Mr. Baverstock permitted himself a wry smile before he removed a file from his Gladstone bag.
“I’ll waste no more words,” continued Mr. Baverstock. “Having talked to the other side’s solicitors during the past few days, I have learned that at some time in the past Daniel paid a visit to Mrs. Trentham at her home in Chester Square.”
Charlie and Becky were unable to hide their astonishment.
“Just as I thought,” said Baverstock. “Like myself, you were both obviously quite unaware that such a meeting had taken place.”
“But how could they have met when—?” asked Charlie.
“That we may never get to the bottom of, Sir Charles. However, what I do know is that at that meeting Daniel came to an agreement with Mrs. Trentham.”
“And what was the nature of this agreement?” asked Charlie.
The old solicitor extracted yet another piece of paper from the file in front of him and reread Mrs. Trentham’s handwritten words: “‘In exchange for Mrs. Trentham’s withdrawing her opposition to any planning permission for the building to be known as Trumper Towers, and in addition for agreeing not to proceed with her own scheme for the rebuilding of a block of flats in Chelsea Terrace, Daniel Trumper will waive any rights he might be entitled to now or at any time in the future from the Hardcastle estate.’ At that time, of course, Daniel had no idea that he was the main beneficiary of Sir Raymond’s will.”
“So that’s why she gave in without putting up a fight?” said Charlie eventually.
“It would seem so.”
“He did all that without even letting us know,” said Becky as her husband began to read through the document.
“That would appear to be the case, Lady Trumper.”
“And is it legally binding?” were Charlie’s first words after he had finished reading the page of Mrs. Trentham’s handwriting.
“Yes, I’m afraid it is, Sir Charles.”
“But if he didn’t know the full extent of the inheritance—?”
“This is a contract between two people. The courts would have to assume Daniel had relinquished his interest to any claim in the Hardcastle estate, once Mrs. Trentham had kept her part of the bargain.”
“But what about coercion?”
“Of a twenty-six-year-old man by a woman over seventy when he went to visit her? Hardly, Sir Charles.”
“But how did they ever meet?”
“I have no idea,” replied the lawyer. “It seems that she didn’t confide the full circumstances of the meeting even to her own solicitors. However, I’m sure you now understand why I considered this wasn’t the most appropriate time to raise the subject of Sir Raymond’s will with Daniel.”
“You made the right decision,” said Charlie.
“And now the subject must be closed forever,” said Becky, barely louder than a whisper.
“But why?” asked Charlie, placing an arm around his wife’s shoulder.
“Because I don’t want Daniel to spend the rest of his life feeling he betrayed his great-grandfather when his only purpose in signing that agreement must have been to help us.” The tears flowed down Becky’s cheeks as she turned to face her husband.
“Perhaps I should have a word with Daniel, man to man.”
“Charlie, you will never even consider raising the subject of Guy Trentham with my son again. I forbid it.”
Charlie removed his arm from around his wife and looked at her like a child who has been unfairly scolded.
“I’m only glad it was you who has brought us this unhappy news,” said Becky, turning back to the solicitor. “You’ve always been so considerate when it comes to our affairs.”
“Thank you, Lady Trumper, but I fear I have yet more unpalatable news to impart.”
Becky gripped Charlie’s hand.
“I have to report that on this occasion Mrs. Trentham has not satisfied herself with one blow at a time.”
“What else can she do to us?” asked Charlie.
“It seems that she is now willing to part with her land in Chelsea Terrace.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Becky.
“I do,” said Charlie. “But at what price?”
“That is indeed the problem,” said Mr. Baverstock, who bent down to remove another file from his old leather bag.
Charlie and Becky exchanged a quick glance.
“Mrs. Trentham will offer you the freehold on her site in Chelsea Terrace in exchange for ten percent of Trumper’s shares”—he paused—“and a place on the board for her son Nigel.”
“Never,” said Charlie flatly.
“If you should reject her offer,” the solicitor continued, “she intends to sell the property on the open market and accept the highest bidder—whoever that might be.”
“So be it,” said Charlie. “We would undoubtedly end up buying the land ourselves.”
“At a far higher price than the value of ten percent of our shares, I suspect,” said Becky.
“That’s a price worth paying after what she’s put us through.”
“Mrs. Trentham has also requested,” continued Mr. Baverstock, “that her offer should be presented to the board in detail at your next meeting and then voted on.”
“But she doesn’t have the authority to make such a demand,” said Charlie.
“If you do not comply with this request,” said Mr. Baverstock, “it is her intention to circulate all the shareholders with the offer and then call an extraordinary general meeting at which she will personally present her case and bring the issue to a vote.”
“Can she do that?” For the first time Charlie sounded worried.
“From everything I know about that lady, I suspect she wouldn’t have thrown down such a gauntlet before taking legal advice.”
“It’s almost as if she can always anticipate our next move,” said Becky with feeling.
Charlie’s voice revealed the same anxiety. “She wouldn’t need to bother about our next move if her son was on the board. He could just report back to her direct after every meeting.”
“So what it comes to is that we may well have to give in to her demands,” said Becky.
“I agree with your judgment, Lady Trumper,” said Mr. Baverstock. “However, I felt it was only proper that I should give you as much notice as possible of Mrs. Trentham’s demands as it will be my painful duty to acquaint the board with the details when we next meet.”
There was only one “apology for absence” when the board met the following Tuesday. Simon Matthews had to be in Geneva to conduct a rare gems sale and Charlie had assured him that his presence would not be vital. Once Mr. Baverstock had finished explaining the consequences of Mrs. Trentham’s offer to the board, everyone around the table wanted to speak at once.
When Charlie had restored some semblance of order, he said, “I must make my position clear from the outset. I am one hundred percent against this offer. I don’t trust the lady in question and never have. What’s more, I believe that in the long term her only purpose is to harm the company.”
“But, surely, Mr. Chairman,” said Paul Merrick, “if she is considering selling her land in Chelsea Terrace to the highest bidder, she could always use the cash from that sale to purchase another ten percent of the company’s shares at any time that suited her. So what real choice are we left with?”
“Not having to live with her son,” said Charlie. “Don’t forget, part of this package means offering him a place on the board.”
“But if he were in possession of ten percent of the company,” said Paul Merrick, “and perhaps an even higher stake for all we know, it would be nothing less than our duty to accept him as a director.”
“Not necessarily,” said Charlie. “Especially if we believed his sole reason for joining the board was eventually to take over the company. The last thing we need is a hostile director.”
“The last thing we need is to pay more than is necessary for a hole in the ground.”
For a moment no one spoke
while the rest of the board considered these contrary statements.
“Let’s assume for one moment,” said Tim Newman, “the consequences of not accepting Mrs. Trentham’s terms but instead bidding for the empty plot ourselves on the open market. That mightn’t prove to be the cheapest route, Sir Charles, because I can assure you that Sears, Boots, the House of Fraser and the John Lewis Partnership—to name but four—would derive considerable pleasure from opening a new store right in the middle of Trumper’s.”
“Rejecting her offer may therefore turn out to be even more expensive in the long run, whatever your personal views are of the lady, Mr. Chairman,” said Merrick. “In any case, I have another piece of information that the board may feel is relevant to this discussion.”
“What’s that?” asked Charlie, warily.
“My fellow directors may be interested to know,” began Merrick rather pompously, “that Nigel Trentham has just been made redundant by Kitcat and Aitken, which is simply a euphemism for being sacked. It seems he’s not proved up to the task in these leaner times. So I can’t imagine his presence around this table is likely to provide us with a great deal of anxiety now or at any time in the future.”
“But he could still keep his mother briefed on every move we make,” said Charlie.
“Perhaps she needs to know how well the knickers are selling on the seventh floor?” suggested Merrick. “Not to mention the trouble we had with that burst water main in the gents’ lavatory last month. No, Chairman, it would be foolish, even irresponsible, not to accept such an offer.”
“As a matter of interest, Mr. Chairman, what would you do with the extra space, should Trumper’s suddenly get hold of Mrs. Trentham’s land?” asked Daphne, throwing everyone off balance for a moment.
“Expand,” said Charlie. “We’re already bulging at the seams. That piece of land would mean at least fifty thousand square feet. If I could only get my hands on it it would be possible for me to open another twenty departments.”
“And what would such a building program cost?” Daphne continued.
“A lot of money,” Paul Merrick interjected, “which we may not have at our disposal if we are made to pay well over the odds for that vacant site in the first place.”
“May I remind you that we’re having an exceptionally good year,” said Charlie, banging the table.
“Agreed, Mr. Chairman. But may I also remind you, that when you last made a similar statement, within five years you were facing bankruptcy.”
“But that was caused by an unexpected war,” insisted Charlie.
“And this isn’t,” said Merrick. The two men stared at each other, unable to disguise their mutual loathing. “Our first duty must always be to the shareholders,” continued Merrick, as he looked around the boardroom table. “If they were to find out that we had paid an excessive amount for that piece of land simply because of—and I put this as delicately as I can—a personal vendetta between the principals, we could be heavily censured at the next AGM and you, Mr. Chairman, might even be called on to resign.”
“I’m willing to take that risk,” said Charlie, by now almost shouting.
“Well, I’m not,” said Merrick calmly. “What’s more, if we don’t accept her offer we already know that Mrs. Trentham will call an extraordinary general meeting in order to put her case to the shareholders, and I’ve little doubt where their interests will lie. I consider the time has come to take a vote on this matter, rather than carry on with any further pointless discussion.”
“But wait a moment—” Charlie began.
“No. I will not wait, Mr. Chairman, and I propose that we accept Mrs. Trentham’s generous offer of releasing her land in exchange for ten percent of the company’s shares.”
“And what do you propose we do about her son?” asked Charlie.
“He should be invited to join the board without delay,” replied Merrick.
“But—” began Charlie.
“No buts, thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Merrick. “The time has come to vote. Personal prejudices shouldn’t be allowed to cloud our better judgment.”
There was a moment’s silence before Arthur Selwyn said, “As a formal proposal has been made will you be kind enough to record the votes, Miss Allen?” Jessica nodded and glanced round at the nine members of the board.
“Mr. Merrick?”
“For.”
“Mr. Newman?”
“For.”
“Mr. Denning?”
“Against.”
“Mr. Makins?”
“Against.”
“Mr. Baverstock?”
The lawyer placed the palms of his hands on the table and seemed to hesitate, as if in some considerable dilemma over the decision.
“For,” he said finally.
“Lady Trumper?”
“Against,” Becky said without hesitation.
“Lady Wiltshire?”
“For,” said Daphne quietly.
“Why?” said Becky unable to believe her response.
Daphne turned to face her old friend. “Because I’d rather have the enemy inside the boardroom causing trouble, than outside in the corridor causing even more.”
Becky couldn’t believe her ears.
“I assume you’re against, Sir Charles?”
Charlie nodded vigorously.
Mr. Selwyn raised his eyes.
“Does that mean it’s four votes each?” he inquired of Jessica.
“Yes, that’s correct, Mr. Selwyn,” said Jessica after she had run her thumb down the list of names a second time.
Everyone stared across at the managing director. He placed the pen he had been writing with on the blotting pad in front of him. “Then I can only do what I consider to be in the best long-term interests of the company. I cast my vote in favor of accepting Mrs. Trentham’s offer.”
Everyone round the table except Charlie started to talk.
Mr. Selwyn waited for some time before adding, “The motion has been carried, Mr. Chairman, by five votes to four. I will therefore instruct our merchant bankers and solicitors to carry out the necessary financial and legal arrangements to ensure that this transaction takes place smoothly and in accordance with company regulations.”
Charlie made no comment, just continued to stare in front of him.
“And if there is no other business, Chairman, perhaps you should declare the meeting closed.”
Charlie nodded but didn’t move when the other directors rose to leave the boardroom. Only Becky remained in her place, halfway down the long table. Within moments they were alone.
“I should have got my hands on those flats thirty years ago, you know.”
Becky made no comment.
“And we should never have gone public while that bloody woman was still alive.”
Charlie rose and walked slowly over to the window, but his wife still didn’t offer an opinion as he stared down at the empty bench on the far side of the road.
“And to think I told Simon that his presence wouldn’t be vital.”
Still Becky said nothing.
“Well, at least I now know what the bloody woman has in mind for her precious Nigel.”
Becky raised an eyebrow as Charlie turned to face her.
“She plans that he will succeed me as the next chairman of Trumper’s.”
CATHY
1947–1950
CHAPTER
39
The one question I was never able to answer as a child was, “When did you last see your father?”
Unlike the young cavalier, I simply didn’t know the answer. In fact I had no idea who my father was, or my mother for that matter. Most people don’t realize how many times a day, a month, a year one is asked such a question. And if your reply is always, “I simply don’t know, because they both died before I can remember,” you are greeted with looks of either surprise or suspicion—or, worse still, disbelief. In the end you learn how to throw up a smokescreen or simply avoid the issue by changing
the subject. There is no variation on the question of parentage for which I haven’t developed an escape route.
The only vague memory I have of my parents is of a man who shouted a lot of the time and of a woman who was so timid she rarely spoke. I also have a feeling she was called Anna. Other than that, both of them remain a blur.
How I envied those children who could immediately tell me about their parents, brothers, sisters, even second cousins or distant aunts. All I knew about myself was that I had been brought up in St. Hilda’s Orphanage, Park Hill, Melbourne. Principal: Miss Rachel Benson.
Many of the children from the orphanage did have relations and some received letters, even the occasional visit. The only such person I can ever recall was an elderly, rather severe-looking woman, who wore a long black dress and black lace gloves up to her elbows, and spoke with a strange accent. I have no idea what her relationship to me was, if any.
Miss Benson treated this particular lady with considerable respect and I remember even curtsied when she left; but I never learned her name and when I was old enough to ask who she was Miss Benson claimed she had no idea what I was talking about. Whenever I tried to question Miss Benson about my own upbringing, she would reply mysteriously, “It’s best you don’t know, child.” I can think of no sentence in the English language more likely to ensure that I try even harder to find out the truth about my background.
As the years went by I began to ask what I thought were subtler questions on the subject of my parentage—of the vice-principal, my house matron, kitchen staff, even the janitor—but I always came up against the same blank wall. On my fourteenth birthday I requested an interview with Miss Benson in order to ask her the question direct. Although she had long ago dispensed with “It’s best you don’t know, child,” she now replaced this sentiment with, “In truth, Cathy, I don’t know myself.” Although I didn’t question her further, I didn’t believe her, because some of the older members of the staff would from time to time give me strange looks, and on at least two occasions began to whisper behind my back once they thought I was out of earshot.
I had no photographs or mementos of my parents, or even any proof of their past existence, except for a small piece of jewelry which I convinced myself was silver. I remember that it was the man who shouted a lot who had given me the little cross and since then it had always hung from a piece of string around my neck. One night when I was undressing in the dormitory Miss Benson spotted my prize and demanded to know where the pendant had come from; I told her Betsy Compton had swapped it with me for a dozen marbles, a fib that seemed to satisfy her at the time. But from that day onwards I kept my treasure well hidden from anyone’s prying eyes.
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