As the Crow Flies (76 page)

“So
he could still be alive?”

“Certainly
could, miss. He’d only be fifty, fifty-five, most.”

I
checked my watch, thanked him and ran quickly out of the building, suddenly
aware of how much time I had spent at the museum and fearful that I might miss
the train back to London and wouldn’t be in time to clock on for my five o’clock
shift.

After
I had settled in a corner of a dingy third-class compartment I read over the
citation again. It pleased me to think that my father had been a First World
War hero; but I still couldn’t fathom out why Miss Benson had been so unwilling
to tell me anything about him. Why had he gone to Australia? Had he changed his
name to Ross? I felt I would have to return to Melbourne if I was ever going to
find out exactly what had happened to Guy Francis Trentham. Had I possessed the
money to pay for my return fare, I would have gone back that night, but as I
had to work out my contract at the hotel for another nine months before they
would advance me enough cash to cover the one-way ticket home I settled down to
complete my sentence.

London
in 1947 was an exciting city for a twenty-three-year-old so despite the dreary
work there were many compensations. Whenever I had any time off I would visit
an art gallery, a museum or go to a cinema with one of the girls from the hotel.
On a couple of occasions I even accompanied a group of friends to a dance at
the Mecca ballroom just off the Strand. One particular night I remember a
rather good-looking bloke from the RAF asked me for a dance and, just moments
after we had started going round the hall, he tried to kiss me. When I pushed
him away he became even more determined and only a firm kick on his ankle
followed by a short dash across the dance floor made it possible for me to
escape. A few minutes later I found myself out on the pavement and heading back
to the hotel on my own.

As
I strolled through Chelsea in the general direction of Earl’s Court I stopped
from time to time to admire the unattainable goods on display in every shop
window. I particularly craved a long blue silk shawl draped over the shoulders
of an elegant slim mannequin. I stopped window-shopping for a moment and
glanced up at the name over the door: “Trumper’s.” There was something familiar
about the name but I couldn’t think what. I walked slowly back to the hotel but
the only Trumper I could recall was the legendary Australian cricketer who had
died before I was born. Then in the middle of the night it came back to me.
Trumper, C. was the corporal mentioned in the citation written about my father.
I jumped out of bed, opened the bottom drawer of my little desk and checked the
words I had copied out during my visit to the Royal Fusiliers Museum.

The
name was not one I’d come across since arriving in England, so I wondered if
the shopkeeper might be related in some way to the corporal and therefore might
help me find him. I decided to return to the museum in Hounslow on my next day
off and see if my one-legged friend could be of any further assistance.

“Nice
to see you again, miss,” he said as I walked up to the counter. I was touched
that he remembered me.

“More
information you’re after?”

“You’re
right,” I told him. “Corporal Trumper, he’s not the... ?

“Charlie
Trumper the ‘onest trader. Certainly is, miss; but now ‘e’s Sir Charles and
owns that large group of shops in Chelsea Terrace.”

“I
thought so.”

“I
was about to tell you all about ‘im when you ran off last time, miss.” He
grinned. “Could ‘ave saved you a train journey and about six months of your
timed.”

The
following evening, instead of going to see Greta Garbo at the Gate Cinema in
Notting Hill, I sat on an old bench on the far side of Chelsea Terrace and just
stared at a row of windows. Sir Charles seemed to own almost every shop on the
street. I could only wonder why he had allowed such a large empty space to
remain right in the middle of the block.

My
next problem was how I could possibly get to see him. The only idea that
occurred to me was that I might take my medal into Number 1 for a valuation and
then pray.

During
the next week I was on the day shift at the hotel so I was unable to return to
Number 1 Chelsea Terrace before the following Monday afternoon, when I
presented the girl on the front counter with my MC and asked if the medal could
be valued. She considered my tiny offering, then called for someone else to
examine it more carefully. A tall, studious-looking man spent some time
checking the piece before he offered an opinion. “A miniature MC,” he declared,
“sometimes known as a dress MC because it would be worn on a mess or dinner
jacket for regimental nights, value approximately ten pounds.” He hesitated for
a moment. “But of course Spinks at 5 King Street SW1 would be able to give you
a more accurate assessment should you require it.”

“Thank
you,” I said, having learned nothing new and finding myself quite unable to
think of any way I might phrase a question about Sir Charles Trumper’s war
record.

“Anything
else I can help you with?” he asked as I remained rooted to the spot.

“How
do you get a job here?” I bleated out, feeling rather stupid.

“Just
write in, giving us all the details of your qualifications and past experience
and we’ll be back in touch with you within a few days.”

“Thank
you,” I said and left without another word.

I
sat down that evening and drafted a long handwritten leper, seeing out my
qualifications as an art historian. They appeared a bit slender to me when I
looked at them on paper.

The
next morning I rewrote the leper on the hotel’s finest stationery before
addressing the envelope to “Job Inquiries” as I had no name as a contact other
than Trumper’s Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, London SW7.

The
following afternoon I hand-delivered the missive to a girl on the front desk of
the auction house, never really expecting to receive a reply. In any case, I
wasn’t actually sure what I would do if they did offer me a job, as I planned
on returning to Melbourne in a few months and I still couldn’t imagine how
working at Trumper’s would ever lead to my meeting Sir Charles.

Ten
days later I received a leper from the personnel officer, saying they would
like to interview me. I spent four pounds fifteen shillings of my hard-earned
wages on a new dress that I could ill afford and arrived over an hour early for
the interview. I ended up having to walk round the block several times. During
that hour I discovered that Sir Charles really did seem to sell everything any
human being could desire, as long as you had enough money to pay for it.

At
last the hour was up and I marched in and presented myself at the front
counter. I was taken up some stairs to an office on the top floor. The lady who
interviewed me said she couldn’t understand what I was doing stuck in a hotel
as a chambermaid with my qualifications, until I explained to her that hotel
work was the only job available to those who couldn’t afford to pay their
passage over to England.

She
smiled before warning me that if I wanted to work at Number 1 everyone started
on the front desk. If they proved to be any good they were promoted fairly
quickly.

“I
started on the front desk at Sotheby’s,” my interviewer went on to explain. I
wanted to ask her how long she’d lasted.

“I’d
love to come and work at Trumper’s,” I told her, “but I’m afraid I still have
two months of my contract to complete before I can leave the Melrose Hotel.”

“Then
we’ll have to wait for you,” she replied without hesitation. “You can start at
the front desk on first of September, Miss Ross. I will confirm all the
arrangements in writing by the end of the week.”

I
was so excited by her offer that I quite forgot why I’d applied for the job in
the first place: until my interviewer sent her promised letter and I was able
to decipher her signature scribbled across the foot of the page.

C
athy had
worked on the front desk of Trumper’s Auction House for just eleven days when
Simon Matthews asked her to help him prepare the catalogue for the Italian
sale. He was the first to spot how, as the auction house’s premier line of
defense, she handled the myriad inquiries that were thrown at her without
constantly having to seek a second opinion. She worked just as hard for Trumper’s
as she had done at the Melrose Hotel, but with a difference: she now enjoyed
what she was doing.

For
the first time in her life Cathy felt she was part of a family, because Rebecca
Trumper was invariably relaxed and friendly with her staff, treating them all
as equals. Her salary was far more generous than the bare minimum she had
received from her previous employer, and the room they gave her above the
butcher’s shop at Number 135 was palatial in comparison with her hideaway at
the back of the hotel.

Trying
to find out more about her father began to seem less important to Cathy as she
set about proving she was worth her place at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace. Her
primary task in preparing the catalogue for the Italian sale was to check the
history of every one of the fifty-nine pictures that were to come under the
hammer. To this end she traveled right across London from library to library
and telephoned gallery after gallery in her quest to track down every
attribution. In the end only one picture completely baffled her, that of the
Virgin Mary and Child, which bore no signature and had no history attached
except that it had originally come from the private collection of Sir Charles
Trumper and was now owned by a Mrs. Kitty Bennett.

Cathy
asked Simon Matthews if he could give any lead on the picture and was told by
her head of department that he felt it might have come from the school of
Bronzino.

Simon,
who was in charge of the auction, went on to suggest that she should check
through the press cuttings books.

Almost
everything you need to know about the Trumpers is in there somewhere.”

“And
where will I find them?”

“On
the fourth floor in that funny little room at the end of the passage.”

When
she eventually found the cubicle that housed the files she had to brush off a
layer of dust and even remove the odd cobweb as she browsed through the annual
offerings. She sat on the floor, her legs tucked beneath her, as she continued
to turn the pages, becoming more and more engrossed in the rise of Charles
Trumper from his days when he owned his first barrow in Whitechapel to the
proposed plans for Trumper’s of Chelsea. Although the press references were
sketchy in those early years, it was a small article in the Evening Standard
that stopped Cathy in her tracks. The page had yellowed with age and on the top
right-hand corner, barely discemible, was printed the date: 8 September 1922.

A
tall man in his late twenties, unshaven and dressed in an old army greatcoat,
broke into the home of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Trumper of 11 Gilston Road,
Chelsea, yesterday morning. Though the intruder escaped with a small oil
painting thought to be of little value, Mrs. Trumper, seven months pregnant
with her second child, was in the house at the time and collapsed from the
shock. She was later rushed to Guy’s Hospital by her husband.

On
arrival an emergency operation was carried out by the senior surgeon Mr.
Armitage, but their little girl was stillborn. Mrs. Trumper is expected to
remain at Guy’s Hospital under observation for several days.

The
police would like to interview anyone who may have been in the vicinity at the
time.

Cathy’s
eyes moved on to a second piece, dated some three weeks later.

Police
have come into possession of an abandoned army greatcoat that may have been
worn by the man who broke into 11 Gilston Road, Chelsea, the home of Mr. and
Mrs. Charles Trumper, on the morning of 7 September. The ownership of the coat
has been traced to a Captain Guy Trentham, formerly of the Royal Fusiliers, who
until recently was serving with his regiment in India.

Cathy
read the two pieces over and again. Could she really be the daughter of a man
who had tried to rob Sir Charles and had been responsible for the death of his
second child? And where did the painting fit in? Just how had Mrs. Bennett come
into possession of it? More important, why had Lady Trumper taken such an
interest in a seemingly unimportant oil by an unknown artist?

Unable
to answer any of these questions, Cathy closed the cuttings book and pushed it
back to the bottom of the pile. After she had washed her hands she wanted to
return downstairs and ask Lady Trumper all her questions one by one, but knew
that wasn’t possible.

When
the catalogue had been completed and on sale for over a week Lady Trumper asked
to see Cathy in her office. Cathy only hoped that some frightful mistake hadn’t
been unearthed, or someone hadn’t come across an attribution for the painting
of the Virgin Mary and Child that she should have discovered in time to be
credited in the catalogue.

As
Cathy stepped into the office Becky said, “My congratulations. “

“Thank
you,” said Cathy, not quite sure what she was being praised for.

“Your
catalogue has been a sell-out and we’re having to rush through a reprint.”