At nine-fifty precisely Colonel Hamilton led his two colleagues down the aisle and filed into the vacant seats immediately behind Mrs. Trentham. Although she glanced at the colonel he made no effort to acknowledge her presence. At nine-fifty there was still no sign of either Mr. or Mrs. Trumper.
Savill’s had warned Mrs. Trentham that Trumper might be represented by an outside agent, but from all she had gathered about the man over the years she couldn’t believe he would allow anyone else to carry out the bidding for him. She was not to be disappointed for when the clock behind the auctioneer’s box showed five minutes before the hour, in he strode. Although he was a few years older than he’d been at the time of the photograph she held in her hand, she was in no doubt that it was Charlie Trumper. He wore a smart, well-tailored suit that helped disguise the fact that he was beginning to have a weight problem. A smile rarely left his lips though she had plans to remove it. He seemed to want everyone to know he had arrived, as he shook hands and chatted with several people before taking a reserved seat on the aisle about four rows behind her. Mrs. Trentham half turned her chair so she could observe both Trumper and the auctioneer without having continually to look round.
Suddenly Mr. Trumper rose and made his way towards the back of the room, only to pick up a bill of sale from the table at the entrance before returning to his reserved place on the aisle. Mrs. Trentham suspected that this performance had been carried out for some specific reason. Her eyes raked each row and although she could see nothing untoward she nevertheless felt uneasy.
By the time Mr. Fothergill had climbed the steps of the auctioneer’s box, the room was already full. Yet despite almost every place having been taken Mrs. Trentham was still unable to see if Mrs. Trumper was seated among the large gathering.
From the moment Mr. Fothergill called for the first bid the auction did not proceed as Mrs. Trentham had imagined, or indeed planned. Nothing she had experienced at Christie’s during the previous month could have prepared her for the final outcome—Mr. Fothergill announcing a mere six minutes later, “Sold for twelve thousand pounds to Mrs. Gerald Trentham.”
She was angry at having made such a public spectacle of herself, even if she had secured the fine art shop and dealt a satisfying blow to Rebecca Trumper. It had certainly been done at a considerable cost, and now she wasn’t even certain she had enough money in her special account to cover the full amount she had committed herself to.
After eighty days of soul-searching, in which she considered approaching her husband and even her father to make up the shortfall, Mrs. Trentham finally decided to sacrifice the one thousand and two hundred pounds deposit, retreat and lick her wounds. The alternative was to admit to her husband exactly what had taken place at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace that day.
There was one compensation, however. She would no longer need to use Sotheby’s when the time came to dispose of the stolen painting.
As the months passed, Mrs. Trentham received regular letters from her son, first from Sydney, then later from Melbourne, informing her of his progress. They often requested her to send more money. The larger the partnership grew, Guy explained, the more he needed extra capital to secure his share of the equity. Overall some six thousand pounds found its way across the Pacific Ocean to a bank in Sydney during a period of over four years, none of which Mrs. Trentham resented giving since Guy appeared to be making such a success of his new profession. She also felt confident that once she could expose Charles Trumper for the thief and liar he was, her son could return to England with his reputation vindicated, even in the eyes of his father.
Then suddenly, just at the point when Mrs. Trentham had begun to believe that the time might be right to put the next stage of her plan into action, a cable arrived from Melbourne. The address from which the missive had been sent left Mrs. Trentham with no choice but to leave for that distant city without delay.
When, over dinner that night, she informed Gerald that she intended to depart for the Antipodes on the first possible tide her news was greeted with polite indifference. This came as no surprise, as Guy’s name had rarely passed her husband’s lips since that day he had visited the War Office over four years before. In fact, the only sign that still remained of their firstborn’s existence at either Ashurst Hall or Chester Square was the one picture of him in full dress uniform that stood on her bedroom table and the MC that Gerald had allowed to remain on the mantelpiece.
As far as Gerald was concerned, Nigel was their only child.
Gerald Trentham was well aware that his wife told all his and her friends that Guy was a successful partner in a large cattle firm of brokers that had offices right across Australia. However, he had long ago stopped believing such stories, and had lately even stopped listening to them. Whenever the occasional envelope, in that all too familiar hand, dropped through the letter box at Chester Square, Gerald Trentham made no inquiry as to his elder son’s progress.
The next ship scheduled to sail for Australia was the SS Orontes, which was due out of Southampton on the following Monday. Mrs. Trentham cabled back to an address in Melbourne to let them know her estimated time of arrival.
The five-week trip across two oceans seemed interminable to Mrs. Trentham, especially as for most of the time she chose to remain in her cabin, having no desire to strike up a casual acquaintanceship with anyone on board—or, worse, bump into someone who actually knew her. She turned down several invitations to join the captain’s table for dinner.
Once the ship had docked at Sydney, Mrs. Trentham only rested overnight in that city before traveling on to Melbourne. On arrival at Spencer Street Station she took a taxi directly to the Royal Victoria hospital, where the sister in charge told her matter-of-factly that her son had only another week to live.
They allowed her to see him immediately, and a police officer escorted her to the special isolation wing. She stood by his bedside, staring down in disbelief at a face she could barely recognize. Guy’s hair was so thin and gray and the lines on his face so deep that Mrs. Trentham felt she might have been at her husband’s deathbed.
A doctor told her that such a condition was not uncommon once the verdict had been delivered and the person concerned realized there was no hope of a reprieve. After standing at the end of the bed for nearly an hour she left without having been able to elicit a word from her son. At no time did she allow any of the hospital staff to become aware of her true feelings.
That evening Mrs. Trentham booked herself into a quiet country club on the outskirts of Melbourne. She made only one inquiry of the young expatriate owner, a Mr. Sinclair-Smith, before retiring to her room.
The next morning she presented herself at the offices of the oldest firm of solicitors in Melbourne, Asgarth, Jenkins and Company. A young man she considered far too familiar asked, “What was her problem?”
“I wish to have a word with your senior partner,” Mrs. Trentham replied.
“Then you’ll have to take a seat in the waiting room,” he told her.
Mrs. Trentham sat alone for some time before Mr. Asgarth was free to see her.
The senior partner, an elderly man who from his dress might have been conducting his practice in Lincoln’s Inn Fields rather than Victoria Street, Melbourne, listened in silence to her sad story and agreed to deal with any problems that might arise from handling Guy Trentham’s estate. To that end he promised to lodge an immediate application for permission to have the body transported back to England.
Mrs. Trentham visited her son in hospital every day of that week before he died. Although little conversation passed between them, she did learn of one problem that would have to be dealt with before she could hope to travel back to England.
On Wednesday afternoon Mrs. Trentham returned to the offices of Asgarth, Jenkins and Company to seek the advice of the senior partner on what could be done following her latest discovery. The elderly lawyer ushered his client to a chair before he listened carefully to her revelation. He made the occasional note on a
pad in front of him. When Mrs. Trentham had finished he did not offer an opinion for some considerable time.
“There will have to be a change of name,” he suggested, “if no one else is to find out what you have in mind.”
“And we must also be sure that there is no way of tracing who her father was at some time in the future,” said Mrs. Trentham.
The old solicitor frowned. “That will require you to place considerable trust in”—he checked the scribbled name in front of him—“Miss Benson.”
“Pay Miss Benson whatever it takes to assure her silence,” said Mrs. Trentham. “Coutts in London will handle all the financial details.”
The senior partner nodded and by dint of remaining at his desk until nearly midnight for the next four days he managed to complete all the paperwork necessary to fulfill his client’s requirements only hours before Mrs. Trentham was due to leave for London.
Guy Trentham was certified as dead by the doctor in attendance at three minutes past six on the morning of 23 April 1927, and the following day Mrs. Trentham began her somber journey back to England, accompanied by his coffin. She was relieved that only two people on that continent knew as much as she did, one an elderly gentleman only months away from retirement, the other a woman who could now spend the rest of her life in a style she would never have believed possible only a few days before.
Mrs. Trentham cabled her husband with the minimum information she considered necessary before sailing back to Southampton as silently and as anonymously as she had come. Once she had set foot on English soil Mrs. Trentham was driven directly to her home in Chester Square. She briefed her husband on the details of the tragedy, and he reluctantly accepted that an announcement should be placed in The Times the following day. It read:
“The death is announced of Captain Guy Trentham, MC, tragically from tuberculosis after suffering a long illness. The funeral will take place at St. Mary’s, Ashurst, Berkshire, on Tuesday, 8 June, 1927.”
The local vicar conducted the ceremony for the dear departed. His death, he assured the congregation, was a tragedy for all who knew him.
Guy Trentham was laid to rest in the plot originally reserved for his father. Major and Mrs. Trentham, relations, friends of the family, parishioners and servants left the burial ground with their heads bowed low.
During the days that followed, Mrs. Trentham received over a hundred letters of condolence, one or two of which pointed out that she could at least be consoled with the knowledge that there was a second son to take Guy’s place.
The next day Nigel’s photograph replaced his elder brother’s on the bedside table.
CHARLIE
1926–1945
CHAPTER
25
I was walking down Chelsea Terrace with Tom Arnold on our Monday morning round when he first offered an opinion.
“It will never happen,” I said.
“You could be right, sir, but at the moment a lot of the shopkeepers are beginning to panic.”
“Bunch of cowards,” I told him. “With nearly a million already unemployed there’ll be only a handful who would be foolish enough to consider an all-out strike.”
“Perhaps, but the Shops Committee is still advising its members to board up their windows.”
“Syd Wrexall would advise his members to board up their windows if a Pekingese put a leg up against the front door of the Musketeer. What’s more, the bloody animal wouldn’t even have to piss.”
A smile flickered across Tom’s lips. “So you’re prepared for a fight, Mr. Trumper?”
“You bet I am. I’ll back Mr. Churchill all the way on this one.” I stopped to check the window of hats and scarves. “How many people do we currently employ?”
“Seventy-one.”
“And how many of those do you reckon are considering strike action?”
“Half a dozen, ten at the most would be my bet—and then only those who are members of the Shopworkers’ Union. But there could still be the problem for some of our employees who wouldn’t find it easy to get to work because of a public transport stoppage.”
“Then give me all the names of those you’re not sure of by this evening and I’ll have a word with every one of them during the week. At least that way I might be able to convince one or two of them about their long-term future with the company.”
“What about the company’s long-term future if the strike were to go ahead?”
“When will you get it into your head, Tom, that nothing is going to happen that will affect Trumper’s?”
“Syd Wrexall thinks—”
“I can assure you that’s the one thing he doesn’t do.”
“—thinks that at least three shops will come on the market during the next month, and if there were to be a general strike there might be a whole lot more suddenly available. The miners are persuading—”
“They’re not persuading Charlie Trumper,” I told him. “So let me know the moment you hear of anyone who wants to sell, because I’m still a buyer.”
“While everyone else is a seller?”
“That’s exactly when you should buy,” I replied. “The time to get on a tram is when everyone else is getting off. So let me have those names, Tom. Meanwhile, I’m going to the bank.” I strode off in the direction of Knightsbridge.
In the privacy of his new Brompton Road office Hadlow informed me that Trumper’s was now holding a little over twelve thousand pounds on deposit: an adequate buttress, he considered, were there to be a general strike.
“Not you as well,” I said in exasperation. “The strike will never take place. Even if it does, I predict it’ll be over in a matter of days.”
“Like the last war?” said Hadlow as he peered back at me over his half-moon spectacles. “I am by nature a cautious man, Mr. Trumper—”
“Well, I’m not,” I said, interrupting him. “So be prepared to see that cash being put to good use.”
“I have already earmarked around half the sum, should Mrs. Trentham fail to take up her option on Number 1,” he reminded me. “She still has”—he turned to check the calendar on the wall—“fifty-two days left to do so.”
“Then I would suggest this is going to be a time for keeping our nerve.”
“If the market were to collapse, it might be wise not to risk everything. Don’t you think, Mr. Trumper?”
“No, I don’t, but that’s why I’m—” I began, only just managing to stop myself venting my true feelings.
“It is indeed,” replied Hadlow, making me feel even more embarrassed. “And that is also the reason I have backed you so wholeheartedly in the past,” he added magnanimously.
As the days passed I had to admit that a general strike did look more and more likely. The air of uncertainty and lack of confidence in the future meant that first one shop and then another found its way onto the market.
I purchased the first two at knockdown prices, on the condition that the settlement was immediate, and thanks to the speed with which Crowther completed the paperwork and Hadlow released the cash, I was even able to add boots and shoes, followed by the chemist’s, to my side of the ledger.
When the general strike finally began—on Tuesday, 4 May 1926—the colonel and I were out on the streets at first light. We checked over every one of our properties from the north end to the south. All Syd Wrexall’s committee members had already boarded up their shops, which I considered tantamount to giving in to the strikers. I did agree, however, to the colonel’s plan for “operation lock-up,” which on a given signal from me allowed Tom Arnold to have all thirteen shops locked and bolted within three minutes. On the previous Saturday I had watched Tom carry out several “practice runs,” as he called them, to the amusement of the passersby.
Although on the first morning of the strike the weather was fine and the streets were crowded the only concession I made to the milling throng was to keep all foodstuff from numbers 147 and 131 off the pavements.
At eight Tom Arnold reported to me
that only five employees had failed to turn up for work, despite spectacular traffic jams causing public transport to be held up for hours on end and even one of those was genuinely ill.
As the colonel and I strolled up and down Chelsea Terrace we were met by the occasional insult but I didn’t sense any real mood of violence and, everything considered, most people were surprisingly good-humored. Some of the lads even started playing football in the street.
The first sign of any real unrest came on the second morning, when a brick was hurled through the front window of Number 5, jewelry and watches. I saw two or three young thugs grab whatever they could from the main window display before running off down the Terrace. The crowd became restless and began shouting slogans so I gave the signal to Tom Arnold, who was about fifty yards up the road, and he immediately blew six blasts on his whistle. Within the three minutes the colonel had stipulated every one of our shops was locked and bolted. I stood my ground while the police moved in and several people were arrested. Although there was a lot of hot air blowing about, within an hour I was able to instruct Tom that the shops could be reopened and that we should continue serving customers as if nothing had happened. Within three hours hardware had replaced the window of Number 5—not that it was a morning for buying jewelry.
By Thursday, only three people failed to turn up for work, but I counted four more shops in the Terrace that had been boarded up. The streets seemed a lot calmer. Over a snatched breakfast I learned from Becky that there would be no copy of The Times that morning because the printers were on strike, but in defiance the government had brought out their own paper, the British Gazette, a brainchild of Mr. Churchill, which informed its readers that the railway and transport workers were now returning to work in droves. Despite this, Norman Cosgrave, the fishmonger at Number 11, told me that he’d had enough, and asked how much I was prepared to offer him for his business. Having agreed on a price in the morning we walked over to the bank that same afternoon to close the deal. One phone call made sure that Crowther had the necessary documents typed up, and Hadlow had filled in a check by the time we arrived, so all that was required of me was a signature. When I returned to Chelsea Terrace I immediately put Tom Arnold in charge of the fishmonger’s until he could find the right manager to take Cosgrave’s place. I never said anything to him at the time, but it was to be several weeks after Tom had handed over to a lad from Billingsgate before he finally rid himself of the lingering smell.
As the Crow Flies Page 32
