Although the room was not much larger than Daphne’s hall in Eaton Square, they had still somehow managed to pack in over a hundred chairs of different shapes and sizes. The walls were covered in a faded green baize that displayed several hook marks where pictures must have hung in the past and the carpet had become so threadbare that Charlie could see the floorboards in places. He began to feel that the cost of bringing Number 1 up to the standard he expected for all Trumper’s shops was going to be greater than he had originally anticipated.
Glancing around, he estimated that over seventy people were now seated in the auction house, and wondered just how many had no interest in bidding themselves but had simply come to see the showdown between the Trumpers and Mrs. Trentham.
Syd Wrexall, as the representative of the Shops Committee, was already in the front row, arms folded, trying to look composed, his vast bulk almost taking up two seats. Charlie suspected that he wouldn’t go much beyond the second or third bid. He soon spotted Mrs. Trentham seated in the third row, her gaze fixed directly on the grandfather clock.
Then, with two minutes to spare, Becky slipped into the auction house. Charlie was sitting on the edge of his seat waiting to carry out his instructions to the letter. He rose from his place and walked purposefully towards the exit. This time Mrs. Trentham did glance round to see what Charlie was up to. Innocently he collected another bill of sale from the back of the room, then returned to his seat at a leisurely pace, stopping to talk to another shop owner who had obviously taken an hour off to watch the proceedings.
When Charlie returned to his place he didn’t look in the direction of his wife, who he knew must now be hidden somewhere towards the back of the room. Nor did he once look at Mrs. Trentham, although he could feel her eyes fixed on him.
As the clock chimed ten, Mr. Fothergill—a tall thin man with a flower in his buttonhole and not a hair of his silver locks out of place—climbed the four steps of the circular wooden box. Charlie thought he looked an impressive figure as he towered over them. As soon as he had composed himself he rested a hand on the rim of the box and beamed at the packed audience, picked up his gavel and said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” A silence fell over the room.
“This is a sale of the property known as Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, its fixtures, fittings and contents, which have been on view to the general public for the past two weeks. The highest bidder will be required to make a deposit of ten percent immediately following the auction, then complete the final transaction within ninety days. Those are the terms as stated on your bill of sale, and I repeat them only so that there can be no misunderstanding.”
Mr. Fothergill cleared his throat and Charlie could feel his heart beat faster and faster. He watched the colonel clench a fist as Becky removed a pair of glasses out of her bag and placed them in her lap.
“I have an opening bid of one thousand pounds,” Fothergill told the silent audience, many of whom were standing at the side of the room or leaning against the wall as there were now few seats vacant. Charlie kept his eyes fixed on the auctioneer. Mr. Fothergill smiled in the direction of Mr. Wrexall, whose arms remained folded in an attitude of determined resolution. “Do I see any advance on one thousand?”
“One thousand, five hundred,” said Charlie, just a little too loudly. Those not involved in the intrigue looked around to see who it was who had made the bid. Several turned to their neighbors and began talking in noisy whispers.
“One thousand, five hundred,” said the auctioneer. “Do I see two thousand?” Mr. Wrexall unfolded his arms and raised a hand like a child in school determined to prove he knows the answer to one of teacher’s questions.
“Two thousand, five hundred,” said Charlie, even before Wrexall had lowered his hand.
“Two thousand, five hundred in the center of the room. Do I see three thousand?”
Mr. Wrexall’s hand rose an inch from his knee, then fell back. A deep frown formed on his face. “Do I see three thousand?” Mr. Fothergill asked for a second time. Charlie couldn’t believe his luck. He was going to get Number 1 for two thousand, five hundred. Each second felt like a minute as he waited for the hammer to come down.
“Do I hear three thousand bid anywhere in the room?” said Mr. Fothergill, sounding a little disappointed. “Then I am offering Number 1 Chelsea Terrace at two thousand, five hundred pounds for the first time…” Charlie held his breath. “For the second time.” The auctioneer started to raise his gavel “…Three thousand pounds,” Mr. Fothergill announced with an audible sigh of relief, as Mrs. Trentham’s gloved hand settled back in her lap.
“Three thousand, five hundred,” said Charlie as Mr. Fothergill smiled in his direction, but as soon as he looked back towards Mrs. Trentham she nodded to the auctioneer’s inquiry of four thousand pounds.
Charlie allowed a second or two to pass before he stood up, straightened his tie and, looking grim, walked slowly down the center of the aisle and out onto the street. He didn’t see Becky put her glasses on, or the look of triumph that came over Mrs. Trentham’s face. “Do I see four thousand, five hundred pounds?” asked the auctioneer, and with only a glance towards where Becky was seated he said, “I do.”
Fothergill returned to Mrs. Trentham and asked, “Five thousand pounds, madam?” Her eyes quickly searched round the room, but it became obvious for all to see that she couldn’t work out where the last bid had come from. Murmurs started to turn into chatter as everyone in the auction house began the game of searching for the bidder. Only Becky, safely in her back row seat, didn’t move a muscle.
“Quiet, please,” said the auctioneer. “I have a bid of four thousand, five hundred pounds. Do I see five thousand anywhere in the room?” His gaze returned to Mrs. Trentham. She raised her hand slowly, but as she did so swung quickly round to see if she could spot who was bidding against her. But no one had moved when the auctioneer said, “Five thousand, five hundred. I now have a bid of five thousand, five hundred.” Mr. Fothergill surveyed his audience. “Are there any more bids?” He looked in Mrs. Trentham’s direction, but she in turn looked baffled, her hands motionless in her lap.
“Then it’s five thousand, five hundred for the first time,” said Mr. Fothergill. “Five thousand, five hundred for a second time”—Becky pursed her lips to stop herself from breaking into a large grin—“and for a third and final time,” he said, raising his gavel.
“Six thousand,” said Mrs. Trentham clearly, while at the same time waving her hand. A gasp went up around the room: Becky removed her glasses with a sigh, realizing that her carefully worked-out ploy had failed even though Mrs. Trentham had been made to pay triple the price any shop in the Terrace had fetched in the past.
The auctioneer’s eyes returned to the back of the room but the glasses were now clasped firmly in Becky’s hand, so he transferred his gaze back to Mrs. Trentham, who sat bolt upright, a smile of satisfaction on her face.
“At six thousand for the first time,” said the auctioneer, his eyes searching the room. “Six thousand for the second time then, if there are no more bids, it’s six thousand for the last time…” Once again the gavel was raised.
“Seven thousand pounds,” said a voice from the back of the room. Everyone turned to see that Charlie had returned and was now standing in the aisle, his right hand high in the air.
The colonel looked round, and when he saw who the new bidder was he began to perspire, something he didn’t like to do in public. He removed a handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his brow.
“I have a bid of seven thousand pounds,” said a surprised Mr. Fothergill.
“Eight thousand,” said Mrs. Trentham, staring straight at Charlie belligerently.
“Nine thousand,” barked back Charlie.
The chatter in the room quickly turned into a babble. Becky wanted to jump up and push her husband back out into the street.
“Quiet, please,” said Mr. Fothergill. “Quiet!” he pleaded, almost shouting. The colonel was still mop
ping his brow, Mr. Crowther’s mouth was open wide enough to have caught any passing fly and Mr. Hadlow’s head was firmly buried in his hands.
“Ten thousand,” said Mrs. Trentham who, Becky could see, was, like Charlie, now totally out of control.
The auctioneer asked, “Do I see eleven thousand?”
Charlie had a worried look on his face but he simply wrinkled his brow, shook his head and placed his hands back in his pocket.
Becky sighed with relief and, unclasping her hands, nervously put her glasses back on.
“Eleven thousand,” said Mr. Fothergill, looking towards Becky, while pandemonium broke out once again as she rose to protest, having quickly removed her glasses. Charlie looked totally bemused.
Mrs. Trentham’s eyes had now come to rest on Becky, whom she had finally located. With a smile of satisfaction Mrs. Trentham declared, “Twelve thousand pounds.”
The auctioneer looked back towards Becky, who had placed her glasses in her bag and closed the catch with a snap. He glanced towards Charlie, whose hands remained firmly in his pockets.
“The bid is at the front of the room at twelve thousand pounds. Is anyone else bidding?” asked the auctioneer. Once again his eyes darted from Becky to Charlie before returning to Mrs. Trentham. “Then at twelve thousand for the first time”—he looked around once more—“for the second time, for the third and final time…” His gavel came down with a thud. “I declare the property sold for twelve thousand pounds to Mrs. Gerald Trentham.”
Becky ran towards the door, but Charlie was already out on the pavement.
“What were you playing at, Charlie?” she demanded even before she caught up with him.
“I knew she would bid up to ten thousand pounds,” said Charlie, “because that’s the amount she still has on deposit at her bank.”
“But how could you possibly know that?”
“Mrs. Trentham’s second footman passed on the information to me this morning. He will, by the way, be joining us as our butler.”
At that moment the chairman walked out onto the pavement. “I must say, Rebecca, your plan was brilliant. Had me completely fooled.”
“Me too,” said Charlie.
“You took an awful risk, Charlie Trumper,” said Becky, not letting her husband off the hook.
“Perhaps, but at least I knew what her limit was. I had no idea what you were playing at.”
“I made a genuine mistake,” said Becky. “When I put my glasses back on…What are you laughing at, Charlie Trumper?”
“Thank God for genuine amateurs.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Trentham thought you really were bidding, and she had been tricked, so she went one bid too far. In fact, she wasn’t the only one who was carried away by the occasion. I even begin to feel sorry for—”
“For Mrs. Trentham?”
“Certainly not,” said Charlie. “For Mr. Fothergill. He’s about to spend ninety days in heaven before he comes down to earth with an almighty thump.”
MRS. TRENTHAM
1919–1927
CHAPTER
22
I don’t believe anyone could describe me as a snob. However, I do believe that the maxim “There’s a place for everything, and everything in its place” applies equally well to human beings.
I was born in Yorkshire at the height of the Victorian empire and I think I can safely say that during that period in our island’s history my family played a considerable role.
My father, Sir Raymond Hardcastle, was not only an inventor and industrialist of great imagination and skill, but he also built up one of the nation’s most successful companies. At the same time he always treated his workers as if they were all part of the family, and indeed it was this example that he set, whenever he dealt with those less fortunate than himself, that has been the benchmark by which I have attempted to conduct my own life.
I have no brothers and just one elder sister, Amy. Although there were only a couple of years between us I cannot pretend that we were ever particularly close, perhaps because I was an outgoing, even vivacious child, while she was shy and reserved, to the point of being retiring, particularly whenever it came to contact with members of the opposite sex. Father and I tried to help her find an appropriate spouse, but it was to prove an impossible task, and even he gave up once Amy had passed her fortieth birthday. Instead she has usefully occupied her time since my mother’s untimely death taking care of my beloved father in his old age—an arrangement, I might add, that has suited them both admirably.
I, on the other hand, had no problem in finding myself a husband. If I remember correctly, Gerald was the fourth or perhaps even the fifth suitor who went down on bended knee to ask for my hand in marriage. Gerald and I first met when I had been a houseguest at Lord and Lady Fanshaw’s country home in Norfolk. The Fanshaws were old friends of my father, and I had been seeing their younger son Anthony for some considerable time. As it turned out, I was warned that he was not going to inherit his father’s land or title, so it seemed to me there was little purpose in letting the young man entertain any hopes of a lasting relationship. If I remember correctly, Father was not overwhelmed with my conduct and may even have chastised me at the time, but as I tried to explain to him, at length, although Gerald may not have been the most dashing of my paramours, he did have the distinct advantage of coming from a family that farmed land in three counties, not to mention an estate in Aberdeen.
We were married at St. Mary’s, Great Ashton, in July 1895 and our first son, Guy, was conceived a year later; one does like a proper period of time to elapse before one’s firstborn takes his place in the world, thus giving no one cause for idle chatter.
My father always treated both my sister and me as equals, although I was often given to believe that I was his favorite. Had it not been for his sense of fair play he would surely have left everything to me, because he simply doted on Guy, whereas in fact Amy will, on my father’s demise, inherit half his vast fortune. Heaven knows what possible use she could make of such wealth, her only interests in life being gardening, crochet work and the occasional visit to the Scarborough festival.
But to return to Guy, everyone who came into contact with the boy during those formative years invariably commented on what a handsome child he was, and although I never allowed him to become spoiled, I did consider it nothing less than my duty to ensure that he was given the sort of start in life that would prepare him for the role I felt confident he was bound eventually to play. With that in mind, even before he’d been christened, he was registered with Asgarth Preparatory School, and then Harrow, from where I assumed he would enter the Royal Military Academy. His grandfather spared no expense when it came to his education, and indeed, in the case of his eldest grandson, was generous to a fault.
Five years later I gave birth to a second son, Nigel, who arrived somewhat prematurely, which may account for why he took rather longer to progress than his elder brother. Guy, meanwhile, was going through several private tutors, one or two of whom found him perhaps a little too boisterous. After all, what child doesn’t at some time put toads in your bathwater or cut shoelaces in half?
At the age of nine Guy duly proceeded to Asgarth, and from there on to Harrow. The Reverend Prebendary Anthony Wood was his headmaster at the time and I reminded him that Guy was the seventh generation of Trenthams to have attended that school.
While at Harrow Guy excelled both in the combined cadet force—becoming a company sergeant major in his final year—and in the boxing ring, where he beat every one of his opponents with the notable exception of the match against Radley, where he came up against a Nigerian, who I later learned was in his mid-twenties.
It saddened me that during his last term at school Guy was not made a prefect. I understood that he had become involved in so many other activities that it was not considered to be in his own best interests. Although I might have hoped that his exam results would have been a little more satisfactory, I have al
ways considered that he was one of those children who can be described as innately intelligent rather than academically clever. Despite a rather biased housemaster’s report that suggested some of the marks Guy had, been awarded in his final exams came as a surprise to him, my son still managed to secure his place at Sandhurst.
At the academy Guy proved to be a first-class cadet and also found time to continue with his boxing, becoming the cadet middleweight champion. Two years later, in July 1916, he passed out in the top half of the roll of honor before going on to join his father’s old regiment.
Gerald, I should point out, had left the Fusiliers on the death of his father in order that he might return to Berkshire and take over the running of the family estates. He had been a brevet colonel at the time of his forced retirement, and many considered that he was the natural successor to be the Commanding Officer of the Regiment. As it turned out, he was passed over for someone who wasn’t even in the first battalion, a certain Danvers Hamilton. Although I had never met the gentleman in question, several brother officers expressed the view that his appointment had been a travesty of justice. However, I had every confidence that Guy would redeem the family honor and in time go on to command the regiment himself.