As the Crow Flies (46 page)

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.

“Was
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 thirtyseven 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, ne’e 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.