As the Crow Flies (52 page)

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

“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 turnd 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 holdup 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... “