Edward’s own views on children were more ambiguous. Yes (he thought), it would be good to have a family – keep the Trencom name going for another generation – but, well, – he already had quite enough on his plate, thank you very much. The shop, his books, the festivals. How on earth would he also have time to fit children into such a busy schedule? If they came, well, they came – and all well and good. But he had no intention of pressing too hard for children.
Such thoughts had remained unchanged in Edward’s head for twelve long years – from the night of their wedding to the evening of 12 February 1969. It was on this very night that he suddenly displayed a most unusual desire, urge and need to have sexual intercourse – indeed, to procreate. And happily for him, this desire was simultaneously coupled with a full-blown realization that Elizabeth Trencom might well be – was – the most important woman in his life.
It was a little after 11 p.m. when they went upstairs to their bedroom. Elizabeth removed her skirt and top and, still dressed in bra and panties, searched around for her nightdress. She untied her hair and allowed it to fall over her shoulders, catching sight of herself in the full-length mirror that she’d only recently hung on the back of the door. She was not a vain woman and nor – by any stretch of the imagination – could she be described as a boastful one, yet she had to admit that she was pleasantly surprised by the sight that greeted her. Just a couple of days earlier, she’d been admiring (with a twinge of envy) the figures of models in the colour magazines on display in the reception area of her dentist’s. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have been envious after all,’ she thought with a smile as she turned a compete circle in front of the mirror.
Edward was rather less attentive to his wife’s shape than Elizabeth herself. On any given evening, he would head into the bathroom while his wife prepared for bed. He would brush his teeth, go to the toilet and then take off his clothes and climb (somewhat clumsily) into his striped pyjamas. Then, after opening the bathroom door and taking four carefully measured strides to cross the bedroom, he would get into bed, kiss Elizabeth on one or other of her cheeks and pick up the book he was currently reading.
On this particular night, he brushed his teeth as normal. He went to the toilet as normal. He removed his clothes as normal. But instead of slipping into his pyjamas, which were hanging on the towel-rail, he strode out of the bathroom wearing not so much as a pair of pants and jumped into bed.
Mrs Trencom gulped with surprise and emitted a sound that could almost have been made by a squeaking floorboard. Not once, in all her years of married life, had she witnessed such unusual behaviour on the part of her Edward. He’d always been so modest about his body, so hesitant about showing his bits.
This opening act was to prove only the prelude to five acts of surprises on this extraordinary Wenesday night. For no sooner was Edward in bed than Elizabeth found herself being kissed with such vigour and enthusiasm that she couldn’t help wondering if Edward had flicked through one of Dr Comfort’s manuals. But this thought was soon overtaken by strange happenings under the eiderdown. Elizabeth emitted a ticklish giggle as she felt her belly button being nibbled, and laughed rather more nervously as she realized that the part of her that Edward referred to as ‘the tropics’ was coming under sustained attack from what she could only assume was her husband’s tongue. Edward had by now completely disappeared from view. Indeed, the writhing and falling of the eiderdown was the only indication that there were currently two occupants in the marital bed of Number 22 Sunnyhill Road.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and thought, not of England, but of the fact that tomorrow she had to pick up Edward’s suit from the dry-cleaner’s. That meant that today was Wednesday, which meant that it was not Sunday, which meant that events occurring somewhere to the south of her midriff were even more extraordinary than she had first thought. She had been close to abandoning herself to the pleasure of it all, and yet she now found herself quite unable to switch off. For at the very forefront of her mind, a shrill bell was emitting an alarm signal. She was suddenly back in reality – albeit a rather unusual reality – and wondering if Edward’s uncharacteristic behaviour was in any way linked to all the other curious things that had occurred over the previous few days. ‘Where is it going to end?’ she asked herself.
In the short term, it was to end in a most pleasurable fashion. In all their years of married life, Edward and Elizabeth Trencom had always made love in what Dr Comfort and Professor Easy would have referred to as the missionary position. But on the night in question, when the time for coitus arrived, Elizabeth found herself being gently rolled onto her tummy. Then, after a lot of wriggling – and a most embarrassing squelching noise – she was pummelled with such gusto that she could do little else but chew vigorously on the goose-down pillow. And at the very moment when she let out her second squeak of the evening, the bells of St Stephens parish church chimed midnight. Seconds later, it was all over. The bed, the bedroom and the streets of Streatham fell silent. The bedsprings returned to their original positions and Elizabeth quietly rubbed her hand over the pillow in order to get rid of the tooth marks.
‘My goodness,’ she thought to herself. ‘How and why did that happen?’
‘If we really do want children,’ whispered Edward into his wife’s ear, ‘then we’ll have to practise long and hard.’
Then he yawned, rolled over and fell asleep. Five whole hours were to pass before he once again ventured deep under the eiderdown.
29 MAY 1853
Henry Trencom awakes with a start. Outside his window, the call to prayer is just beginning – a long, low wail that floats through the still morning air and sneaks its way in through the slatted wooden shutters. Henry rolls over, still thick with sleep, and pulls a bolster over his ears. ‘Blasted noise,’ he thinks. ‘Wretched, blasted noise.’
He closes his eyes in a vain attempt to regain his dream but to no avail. His brain is already whirring like a waterwheel and there is absolutely nothing he can do to return to his previously morphic state.
On any other morning Henry would have guided his thoughts back through the events of the previous day. The boat trip across the Bosphorus; the tea dance in Pera; the magnificent reception he had been given by the bishop of the Fener quarter of Constantinople. But on this particular morning his only thoughts are of the coming day. For the hour has come; the hour that Henry has been awaiting for many years. It is for this very day that he left the lovely Mabel Trencom; left his son Emmanuel; left Trencoms cheese shop; left London and made his way to Constantinople, the City of Dreams, the Queen of the Bosphorus.
On the far side of the city, in the imperial Dolmabahce Palace, Sultan Abdul Mecit is also preparing for the day ahead. Unable to sleep (on account of the call to prayer), he has summoned three of his Circassian concubines to play the lute and sing for him. ‘Play until dawn breaks the sky,’ he tells them, ‘and sing to me like the birds.’ The ladies of the harem duly oblige, aware that the sultan will surely reward them with slipper money and costly jewels if pleased by their performance.
Shortly after sunrise, they are interrupted by Munejin Bashy, the court’s chief astrologer, who is the bearer of good news. The conjunction of the planets foretells some unknown triumph in the course of the day’s proceedings. ‘Yes, your worship,’ he says, falling to his knees. ‘This year’s procession – this celebration of victory – is set to be the most magnificent of all.’
The sultan lets out a long, low sigh. Courtly processions have always bored him and this one – to celebrate the capture of Constantinople from the infidel Nazarene in 1453 – is set to last for the course of the entire day.
‘Four centuries have passed, master, since the greatest of all victories,’ says Munejin Bashy. ‘Praise be to Allah, the All-Merciful One.’
Henry Trencom has discovered every detail of the route of the procession. It will begin at the Dolmabahce Sarayi, from where the sultan will be rowed in the imperial caique towards the lower quarter of the old city.
He will then make his way on foot to the Gate of Salutation in the Topkapi Sarayi, where he will receive the congratulations of all the notables of his empire, along with expressions of praise from many foreign delegations.
‘And it is there,’ says Henry to himself with a troubled expression, ‘that I myself shall meet him. Ah, yes, the Trencom family, too, will be offering their thanks – but in their own particular and idiosyncratic way.’
The sultan’s flotilla is the very picture of magnificence as it slips graciously down the Bosphorus. The imperial caique is adorned with gold lacquer that glints and twinkles in the May sunshine. The other boats are bedecked with a gaudy mishmash of streamers, baubles and pennants. As the fleet heads slowly towards the old city, cannon boom out from the palaces along the shoreline. ‘God grant the sultan many more victories,’ shout the crowd, which is standing ten deep on some parts of the waterfront. ‘God be with us – and may victory be with us for ever.’
As the caique approaches the wharf of the Golden Horn, Sultan Abdul Mecit is helped up from his cushions as he prepares to disembark. First to greet him is Patriarch Vasilios, head of the city’s Greek Christian community, who makes the customary deep prostration at the sultan’s feet. Then, after being summoned to rise, he (somewhat wearily) presents Sultan Abdul Mecit with the keys to the city, symbolizing on behalf of all Christians his acceptance that the Byzantine Empire has been for ever defeated.
‘May God have mercy on you,’ says the patriarch, ‘as your forefather, Suleiman, had mercy on us.’ As the sultan turns to leave for the Topkapi Sarayi, the patriarch adds a new, unscripted greeting. ‘And may God grant you,’ he says, ‘many years of life and health and prosperity.’
The sultan nods his appreciation and summons his entourage. With a blast from a trumpet and the hollow roll of a kettledrum, his cortège proceeds on foot towards the Gate of Salutation.
Henry Trencom has been watching the proceedings from the high ground above the wharf. ‘Well, well,’ he says to himself. ‘He’ll be there in a few minutes from now. Come on, Henry Trencom, better prepare yourself – it’s now or never.’
As he thinks these thoughts, he can feel a shiver of nerves run through his body, starting somewhere in the vicinity of his big toe and not coming to an end until it reaches the nape of his neck. When he glances at his arm, he notices that it is covered in goose pimples. ‘Oh, pull yourself together,’ he whispers to himself. ‘Come on, Henry Trencom – live up to yourself.’
He thinks for a moment about his beloved Mabel and their children. ‘I’m sure that young Emmanuel is doing fine work in Trencoms. Ah, yes, Emmanuel – he’s a one – and isn’t he just blessed with one of the finest Trencom noses in generations?’
Henry touches his own nose as he says this and then polishes it with his kerchief. ‘It’s this little chap,’ he thinks, as he carefully wipes the rim of each nostril, ‘that’s brought me here.’
Henry makes his way up past the imperial fishing pavilion towards the enclosed menagerie. He blinks in the bright sunlight then blinks again when he sees the long neck of a giraffe poking out from a little coppice. He is surprised to see so many people milling around inside the second courtyard of the palace. ‘No bad thing,’ he thinks. ‘It will make my life that much easier.’
The fact that he is clearly not Turkish provokes very few curious stares from onlookers and passers-by. Many of the people flocking towards the Gate of Salutation are Europeans – representatives of large enterprises and corporations who have made their fortunes out of the extravagances of the sultan.
There is a burst of cannon-fire and another blast of the trumpet. ‘Ah-ha, here he comes,’ says Henry to himself with considerable excitement. ‘Come on, Henry Trencom, brace yourself.’
Sultan Abdul Mecit is less than twenty yards away when Henry unfastens the top two buttons of his waistcoat and draws out a small German revolver. Displaying extraordinary calmness, he raises it up to shoulder height, checks his line of vision and aims directly at the sultan. He winces slightly as he prepares for the inevitable bang. But – c-c-click – there is no bang. ‘Bother and d––nation.’ The catch has jammed and the gun has not fired.
Henry squeezes the trigger for a second time and on this occasion there is a loud bang, followed by a second and a third retort. But they do not come from his own pistol. Two of the sultan’s marksmen have been watching Henry Trencom’s movements from the rooftop of the inner treasury and have hastily taken aim. Bang. Bang. Bang. Henry Trencom just has time to rub his nose for a final time before falling – dead – to the cobbles.
As the crowd let out a collective gasp of horror, Munejin Bashy, the court’s chief astrologer, makes his way over to the sultan and whispers something in his ear. ‘Just as the heavens foretold,’ he says. ‘That must have been the triumph that was predicted by the planets. Now, at long last, your empire is finally safe.’
14 FEBRUARY 1969
Edward knew that something was wrong, even before he put the key into the door of Trencoms. There was an unusual scent in the air – something that he did not recognize. He sniffed at the air – once, twice and a third time. ‘Strange,’ he said. ‘It’s tobacco, all right. Definitely tobacco. But it’s not that same Balkan tobacco. And nor’ – sniff, sniff – is it English.’
The scent was so faint and difficult to detect that Edward surmised that whoever had been smoking it had left at least four hours earlier. ‘And that means,’ he thought, ‘that they were here in the early hours of the morning.’
He opened the door, stepped inside the shop and flicked on the fans. When he came to inhale his first gulp of fusty morning air, he got the shock of his life. That same scent – foreign tobacco – could be detected inside the shop. And that could only mean one thing. Someone had broken into Trencoms during the course of the night.
Edward was alarmed; so alarmed that he felt as if his blood was starting to congeal. He rushed back outside and examined the lock on the door. It showed no signs of having been tampered with and nor had the door been forced. He reentered the shop and looked around carefully. Apart from two couhé-veracs, which had shed their chestnut-leaf wrappers, everything else was exactly as he had left it on the previous evening.
‘The cellars,’ thought Edward in a flash. ‘It must be the cellars.’
He ran to the rear of the shop and descended the stepladder as fast as he could. Sniff, sniff. There it was again. That same scent of cigarettes, fainter than it had been upstairs, yet easily picked up by the sensitive nostrils of Edward Trencom.
He followed the trail of scent through Normandy and Burgundy until he found himself approaching the cheeses of the Massif Central. He sniffed again and immediately realized where it was leading him.
‘Of course!’ he murmured under his breath. ‘The altar – I should have known.’
Edward had re-sorted the great stack of family papers shortly before he had left work on the previous evening. A stickler for order, he had once again placed the papers in neat little piles and made sure they were arranged chronologically. At first glance, they seemed to be exactly as he had left them. But when he examined them more closely, he noticed that one of the piles – Humphrey’s – had been disturbed. Although none of the books and papers was missing, they were most certainly not in the same order in which they had been left.
‘Someone,’ thought Edward, ‘has been down in these cellars. And someone has been rifling through these papers.’
And so they had. And yet to Edward’s eyes, they did not appear to have taken a single thing.
Elizabeth’s fears that Edward had abandoned his monumental History of Cheese were to prove unfounded. Just two days after their unusual encounter between the sheets, Edward announced his decision to resume work on his book.
‘Mr George has been through it with a toothcomb,’ he said. ‘He’s done a sterling job.’
‘Did you really give it to Mr George?’ asked Elizabeth. ‘I thought that was a joke.’
‘I
wanted a second opinion – he’s quite a reader, you know. And he loved the book. He felt that very little needed changing. One last push and it’ll be there.’
‘Well, what did I say, my love?’ replied Elizabeth, with the beginnings of an inner smile. ‘You wouldn’t listen to me. If it’s as well received as your Encyclopaedia – and sells as well – I suggest we take a proper holiday. You need a break – you’ve been under far too much pressure recently. We both have, and it’s not good. Look what happened to the Pattersons – look how they ended up. He ran off to Cape Town in search of goodness only knows what, and she’s completely fallen to pieces. The last time I saw her she told me that Desmond was living with a young Zulu girl.’
‘Well, if you were married to Sally Patterson …’
‘Edward!’ exclaimed Elizabeth. ‘Don’t even think it.’
Elizabeth was delighted by Edward’s change of heart, for she felt sure it heralded an end to his uncharacteristic behaviour. ‘Now we can at long last get back to normal,’ she said to herself. But even as she had this thought, she found herself adding a little mental appendix to it. ‘Although I must say, I wouldn’t complain if the events of the other evening were to be repeated.’
What Elizabeth did not realize was that Edward had decided to abandon almost everything he had already written – some five or six years’ work – and embark on a history of the Trencom family. It would recount the inexorable rise of the Trencoms from Humphrey Trencom, founder of the shop, up to the present day.
‘Dynasty,’ said Edward with a note of triumph. ‘That’s what I shall call it. The Americans will love it. I always thought cheese was the be-all and end-all of everything. But my family’s far more interesting.’