“When do we get to meet them?” asked Charlie, trying not to slur his words.
“As soon as you wish,” promised Daphne. “Tomorrow—”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Becky quietly.
“Why not?” asked Daphne, surprised.
“Because I have already chosen the man who will front for us.”
“Who’ve you got in mind, darling? The Prince of Wales?”
“No. Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton, Bt., DSO, CBE.”
“But ’e’s the bleedin’ Colonel of the Regiment,” said Charlie, dropping the bottle of champagne on the floor of the hansom cab. “It’s impossible, ’e’d never agree.”
“I can assure you he will.”
“What makes you so confident?” asked Daphne.
“Because we have an appointment to see him tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock.”
CHAPTER
11
Daphne waved her parasol as a hansom approached them. The driver brought the cab to a halt and raised his hat. “Where to, miss?”
“Number 172 Harley Street,” she instructed, before the two women climbed aboard.
He raised his hat again, and with a gentle flick of his whip headed the horse off in the direction of Hyde Park Corner.
“Have you told Charlie yet?” Becky asked.
“No, I funked it,” admitted Daphne.
They sat in silence as the cabbie guided the horse towards Marble Arch.
“Perhaps it won’t be necessary to tell him anything.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Becky.
There followed another prolonged silence until the horse trotted into Oxford Street.
“Is your doctor an understanding man?”
“He always has been in the past.”
“My God, I’m frightened.”
“Don’t worry. It will be over soon, then at least you’ll know one way or the other.”
The cabbie came to a halt outside Number 172 Harley Street, and the two women got out. While Becky stroked the horse’s mane Daphne paid the man sixpence. Becky turned when she heard the rap on the brass knocker and climbed the three steps to join her friend.
A nurse in a starched blue uniform, white cap and collar answered their call, and asked the two ladies to follow her. They were led down a dark corridor, lit by a single gaslight, then ushered into an empty waiting room. Copies of Punch and Tatler were displayed in neat rows on a table in the middle of the room. A variety of comfortable but unrelated chairs circled the low table. They each took a seat, but neither spoke again until the nurse had left the room.
“I—” began Daphne.
“If—” said Becky simultaneously.
They both laughed, a forced sound that echoed in the high-ceilinged room.
“No, you first,” said Becky.
“I just wanted to know how the colonel’s shaping up.”
“Took his briefing like a man,” said Becky. “We’re off to our first official meeting tomorrow. Child and Company in Fleet Street. I’ve told him to treat the whole exercise like a dress rehearsal, as I’m saving the one I think we have a real chance with for later in the week.”
“And Charlie?”
“All a bit much for him. He can’t stop thinking of the colonel as his commanding officer.”
“It would have been the same for you, if Charlie had suggested that the man teaching you accountancy should drop in and check the weekly takings at 147.”
“I’m avoiding that particular gentleman at the moment,” said Becky. “I’m only just putting in enough academic work to avoid being reprimanded; lately my commendeds have become passes, while my passes are just not good enough. If I don’t manage to get a degree at the end of all this there will be only one person to blame.”
“You’ll be one of the few women who’s a bachelor of arts. Perhaps you should demand they change the degree to SA.”
“SA?”
“Spinster of arts.”
They laughed at what they both knew to be a hoary chestnut, as they continued to avoid the real reason they were in that waiting room. Suddenly the door swung open and they looked up to see that the nurse had returned.
“The doctor will see you now.”
“May I come as well?”
“Yes, I’m sure that will be all right.”
Both women rose and followed the nurse farther down the same corridor until they reached a white door with a small brass plate almost worn away with rubbing which read “Fergus Gould, MD.” A gentle knock from the nurse elicited a “yes” and Daphne and Becky entered the room together.
“Good morning, good morning,” said the doctor cheerfully in a soft Scottish burr, shaking hands with the two of them in turn. “Won’t you please be seated? The tests have been completed and I have excellent news for you.” He returned to the seat behind his desk and opened a file in front of him. They both smiled, the taller of the two relaxing for the first time in days.
“I’m happy to say that you are physically in perfect health, but as this is your first child”—he watched both women turn white—“you will have to behave rather more cautiously over the coming months. But as long as you do, I can see no reason why this birth should have any complications. May I be the first to congratulate you?”
“Oh God, no,” she said, nearly fainting. “I thought you said the news was excellent.”
“Why, yes,” replied Dr. Gould. “I assumed you would be delighted.”
Her friend interjected. “You see, Doctor, there’s a problem. She’s not married.”
“Oh yes, I do see,” said the doctor, his voice immediately changing tone. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea. Perhaps if you had told me at our first meeting—”
“No, I’m entirely to blame, Dr. Gould. I had simply hoped—”
“No, it is I who am to blame. How extremely tactless of me.” Dr. Gould paused thoughtfully. “Although it remains illegal in this country, I am assured that there are excellent doctors in Sweden who—”
“That is not possible,” said the pregnant woman. “You see, it’s against everything my parents would have considered ‘acceptable behavior.’”
“Good morning, Hadlow,” said the colonel, as he marched into the bank, handing the manager his topcoat, hat and cane.
“Good morning, Sir Danvers,” replied the manager, passing the hat, coat and cane on to an assistant. “May I say how honored we are that you thought our humble establishment worthy of your consideration.”
Becky couldn’t help reflecting that it was not quite the same greeting she had received when visiting another bank of similar standing only a few weeks before.
“Would you be kind enough to come through to my office?” the manager continued, putting his arm out as if he were guiding wayward traffic.
“Certainly, but first may I introduce Mr. Trumper and Miss Salmon, both of whom are my associates in this venture.”
“Delighted, I’m sure,” the manager said as he pushed his glasses back up his nose before shaking hands with Charlie and Becky in turn.
Becky noticed that Charlie was unusually silent and kept pulling at his collar, which looked as though it might be half an inch too tight for comfort. However, after spending a morning in Savile Row the previous week being measured from head to foot for a new suit, he had refused to wait a moment longer when Daphne suggested he should be measured for a shirt, so in the end Daphne was left to guess his neck size.
“Coffee?” inquired the manager, once they had all settled in his office.
“No, thank you,” said the colonel.
Becky would have liked a cup of coffee but realized that the manager had assumed Sir Danvers had spoken for all three of them. She bit her lip.
“Now, how can I be of assistance, Sir Danvers?” The manager nervously touched the knot of his tie.
“My associates and I currently own a property in Chelsea Terrace—Number 147—which although a small venture at present is nevertheless progressing sat
isfactorily.” The manager’s smile remained in place. “We purchased the premises some eighteen months ago at a cost of one hundred pounds and that investment has shown a profit this year of a little over forty-three pounds.”
“Very satisfactory,” said the manager. “Of course, I have read your letter and the accounts you so kindly had sent over by messenger.”
Charlie was tempted to tell him who the messenger had been.
“However, we feel the time has come to expand,” continued the colonel. “And in order to do so we will require a bank that can show a little more initiative than the establishment with which we’re presently dealing—as well as one that has its eye on the future. Our current bankers, I sometimes feel, are still living in the nineteenth century. Frankly, they are little more than holders of deposits, while what we are looking for is the service of a real bank.”
“I understand.”
“It’s been worrying me—” said the colonel, suddenly breaking off and fixing his monocle to his left eye.
“Worrying you?” Mr. Hadlow sat forward anxiously in his chair.
“Your tie.”
“My tie?” The manager once again fingered the knot nervously.
“Yes, your tie. Don’t tell me—the Buffs?”
“You are correct, Sir Danvers.”
“Saw some action, did you, Hadlow?”
“Well, not exactly, Sir Danvers. My sight, you understand.” Mr. Hadlow began fiddling with his glasses.
“Bad luck, old chap,” said the colonel, his monocle dropping back down. “Well, to continue. My colleagues and I are of a mind to expand, but I feel it would only be the honorable thing to let you know that we have an appointment with a rival establishment on Thursday afternoon.”
“Thursday afternoon,” repeated the manager, after dipping his quill pen once more into the inkwell on the front of his desk and adding this to the other pieces of information he had already recorded.
“But I had rather hoped it would not have gone unnoticed,” continued the colonel, “that we chose to come and see you first.”
“I’m most flattered,” said Mr. Hadlow. “And what terms were you hoping this bank might offer, Sir Danvers, that your own could not?”
The colonel paused for a moment and Becky glanced towards him alarmed, as she couldn’t remember if she had briefed him on terms. Neither of them had expected to have reached quite this far at the first meeting.
The colonel cleared his throat. “We would naturally expect competitive terms, if we are to move our business to your bank, being aware of the long-term implications.”
This answer seemed to impress Hadlow. He looked down at the figures in front of him and pronounced: “Well, I see you are requesting a loan of two hundred and fifty pounds for the purchase of 131 and 135 Chelsea Terrace, which, bearing in mind the state of your account, would require an overdraft facility”—he paused, appearing to be making a calculation—“of at least one hundred and seventy pounds.”
“Correct, Hadlow. I see you have mastered our present predicament admirably.”
The manager allowed himself a smile. “Given the circumstances, Sir Danvers, I feel we could indeed advance such a loan, if a charge of four percent interest per annum would be acceptable to you and your colleagues.”
Again the colonel hesitated, until he caught Becky’s half smile.
“Our present bankers provide us with a facility of three and a half percent,” said the colonel. “As I’m sure you know.”
“But they are taking no risk,” pointed out Mr. Hadlow. “As well as refusing to allow you to be overdrawn more than fifty pounds. However,” he added before the colonel could reply, “I feel in this particular case we might also offer three and a half percent. How does that sound to you?”
The colonel did not comment until he had observed the expression on Becky’s face. Her smile had widened to a grin.
“I think I speak for my colleagues, Hadlow, when I say we find your proposition acceptable, most acceptable.”
Becky and Charlie nodded their agreement.
“Then I shall begin to process all the paperwork. It may take a few days, of course.”
“Of course,” said the colonel. “And I can tell you, Hadlow, that we look forward to a long and profitable association with your bank.”
The manager somehow rose and bowed all in one movement, an action Becky felt even Sir Henry Irving would have found difficult to accomplish.
Mr. Hadlow then proceeded to escort the colonel and his young associates to the front hall.
“Old Chubby Duckworth still with this outfit?” inquired the colonel.
“Lord Duckworth is indeed our chairman,” murmured Mr. Hadlow, reverentially.
“Good man—served with him in South Africa. Royal Rifles. I shall, with your permission, mention our meeting to him, when I next see Chubby at the club.”
“That would be most kind of you, Sir Danvers.”
When they reached the door the manager dispensed with his assistant and helped the colonel on with his topcoat himself, then handed him his hat and cane before bidding farewell to his new customers. “Do feel free to call me at any time,” were his final words as he bowed once again. He stood there until the three of them were out of sight.
Once they were back on the street the colonel marched quickly round the corner, coming to a halt behind the nearest tree. Becky and Charlie ran after him, not quite sure what he was up to.
“Are you feeling all right, sir?” Charlie asked, as soon as he had caught up.
“I’m fine, Trumper,” replied the colonel. “Just fine. But I can tell you, I would rather face a bunch of marauding Afghan natives than go through that again. Still, how did I do?”
“You were magnificent,” said Becky. “I swear, if you had taken off your shoes and told Hadlow to polish them, he would have removed his handkerchief and started rubbing little circles immediately.”
The colonel smiled. “Oh, good. Thought it went all right, did you?”
“Perfect,” said Becky. “You couldn’t have done better. I shall go round to John D. Wood this afternoon and put down the deposit on both shops.”
“Thank God for your briefing, Miss Salmon,” said the colonel, standing his full height. “You know what? You would have made a damned fine staff officer.”
Becky smiled. “I take that as a great compliment, Colonel.”
“Don’t you agree, Trumper? Some partner you’ve found yourself,” he added.
“Yes, sir,” said Charlie as the colonel began to stride off down the road swinging his umbrella. “But may I ask you something that’s been worrying me?”
“Of course, Trumper, fire away.”
“If you’re a friend of the chairman of the bank,” said Charlie, matching him stride for stride, “why didn’t we go direct to him in the first place?”
The colonel came to a sudden halt. “My dear Trumper,” he explained, “you don’t visit the chairman of the bank when you require a loan of only two hundred and fifty pounds. Nevertheless, let it be said that I have every confidence that it will not be long before we shall need to seek him out. However, at this very moment other needs are more pressing.”
“Other needs?” said Charlie.
“Yes, Trumper. I require a whisky, don’t you know?” said the colonel, eyeing a sign flapping above a pub on the opposite side of the road. “And while we’re at it, let’s make it a double.”
“How far gone are you?” asked Charlie, when the following day Becky came round to tell him the news.
“About four months.” She avoided looking him directly in the eye.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” He sounded a little hurt as he turned the open sign to closed, and marched up the stairs.
“I hoped I wouldn’t need to,” said Becky as she followed him into the flat.
“You’ve written to tell Trentham, of course?”
“No. I keep meaning to, but I haven’t got round to it yet.” She began to tid
y up the room rather than face him.
“Keep meaning to?” said Charlie. “You should have told the bastard weeks ago. He’s the first person who ought to know. After all, he’s the one who’s responsible for the bleedin’ mess, if you’ll excuse the expression.”
“It’s not that easy, Charlie.”
“Why not, for heaven’s sake?”
“It would mean the end of his career, and Guy lives for the regiment. He’s like your colonel: it would be unfair to ask him to give up being a soldier at the age of twenty-three.”
“He’s nothing like the colonel,” said Charlie. “In any case, he’s still young enough to settle down and do a day’s work like the rest of us.”
“He’s married to the army, Charlie, not to me. Why ruin both our lives?”
“But he should still be told what has happened and at least be given the choice.”
“He wouldn’t be left with any choice, Charlie, surely you see that? He’d sail home on the next boat and marry me. He’s an honorable man.”
“An honorable man, is he?” said Charlie. “Well, if he’s so honorable you can afford to promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll write to him tonight and tell him the truth.”
Becky hesitated for some time before saying, “All right I will.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight.”
“And you should also let his parents know while you’re at it.”
“No, I can’t be expected to do that, Charlie,” she said, facing him for the first time.
“So what’s the reason this time? Some fear that their careers might be ruined?”
“No, but if I did his father would insist that Guy return home and marry me.”
“And what’s so wrong with that?”
“His mother would then claim that I had tricked her son into the whole thing, or worse—”
“Worse?”
“—that it wasn’t even his child.”
“And who’d believe her?”
“All those who wanted to.”
“But that isn’t fair,” said Charlie.