Becky,
who had never been to a football match in her life, had to spend hours
listening to her husband on the subject of the World Cup, and how no fewer than
three West Ham players had been selected for the England squad.
For
the first four weeks after Charlie had retired as chairman, he seemed quim
content to allow Stan to drive him from Sheffield to Manchester, and from
Liverpool to Leeds, so that they could watch the early rounds together.
When
England won a place in the semifinal Charlie used every contact he could think
of to obtain two stand tickets, and his efforts were rewarded when the home
side won a place in the final.
However,
despite those contacts, a willingness to pay over the odds, and even writing to
Alf Ramsay, the England team manager, Charlie still failed to get even a
standing ticket for the final. He told Becky that he had come to the reluctant
conclusion that he and Stan would have to watch the match on television.
On
the morning of the game, Charlie came down to breakfast to find two stand
tickets wedged in the toast rack. He was unable to eat his eggs and bacon for
sheer excitement. “You’re a genius, Mrs. Trumper,” he said several times,
interspersed with: “However did you manage it?”
“Contacts,”
was all Becky would say, resolved not to let Charlie know that the new computer
had revealed that Mrs. Ramsay held an account at Trumper’s, and Cathy had
suggested she should join that select group of customers who received a ten
percent discount.
The
four-two victory over West Germany, with three goals scored by Geoff Hurst of
West Ham, not only brought Charlie to the edge of delirium but even made Becky
briefly wonder if her husband had now put Trumper’s behind him and would allow
Cathy a free hand as chairman.
Yet
within a week of resuming home from Wembley Stadium Charlie seemed perfectly
content just to potter around the house, but it was during the second week that
Becky realized something had to be done if she wasn’t to be driven mad as well
as lose most of her domestic staff at Eaton Square. On the Monday of the third
week, she dropped into Trumper’s to see the manager of the travel department
and during the fourth week tickets were delivered from the offices of Cunard to
Lady Trumper for a trip to New York on the Queen Mary followed by an extensive
tour of the United States.
“I
do hope she can run the barrow without me,” said Charlie, as they were driven
down to Southampton.
“I
expect she’ll just about scrape by,” said Becky, who had planned that they
should be away for at least three months, to be sure that Cathy had a free hand
to Ret on with the refurbishment program, which they both suspected Charlie would
have done everything in his power to hold up.
Becky
became even more convinced this would have been the case the moment Charlie
walked into Bloomingdale’s and started grumbling about the lack of proper space
allocated to view the goods. She moved him on to Macy’s where he complained of
the nonexistent service, and when they arrived in Chicago he told Joseph Field
that he no longer cared for the window displays that had at one time been the
hallmark of the great store. “Far too garish, even for America,” he assured the
owner. Becky would have mentioned the words “tact” and “subtlety” had Joseph
Field not agreed with his old friend’s every pronouncement, while placing the
blame firmly on a new manager who believed in “flower power,” whatever that
was.
Dallas,
San Francisco and Los Angeles were no better, and when three months later Becky
and Charlie climbed back on board the great liner in New York, the name of “Trumper’s”
was once again on Charlie’s lips. Becky began to dread what might happen when
they set foot back on English soil.
She
only hoped that five days of calm seas and a warm Atlantic breeze might help
them relax and allow Charlie to forget Trumper’s for a few moments. But he
spent most of the voyage back explaining his new ideas for revolutionizing the
company, ideas he felt should be put into operation the moment they reached
London. It was then that Becky decided she had to make a stand on Cathy’s
behalf.
“But
you’re not even a member of the board any longer,” Becky reminded him, as she
lay on the deck sunbathing.
“I’m
the Life President,” he insisted, after he had finished telling her his latest
idea for tagging garments to combat shoplifting.
“But
that’s a purely honorary position.”
“Poppycock.
I intend to make my views felt whenever...”
“Charlie,
that’s not fair to Cathy. She’s no longer the junior director of a family
venture but chairman of a vast public company. The time has surely come for you
to stay away from Trumper’s and allow Cathy to push the barrow along on her
own.”
“So
what am I expected to do?”
“I
don’t know, Charlie, and I don’t care. But whatever you do it’s no longer going
to take place anywhere near Chelsea Terrace. Do I make myself clear?”
Charlie
would have replied if a deck officer hadn’t come to a halt beside them.
“Sorry
to interrupt you sir.”
“You’re
not interrupting anything,” said Charlie. “So what do you want me to do?
Arrange a mutiny or organize the deck tennis draw?”
“Both
those are the purser’s responsibility, Sir Charles,” said the young man. “But
the captain wonders if you would be kind enough to join him on the bridge. He’s
received a cablegram from London which he feels you would want to know about
immediately.”
“I
hope it’s not bad news,” said Becky, as she sat up quickly and placed the novel
she had been trying to read on the deck beside her. “I told them not to contact
us unless it was an emergency.”
“Rubbish,”
said Charlie. “You’re such an old pessimist. With you a bottle is always half
empty.” He stood up and stretched himself before accompanying the young officer
along the afterdeck towards the bridge, explaining how he would organize a
mutiny. Becky iollowed a yard behind, offering no further comment.
As
the officer escorted them onto the bridge the captain turned to greet them.
“A
cablegram has just come over the wires from London, Sir Charles, which I
thought you would want to see immediately.” He handed the message over.
“Damn,
I’ve left my glasses back on the deck,” Charlie mumbled. “Becky, you’d better
read it to me.” He passed the slip of paper to his wife.
Becky
opened the cablegram, her fingers trembling slightly, and read the message to
herself first as Charlie studied his wife’s face for a clue as to its contents.
“Come
on then, what is it? Half full or half empty?”
“It’s
a request from Buckingham Palace,” she replied.
“What
did I tell you,” said Charlie, “you can’t leave them to do anything for
themselves. First day of the month, bath soap, she prefers lavender;
toothpaste, he likes Colgate, and loo paper... I did warn Cathy... “
“No,
I don’t think it’s the loo paper Her Majesty is fussing about on this occasion,”
said Becky.
“So
what’s the problem?” asked Charlie.
“They
want to know what title you’ll take.”
“Title?”
said Charlie.
“Yes,”
said Becky, turning to face her husband. “Lord Trumper of where?”
Becky
was surprised and Cathy somewhat relieved to discover how quickly Lord Trumper
of Whitechapel appeared to become absorbed in the daily workings of the Upper
House. Becky’s fears of his continually interfering with the day-to-day
business of the company evaporated the moment Charlie had donned the red
ermine. For his wife, the routine brought back memories of those days during
the Second World War when Charlie had worked under Lord Woolton in the Ministry
of Food and she could never be sure what time of night he’d arrive home.
Six
months after being told by Becky he was not to no anywhere near Trumper’s,
Charlie announced that he had been invited to become a member of the
Agricultural Committee, where he felt he could once again use his expertise to
the benefit of his fellow members. He even resumed to his old routine of rising
at four-thirty each morning so that he could catch up with those parliamentary papers
that always needed to be read before important meetings.
Whenever
Charlie resumed home for dinner in the evening he was always full of news about
some clause he had proposed in committee that day, or how an old doffer had
taken up tile House’s time during the afternoon with coundess amendments to the
hare coursing bill.
When
in 1970 Britain applied to join the Common Market Charlie told his wife that he
had been approached by the chief whip to chair a subcommittee on food
distribution in Europe and felt it was his duty to accept. From that day on,
whenever Becky came down for breakfast she would discover coundess order papers
or copies of the Lords’ daily Hansard strewn untidily all the way from Charlie’s
study to the kitchen, where the inevitable note had been left to explain that
he had to attend yet another early subcommittee meeting or briefing from some
continental supporter of Britain’s entry into Europe who happened to be in
London. Until then Becky had no idea how hard members of the Upper House were
expected to work.
Becky
continued to keep in touch with Trumper’s by regular Monday morning visits. She
would always go in at a time when business was fairly quiet, and to her
surprise had become Charlie’s main source of information as to what was
happening at the store.
She
always enjoyed spending a couple of hours strolling through the different
departments. She couldn’t help noticing how quickly fashions changed, and how
Cathy always managed to keep a step ahead of her rivals, while never giving
regular customers cause to grumble about unnecessary change.
Becky’s
final call was inevitably at the auction house to see whose paintings were due
to come under the hammer. It had been some time since she had handed over her
responsibility to Richard Cartwright, the former chief auctioneer, but he
always made himself available to show her round the latest preview of pictures
to be auctioned. “Minor Impressionists on this occasion,” he assured her.
“Now
at major prices,” Becky replied as she studied works by Pissarro, Bonnard and
Vuillard. “But we’ll still have to make sure Charlie doesn’t find out about
this lot.”
“He
already has,” Richard warned her. “Dropped in last Thursday on his way to the
Lords, put a reserve on three lots and even found time to complain about our
estimates. Claimed he had bought a large Renoir oil from you called L’homme a
la peche only a few years ago for the price I was now expecting him to pay for
a small pastel by Pissarro that was nothing more than a study for a major work.”
“I
suspect he might be right about That,” said Becky as she flicked through the
catalog,ue to check the different estimates. “And heaven help your balance
sheet if he finds out that you failed to reach the reserve price on any picture
he’s interested in. When I ran this department he was always known as ‘our loss
leader.’”
As
they were chatting an assistant walked over to join them, nodded politely to
Lady Trumper and handed Richard a note. He studied the message before turning
to Becky. “The chairman wonders if you would be kind enough to drop in and see
her before you leave. Something she needs to discuss with you fairly urgency.”
Richard
accompanied her to the lift on the ground floor, where Becky thanked him once
again for indulging an old lady.
As
the lift traveled grudgingly upwards something else that Cathy wanted to change
as part of the refurbishment plan Becky pondered on why the chairman could
possibly want to see her and only hoped that she wasn’t going to have to cancel
dinner with them that night, as their guests were to tee Joseph and Barbara
Field.
Although
Cathy had moved out of Eaton Square some eighteen months before into a spacious
flat in Chelsea Hoisters they still managed dinner together at least once a
month, and Cathy was always invited back to the house whenever the Fields or
the Bloomingdales were in town. Becky knew that Joseph Field, who still sat on
the board of the great Chicago store, would be disappointed if Cathy was unable
to keep her appointment that night, especially as the American couple was due
to return home the following day.
Jessica
ushered Becky straight through to the chairman’s office, where she found Cathy
on the phone, her brow unusually furrowed. While she waited for the chairman to
finish her call, Becky stared out of the bay window at the empty wooden bench
on the far side of the road and thought of Charlie, who had happily swapped it
for the red leather benches of the House of Lords.
Once
Cathy had replaced the receiver, she immediately asked, “How’s Charlie?”
“You
tell me,” said Becky. “I see him for the occasional dinner during the week and
he has even been known to attend breakfast on a Sunday. But that’s about it.
Has he been seen in Trumper’s lately?”
“Not
that often. To be honest, I still feel guilty about banning him from the store.”
“No
need to feel any guilt,” Becky told her. “I’ve never seen the man happier.”