As the Crow Flies (81 page)

Cathy
took up the Prime Minister’s challenge and threw all her energy into the
personnel project the board had entrusted her with, and was able to show a
saving of forty-nine thousand pounds in wages during 1953 and a further
twenty-one thousand pounds in the first half of 1954. By the end of that fiscal
year I felt she knew more about the running of Trumper’s at staff level than
anyone around that table, myself included.

During
1955 overseas sales began to fall sharply, and as Cathy no longer seemed to be
extended and I was keen for her to gain experience of other departments I asked
her to sort out the problems of our international department.

She
took on her new position with the same enthusiasm with which she tackled
everything, but during the next two years began to clash with Nigel Trentham
over a number of issues, including a policy to return the difference to any
customer who could prove he had paid less for a standard item when shopping at
one of our rivals. Trentham argued that Trumper’s customers were not interested
in some imagined difference in price that could be compared with a lesser known
store, but only in quality and service, to which Cathy replied, “It isn’t the
customers’ responsibility to be concerned with the balance sheet, it’s the
board’s on behalf of our shareholders.”

On
another occasion Trentham came near to accusing Cathy of being a communist when
she suggested a “workers’ share participation scheme” which she felt would
create company loyalty that only the Japanese had fully understood a country,
she explained, where it was not uncommon for a company to retain ninety-eight
percent of its staff from womb to tomb. Even I was unsure about this particular
idea, but Becky warned me in private that I was beginning to sound like a “fuddy
buddy,” which I assumed was some modern term not to be taken as a compliment.

When
Legal and General failed to get our insurance business they sold their two
percent holding outright to Nigel Trentham. From that moment I became even more
anxious that he might eventually get his hands on enough stock to take over the
company. He also proposed another nomination to the board which, thanks to Paul
Merrick’s seconding, was accepted.

“I
should have secured that land thirty-five years ago for a mere four thousand
pounds,” I told Becky.

“As
you have reminded us so often in the past, and what’s worse,” Becky reminded
me, “is that Mrs. Trentham is now more dangerous to us dead than alive.”

Trumper’s
took the arrival of Elvis Presley, Teddy boys, stilettos and teenagers all in
its stride. “The customers may have changed, but our standards must not be
allowed to,” I continually reminded the board.

In
1960 the company declared a seven-hundred-and-fifty-seven-thousand-pound net
profit, a fourteen percent return on capital, and a year later went on to top
this achievement by being granted a Royal Warrant from the monarch. I
instructed that the House of Windsor’s coat of arms should be hung above the
main entrance to remind the public that the Queen shopped at the barrow on a
regular basis.

I
couldn’t pretend that I had ever seen Her Majesty carrying one of our familiar
blue bags with its silver motif of a barrow, or spotted her as she traveled up
and down the escalators during peak hours, but we still received regular
telephone calls from the Palace when they found themselves running short of
supplies: which only proved yet again my old granpa’s theory that an apple is
an apple whoever bites it.

The
highlight of 1961 for me was when Becky finally opened the Dan Salmon Centre in
Whitechapel Road another building that had run considerably over cost. However,
I didn’t regret one penny of the expenditure despite Merrick’s niggling
criticism as I watched the next generation of East End boys and girls swimming,
boxing, weightlifting and playing squash, a game I just couldn’t get the hang
of.

Whenever
I went to see West Ham play soccer on a Saturday afternoon, I could always drop
into the new club on my way home, and watch the African, West Indian and Asian
children the new East Enders battle against each other just as determinedly as
we had done against the Irish and Eastern European immigrants.

“The
old order changeth, yielding place to new; And God fulfils himself in many
ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.” Tennyson’s words,
chiseled in the stone on the archway above;the center, brought my mind back to
Mrs. Trentham, who was never far from my thoughts, especially while her three
representatives sat around the boardroom table eager to carry out her bidding.
Nigel, who now resided at Chester Square, seemed happy to wait for everything
to fall into place before he marshaled his troops ready for the attack.

I
continued to pray that Mrs. Trentham would live to a grand old age as I still
needed more time to prepare some blocking process to ensure that her son could
never take over the company.

It
was Daphne who first warned me that Mrs. Trentham had taken to her bed and was
receiving regular visits from the family GP. Nigel Trentham still managed to
keep a smile on his face during those months of waiting.

Without
warning on 7 March 1962 Mrs. Trentham, aged eighty-eight, died.

“Peacefully
in her sleep,” Daphne informed me.

D
aphne attended
Mrs. Trentham’s funeral, “Just to be certain that the wretched woman really was
buried,” she explained to Charlie later, “though it wouldn’t surprise me if she
found some way of rising from the dead.” She went on to warn Charlie that Nigel
had been overheard, even before the body had been lowered into the ground,
telling everyone that we should expect thunderbolts as soon as the board met.
again. He only had a few days to wait.

That
first Tuesday of the following month Charlie checked around the boardroom table
to see that every director was present. He could sense they were all waiting to
see who would strike first. Nickel Trentham and his two colleagues wore black
ties like some official badge of office, reminding the board of their newly
acquired status. In contrast, for the first time in Charlie’s memory, Mr.
Baverstock wore a garish pastelcolored tie.

Charlie
had already worked out that Trentham would wait until item number six a
proposal to expand the banking facilities on the ground floor before he made
any move. The original scheme had been one of Cathy’s brainchilds, and soon
after returning from one of her monthly trips to the States she had presented a
detailed proposal to the board. Although the new department had experienced
some teething problems, by the end of its second year it was just about
breaking even.

The
first half hour was peaceful enough as Charlie took the board through items one
to five. But when he called for “item number six. The expansion of... “

“Let’s
close the bank and cut our losses,” were Trentham’s opening words even before
Charlie had been given the chance to offer an opinion.

“For
what reason?” asked Cathy defiantly.

“Because
we’re not bankers,” said Trentham. “We’re shopkeepers or barrow pushers, as our
chairman so often likes to remind us. In any case, it would give us a saving on
expenditure of nearly thirty thousand pounds a year.”

“But
the bank is just beginning to pay its way,” said Cathy. “We should be thinking
of expanding the facilities, not curtailing them. And with profits in mind, who
knows how much money cashed on the premises is then spent on the premises?”

“Yes,
but look at the amount of extra counter space the banking hall is taking up.”

“In
return we give our customers a valuable service.”

“And
lose money hand over fist by not using the space for more profitable lines of
business,” fired back Trentham.

“Like
what, for example?” said Cathy. “Just tell me one other department that would
provide a more useful service for our customers and at the same time show a
better return on our investment. Do that and I’ll be the first to agree we
should close down the banking hall.”

“We’re
not a service industry. It’s our duty to show a decent return on capital for
our shareholders,” said Trentham. “I demand a vote on this,” he added, not
bothering to rebut Cathy’s arguments any further.

Trentham
lost the vote by six to three and Charlie assumed after such an outcome they
would then pass on to item number seven a proposed staff outing to the film of West
Side Story, playing at the Odeon, Leicester Square. However, once Jessica Allen
had recorded the names for the minutes, Nigel Trentham rose quickly to his feet
and said, “I have an announcement to make, Mr. Chairman.”

“Wouldn’t
it be more appropriate under ‘Any other business’?” asked Charlie innocently.

“I
will no longer be here when you come to discuss any other business, Mr.
Chairman,” said Trentham coldly. He proceeded to remove a piece of paper from
an inside pocket, unfolded it and began reading from what was obviously a
prepared script.

“I
feel it is my duty to inform the board,” he seated, “that within a few weeks I
will be the sole owner of thirty-three percent of Trumper’s shares. When we
next meet, I shall be insisting that several changes be made to the structure
of the company, not least in the composition of those presently seated around
this table.” He stopped to stare at Cathy before he added, “I intend to leave
now, in order that you can discuss more fully the implications of my statement.”

He
pushed back his chair as Daphne said, “I’m not quite sure I fully understand
what you’re suggesting, Mr. Trentham.”

Trentham
hesitated for a moment before he replied, “Then I shall have to explain my
position more fully, Lady Wiltshire.”

“How
kind of you.”

“At
the next board meeting,” he continued unabashed, “I shall allow my name to be
proposed and seconded as chairman of Trumper’s. Should I fail to be elected, I
shall immediately resign from the board and issue a press statement of my
intention to make a full takeover bid for the remaining shares in the company.
You must all be aware by now that I will have the necessary facility to mount
such a challenge. As I only require a further eighteen percent of the stock to
become the majority shareholder, I suggest it might be wise for those of you
who are currently directors to face up to the inevitable and offer your
resignations in order to avoid the embarrassment of being dismissed. I look
forward to seeing one or two of you again at next month’s board meeting.” He
and his two colleagues rose and followed him out of the room.

The
silence that followed was broken only by another question from Daphne.

“What’s
the collective noun for a group of shits?”

Everybody
laughed, except Baverstock, who said under his breath, “A heap.”

“So,
now we’ve been given our battle orders,” said Charlie. “Let’s hope we all have
the stomach for a fight.” Turning to Mr. Baverstock he asked, “Can you advise
the board on the present position concerning those shares currently held by the
Hardcastle Trust?”

The
old man raised his head slowly and looked up at Charlie. “No, Mr. Chairman, I
cannot. Indeed, I’m sorry to have to inform the board that 1, too, must tender
my resignation.”

“But
why?” asked Becky, aghast. “You’ve always supported us in the past through
thick and thin.”

“I
must apologize, Lady Trumper, but I am not at liberty to disclose my reasons.”

“Couldn’t
you possibly reconsider your position?” Charlie asked.

“No,
sir,” Baverstock replied firmly.

Charlie
immediately closed the meeting, despite everyone trying to talk at once, and
quickly followed Baverstock out of the boardroom.

“What
made you resign?” Charlie asked. “After all these years?”

“Perhaps
we could meet and discuss my reasons tomorrow, Sir Charles?”

“Of
course. But just tell me why you felt it necessary to leave us at exactly the
time when I most need you.”

Mr.
Baverstock stopped in his tracks. “Sir Raymond anticipated this might happen,”
he said quietly. “And instructed me accordingly.”

“I
don’t understand.”

“That
is why we should meet tomorrow, Sir Charles.”

“Do
you want me to bring Becky along?”

Mr.
Baverstock considered this suggestion for some time before saving, “I think
not. If I am to break a confidence for the first time in forty years, I’d
prefer to have no other witnesses present.”

When
Charlie arrived at the offices of Baverstock Dickens and Cobb the following
morning, the senior partner was standing at the door waiting to greet him.
Although Charlie had never once been late for an appointment with Mr.
Baverstock in the fourteen years they had known each other, he was touched by
the oldworld courtesy the solicitor always extended to him.

“Good
morning, Sir Charles,” said Baverstock before guiding his guest along the
corridor to his office. Charlie was surprised to be offered a seat near the
unlit fire rather than his usual place on the other side of the partner’s desk.
There wasn’t a clerk or secretary in attendance on this occasion to keep a
record of the minutes and Charlie also noticed that the phone on Mr. Baverstock’s
desk had been taken off the hook. He sat back realizing that this was not going
to be a short meeting.