As the Crow Flies (47 page)

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.”

I
n 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 Q. N HH, 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. Selfridgeand 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.