was
a successful partner in a large cattle firm of brokers that had offices right
across Australia. However, he had long ago stopped believing such stories, and
had lately even stopped listening to them. Whenever the occasional envelope, in
that all too familiar hand, dropped through the letter box at Chester Square,
Gerald Trentham made no inquiry as to his elder son’s progress.

The
next ship scheduled to sail for Australia was the SS Orontes, which was due out
of Southampton on the following Monday. Mrs. Trentham cabled back to an address
in Melbourne to let them know her estimated time of arrival.

The
five-week trip across two oceans seemed interminable to Mrs. Trentham,
especially as for most of the time she chose to remain in her cabin, having no
desire to strike up a casual acquaintanceship with anyone on board or, worse,
bump into someone who actually knew her. She turned down several invitations to
join the captains table for dinner.

Once
the ship had docked at Sydney, Mrs. Trentham only rested overnight in that city
before traveling on to Melbourne. On arrival at Spencer Street Station she took
a taxi directly to the Royal Victoria hospital, where the sister in charge told
her matter-of-factly that her son had only another week to live.

They
allowed her to see him immediately, and a police officer escorted her to the
special isolation wing. She stood by his bedside, staring down in disbelief at
a face she could barely recognize. Guy’s hair was so thin and gray and the
lines on his face so deep that Mrs. Trentham felt she might have been at her
husband’s deathbed.

A
doctor told her that such a condition was not uncommon once the verdict had
been delivered and the person concerned realized there was no hope of a
reprieve. After standing at the end of the bed for nearly an hour she left
without having been able to elicit a word from her son. At no time did she
allow any of the hospital staff to become aware of her true feelings.

That
evening Mrs. Trentham booked herself into a quiet country club on the outskirts
of Melbourne. She made only one inquiry of the young expatriate owner, a Mr.
Sinclair-Smith, before retiring to her room.

The
next morning she presented herself at the offices of the oldest firm of
solicitors in Melbourne, Asgarth, Jenkins and Company. A young man she
considered far too familiar asked, “What was her problem?”

“I
wish to have a word with your senior partner,” Mrs. Trentham replied.

“Then
you’ll have to take a seat in the waiting room,” he told her.

Mrs.
Trentham sat alone for some time before Mr. Asgarth was free to see her.

The
senior partner, an elderly man who from his dress might have been conducting
his practice in Lincoln’s Inn Fields rather than Victoria Street Melbourne,
listened in silence to her sad story and agreed to deal with any problems that
might arise from handling Guy Trentham’s estate. To that end he promised to
lodge an immediate application for permission to have the body transported back
to England.

Mrs.
Trentham visited her son in hospital every day of that week before he died.
Although little conversation passed between them, she did learn of one problem
that would have to be dealt with before she could hope to travel back to
England.

On
Wednesday afternoon Mrs. Trentham resumed to the offices of Asgarth, Jenkins
and Company to seek the advice of the senior partner on what could be done
following her latest discovery. The elderly lawyer ushered his client to a
chair before he listened carefully to her revelation. He made the occasional note
on a pad in front of him. When Mrs. Trentham had finished he did not offer an
opinion for some considerable time.

“There
will have to be a change of name,” he suggested, “if no one else is to find out
what you have in mind.”

“And
we must also be sure that there is no way of tracing who her father was at some
time in the future,” said Mrs. Trentham.

The
old solicitor frowned. “That will require you to place considerable trust in”
he checked the scribbled name in front of him “Miss Benson.”

“Pay
Miss Benson whatever it takes to assure her silence,” said Mrs. Trentham. “Courts
in London will handle all the financial details.”

The
senior partner nodded and by dint of remaining at his desk until nearly
midnight for the next four days he managed to complete all the paperwork
necessary to fulfill his client’s requirements only hours before Mrs. Trentham
was due to leave for London.

Guy
Trentham was certified as dead by the doctor in attendance at three minutes
past six on the morning of 23 April 1927, and the following day Mrs. Trentham
began her somber journey back to England, accompanied by his coffin. She was
relieved that only two people on that continent knew as much as she did, one an
elderly gentleman only months away from retirement, the other a woman who could
now spend the rest of her life in a style she would never have believed
possible only a few days before.

Mrs.
Trentham cabled her husband with the minimum information she considered
necessary before sailing back to Southampton as silently and as anonymously as
she had come. Once she had set foot on English soil Mrs. Trentham was driven
directly to her home in Chester Square. She briefed her husband on the details
of the tragedy, and he reluctantly accepted that an announcement should be
placed in The Times the following day. It read:

“The
death is announced of Captain Guy Trentham, MC, tragically from tuberculosis
after suffering a long illness. The funeral will take place at St. Mary’s,
Ashurst, Berkshire, on Tuesday, 8 June, 1927.”

The
local vicar conducted the ceremony for the dear departed. His death, he assured
the congregation was a tragedy for all who knew him.

Guy
Trentham was laid to rest in the plot originally reserved for his father. Major
and Mrs. Trentham, relations, friends of the family, parishioners and servants
left the burial ground with their heads bowed low.

During
the days that followed, Mrs. Trentham received over a hundred letters of
condolence, one or two of which pointed out that she could at least be consoled
with the knowledge that there was a second son to take Guy’s place.

The
next day Nigel’s photograph replaced his elder brother’s on the bedside table.

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 192~ 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.