The general strike officially ended on the ninth morning, and by the last day of the month I had acquired another seven shops in all. I seemed to be running constantly backwards and forwards to the bank, but at least every one of my acquisitions was at a price that allowed Hadlow an accompanying smile, even if he warned me that funds were running low.
At our next board meeting, I was able to report that Trumper’s now owned twenty shops in Chelsea Terrace, which was more than the Shops Committee membership combined. However Hadlow did express a view to the board that we should now embark on a long period of consolidation if we wanted our recently acquired properties to attain the same quality and standard as the original thirteen. I made only one other proposal of any significance at that meeting, which received the unanimous backing of my colleagues—that Tom Arnold be invited to join the board.
I still couldn’t resist spending the odd hour sitting on the bench opposite Number 147 and watching the transformation of Chelsea Terrace as it took place before my eyes. For the first time I could differentiate between those shops I owned and those that I still needed to acquire, which included the fourteen owned by Wrexall’s committee members—not forgetting either the prestigious Number 1 or the Musketeer.
Seventy-two days had passed since the auction, and although Mr. Fothergill still purchased his fruit and vegetables regularly from Number 147 he never uttered a word to me as to whether or not Mrs. Trentham had fulfilled her contract. Joan Moore informed my wife that her former mistress had recently received a visit from Mr. Fothergill, and although the cook had not been able to hear all the conversation there had definitely been raised voices.
When Daphne came to visit me at the shop the following week I inquired if she had any inside information on what Mrs. Trentham was up to.
“Stop worrying about the damned woman,” was all Daphne had to say on the subject. “In any case,” she added, “the ninety days will be up soon enough, and frankly, you should be more worried about your Part II than Mrs. Trentham’s financial problems.”
“I agree. But if I go on at this rate, I won’t have completed the necessary work before next year,” I said, having selected twelve perfect plums for her before placing them on the weighing machine.
“You’re always in such a hurry, Charlie. Why do things always have to be finished by a certain date?”
“Because that’s what keeps me going.”
“But Becky will be just as impressed by your achievement if you manage to finish a year later.”
“It wouldn’t be the same,” I told her. “I’ll just have to work harder.”
“There are only a given number of hours in each day,” Daphne reminded me. “Even for you.”
“Well, that’s one thing I can’t be blamed for.”
Daphne laughed. “How’s Becky’s thesis on Luini coming along?”
“She’s completed the bloody thing. Just about to check over the final draft of thirty thousand words, so she’s still well ahead of me. But what with the general strike and acquiring all the new properties, not to mention Mrs. Trentham, I haven’t even had time to take Daniel to see West Ham this season.” Charlie started placing her order in a large brown paper bag.
“Has Becky discovered what you’re up to yet?” Daphne asked.
“No, and I make sure I only disappear completely whenever she’s working late at Sotheby’s or off cataloguing some grand collection. She still hasn’t noticed that I get up every morning at four-thirty, which is when I put in the real work.” I passed over the bag of plums and seven and tenpence change.
“Proper little Trollope, aren’t we?” remarked Daphne. “By the way, I still haven’t let Percy in on our secret, but I can’t wait to see the expression on their faces when—”
“Shhh, not a word…”
When you have been chasing something for a long time it’s strange how the final prize so often lands in your lap just when you least expect it.
I was serving at Number 147 that morning. It always annoyed Bob Makins to see me roll up my sleeves, but I do enjoy a little chat with my old customers, and lately it was about the only chance I had to catch up on the gossip, as well as an occasional insight into what the customers really thought of my other shops. However, I confess that by the time I served Mr. Fothergill the queue stretched nearly all the way to the grocery shop which I knew Bob still regarded as a rival.
“Good morning,” I said, when Mr. Fothergill reached the front of the queue. “And what can I offer you today, sir? I’ve got some lovely—”
“I wondered if we could have a word in private, Mr. Trumper?”
I was so taken by surprise that I didn’t reply immediately. I knew Mrs. Trentham still had another nine days to go before she had to complete her contract and I had assumed I would hear nothing before then. After all, she must have had her own Hadlows and Crowthers to do all the paperwork.
“I’m afraid the storeroom is the only place available at the moment,” I warned. I removed my green overall, rolled down my sleeves and replaced my jacket. “You see, my manager now occupies the flat above,” I explained as I led the auctioneer through to the back of the shop.
I offered him a seat on an upturned orange box while pulling up another box opposite him. We faced each other, just a few feet apart, like rival chess players. Strange surroundings, I considered, to discuss the biggest deal of my life. I tried to remain calm.
“I’ll come to the point straight away,” said Fothergill. “Mrs. Trentham has not been in touch for several weeks and lately she has been refusing to answer my calls. What’s more, Savill’s has made it abundantly clear that they have had no instruction to complete the transaction on her behalf. They have gone as far as to say that they are now given to understand that she is no longer interested in the property.”
“Still, you got your one thousand, two hundred pounds deposit,” I reminded him, trying to stifle a grin.
“I don’t deny it,” replied Fothergill. “But I have since made other commitments, and what with the general strike—”
“Hard times, I agree,” I told him. I felt the palms of my hands begin to sweat.
“But you’ve never hidden your desire to be the owner of Number 1.”
“True enough, but since the auction I’ve been buying up several other properties with the cash I had originally put on one side for your shop.”
“I know, Mr. Trumper. But I would now be willing to settle for a far more reasonable price—”
“And three thousand, five hundred pounds is what I was willing to bid, as no doubt you recall.”
“Twelve thousand was your final bid, if I remember correctly.”
“Tactics, Mr. Fothergill, nothing more than tactics. I never had any intention of paying twelve thousand, as I feel sure you are only too aware.”
“But your wife bid five thousand, five hundred pounds, even forgetting her later bid of fourteen thousand.”
“I can’t disagree with that,” I told him, dropping back into my cockney accent. “But if you ’ad ever married, Mr. Fothergill, you would know only too well why we in the East End always refer to them as the trouble and strife.”
“I’d let the property go for seven thousand pounds,” he said. “But only to you.”
“You’d let the property go for five thousand,” I replied, “to anyone who’d cough up.”
“Never,” said Fothergill.
“In nine days’ time would be my bet, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” I added, leaning forward and nearly falling off my box. “I’ll honor my wife’s commitment of five thousand, five ’undred pounds, which I confess was the limit the board ’ad allowed us to go to, but only if you ’ave all the paperwork ready for me to sign before midnight.” Mr. Fothergill opened his mouth indignantly. “Of course,” I added before he could protest, “it shouldn’t be too much work for you. After all, the contract’s been sitting on your desk for the last eighty-one days. All you have to do is change the name and knock off the odd no
ught. Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Fothergill, I must be getting back to my customers.”
“I have never been treated in such a cavalier way before, sir,” declared Mr. Fothergill, jumping up angrily. He turned and marched out, leaving me sitting in the storeroom on my own.
“I have never thought of myself as a cavalier,” I told the upturned orange box. “More of a roundhead, I would have said.”
Once I had read another chapter of Through the Looking-Glass to Daniel and waited for him to fall asleep, I went downstairs to join Becky for dinner. While she served me a bowl of soup I told her the details of my conversation with Fothergill.
“Pity,” was her immediate reaction. “I only wish he’d approached me in the first place. Now we may never get our hands on Number 1”—a sentiment she repeated just before climbing into bed. I turned down the gaslight beside me, thinking that perhaps Becky could be right. I was just beginning to feel drowsy when I heard the front doorbell sound.
“It’s past eleven-thirty,” Becky said sleepily. “Who could that possibly be?”
“A man who understands deadlines?” I suggested as I turned the gaslight back up. I climbed out of bed, donned my dressing gown and went downstairs to answer the door.
“Do come through to my study, Peregrine,” I said, after I had welcomed Mr. Fothergill.
“Thank you, Charles,” he replied. I only just stopped myself laughing as I moved a copy of Mathematics, Part Two from my desk, so that I could get to the drawer that housed the company checks.
“Five thousand, five hundred, if I remember correctly,” I said, as I unscrewed the top of my pen and checked the clock on the mantelpiece. At eleven thirty-seven I handed over the full and final settlement to Mr. Fothergill in exchange for the freehold of Number 1 Chelsea Terrace.
We shook hands on the deal and I showed the former auctioneer out. Once I had climbed back up the stairs and returned to the bedroom I found to my surprise that Becky was sitting at her writing desk.
“What are you up to?” I demanded.
“Writing my letter of resignation to Sotheby’s.”
Tom Arnold began going through Number 1 with far more than a fine-tooth comb in preparation for Becky joining us a month later as managing director of Trumper’s Auctioneers and Fine Art Specialists. He realized that I considered our new acquisition should quickly become the flagship of the entire Trumper empire, even if—to the dismay of Hadlow—the costs were beginning to resemble those of a battleship.
Becky completed her notice at Sotheby’s on Friday, 16 July 1926. She walked into Trumper’s, née Fothergill’s, the following morning at seven o’clock to take over the responsibility of refurbishing the building, at the same time releasing Tom so that he could get back to his normal duties. She immediately set about turning the basement of Number 1 into a storeroom, with the main reception remaining on the ground floor and the auction room on the first floor.
Becky and her team of specialists were to be housed on the second and third floors while the top floor, which had previously been Mr. Fothergill’s flat, became the company’s administrative offices, with a room left over that turned out to be ideal for board meetings.
The full board met for the first time at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace on 17 October 1926.
Within three months of leaving Sotheby’s Becky had “stolen” seven of the eleven staff she had wanted to join her and picked up another four from Bonham’s and Phillips. At her first board meeting she warned us all that it could take anything up to three years to clear the debts incurred by the purchase and refurbishment of Number 1, and it might even be another three before she could be sure they would be making a serious contribution to the group’s profits.
“Not like my first shop,” I informed the board. “Made a profit within three weeks, you know, Chairman.”
“Stop looking so pleased with yourself, Charlie Trumper, and try to remember I’m not selling potatoes,” my wife told me.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied and on 21 October 1926, to celebrate our sixth wedding anniversary, I presented my wife with an oil painting by van Gogh called The Potato Eaters.
Mr. Reed of the Lefevre Gallery, who had been a personal friend of the artist, claimed it was almost as good an example as the one that hung in the Rijksmuseum.
I had to agree even if I felt the asking price a little extravagant, but after some bargaining we settled on a price of six hundred guineas.
For some considerable time everything seemed to go quiet on the Mrs. Trentham front. This state of affairs always worried me, because I assumed she must be up to no good. Whenever a shop came up for sale I expected her to be bidding against me, and if there was ever any trouble in the Terrace I wondered if somehow she might be behind it. Becky agreed with Daphne that I was becoming paranoid, until Arnold told me he had been having a drink at the pub when Wrexall had received a call from Mrs. Trentham. Arnold was unable to report anything of significance because Syd went into a back room to take the call. After that my wife was willing to admit that the passing of time had obviously not lessened Mrs. Trentham’s desire for revenge.
It was some time in March 1927 that Joan informed us that her former mistress had spent two days packing before being driven to Southampton, where she boarded a liner for Australia. Daphne was able to confirm this piece of information when she came round to dinner at Gilston Road the following week.
“So one can only assume, darlings, that she’s paying a visit to that dreadful son of hers.”
“In the past she’s been only too willing to give lengthy reports on the bloody man’s progress to anyone and everyone who cared to listen, so why’s she not letting us know what she’s up to this time?”
“Can’t imagine,” said Daphne.
“Do you think it’s possible Guy might be planning to return to England now that things have settled down a little?”
“I doubt it.” Daphne’s brow furrowed. “Otherwise the ship would have been sailing in the opposition direction, wouldn’t it? In any case, if his father’s feelings are anything to go by, should Guy ever dare to show his face at Ashurst Hall he won’t exactly be treated like the prodigal son.”
“Something’s still not quite right,” I told her. “This veil of secrecy Mrs. Trentham’s been going in for lately requires some explanation.”
It was three months later, in June 1927, that the colonel drew my attention to the announcement in The Times of Guy Trentham’s death. “What a terrible way to die,” was his only comment.
Daphne attended the funeral at Ashurst parish church—because, as she explained later, she wanted to see the coffin lowered into the grave before she was finally convinced that Guy Trentham was no longer among us.
Percy informed me later that he had only just been able to restrain her from joining the gravediggers as they filled up the hole with good English sods. However, Daphne told us that she remained skeptical about the cause of death, despite the absence of any proof to the contrary.
“At least you’ll have no more trouble from that quarter,” were Percy’s final words on the subject.
I scowled. “They’ll have to bury Mrs. Trentham alongside him before I’ll believe that.”
CHAPTER
26
In 1929 the Trumpers moved to a larger house in the Little Boltons. Daphne assured them that although it was “the Little,” at least it was a step in the right direction. With a glance at Becky she added, “However, it’s still a considerable way from being Eaton Square, darlings.”
The housewarming party the Trumpers gave held a double significance for Becky, because the following day she was to be presented with her master of arts degree. When Percy teased her about the length of time she had taken to complete the thesis on her unrequited lover, Bernardino Luini, she cited her husband as the corespondent.
Charlie made no attempt to defend himself, just poured Percy another brandy before clipping off the end of a cigar.
“Hoskins will be driving us to the
ceremony,” Daphne announced, “so we’ll see you there. That is, assuming on this occasion they’ve been considerate enough to allow us to be seated in the first thirty rows.”
Charlie was pleased to find that Daphne and Percy had been placed only a row behind them so this time were close enough to the stage to follow the entire proceedings.
“Who are they?” demanded Daniel, when fourteen dignified old gentlemen walked onto the platform wearing long black gowns and purple hoods, and took their places in the empty chairs.
“The Senate,” explained Becky to her eight-year-old son. “They recommend who shall be awarded degrees. But you mustn’t ask too many questions, Daniel, or you’ll only annoy all the people sitting around us.”
At that point, the vice-chancellor rose to present the scrolls.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to sit through all the BAs before they reach me,” said Becky.
“Do stop being so pompous, darling,” said Daphne. “Some of us can remember when you considered being awarded a degree was the most important day in your life.”