by Janet Woods
‘You mean he’s a fuddy-duddy like you.’
‘I mean nothing of the sort. If I take him on, which is likely, he can start work on the Tuesday after New Year.’
‘But a doctor in charge of a toy factory . . .’ She gazed dubiously at him. ‘Wouldn’t he consider it beneath him?’
‘Having a job and feeling useful – no matter how humble that job – gives a man back his pride. So if you come across that poor damaged man again, you send him round to see me and I’ll try and fit him in somewhere.’
‘Actually he was rather churlish; he didn’t even thank me, or look me in the eye come to that.’
‘Having to beg wouldn’t sit well with most men, especially one who had served his country well. Can you blame him?’
‘I see, well, you know best, I suppose. Now . . . could I bother you for a small advance? Please say yes.’
Her father smiled indulgently at her. ‘My past experience of that statement suggests that you’ve spent your allowance for this month.’
‘Most of it, but you know how expensive the Christmas season is. I saw a darling little beaded evening bag in the window of La Belle Moderne the other day, and with a matching headband. I’ll just die if I can’t have it. It was wildly expensive. But there . . . If we’re hard up then I must learn to go without these things. It will do me good.’
‘You know very well that a little evening bag for my favourite girl won’t make much of a dent in my overdraft,’ he said, and chuckled. ‘Take some money from my safe; you know the combination.’
‘More tea, Daddy?’
‘Yes please. You haven’t any plans to go away for Christmas, have you?’
‘And leave you moping here all alone with only thoughts of Mummy for company? Good Lord, what do you take me for? We’ll go to the midnight service together, as usual, and we’ll visit Mother’s grave. I’ve been invited to a weekend party at the Curruthers’ country house in Kent for New Year though.’ She didn’t tell him that Irene and Charles’ parents would be staying in the city.
‘I see.’ He gave a bit of a worried frown. ‘I can’t say I approve of the Curruthers girl. She’s a bit scatty. What does her father do?’
‘Oh, investments, I think. And he’s met King George and Queen Mary at a reception so is perfectly respectable. He’s a Baron or something. Irene is tremendous fun, you know. She said that Charles has invited Edward, Prince of Wales, to the party. It will be thrilling if he turns up.’
‘I should imagine it would be, but don’t count on it,’ and he smiled. ‘I understood the Prince was on an overseas tour. India comes to mind.’
Julia hid her disappointment with a shrug. ‘Yes, well . . . Irene is disposed towards exaggeration, I suppose.’
‘And her brother, what’s he like?’
‘I’ve only met him a couple of times and Irene says he’s doing frightfully well up at Oxford. He has a motorcycle and a sidecar, and will pick me up on Friday evening. I’ll be home on Tuesday, the following year.’
He smiled at her. ‘You’re chattering, Julia.’
Gently, she said, ‘I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I’m old enough to take care of myself, you know.’
‘Of course you are.’ He smiled at her. ‘I keep forgetting that you’re grown-up. Just make sure that girl doesn’t lead you astray. Your mother would have wanted you to keep yourself tidy for marriage.’
She blushed, hoping he didn’t suspect what her intentions were for New Year’s Eve. ‘Daddy, stop it at once, you’re embarrassing me! What’s in the paper, anything interesting?’
He made a show of opening the Telegraph, which the maid had brought in. ‘The Anglo-Irish treaty has been signed.’
‘Oh . . . that’s wonderful. I didn’t know we had a treaty with the Irish. How jolly. Does that mean there won’t be any more trouble?’
‘On the contrary, it will more than likely be the cause of more trouble in the long run,’ he predicted rather gloomily.
‘Oh, that really is too bad.’ Picking up his toast she scraped some of the butter off and scolded, ‘You shouldn’t eat all this greasy food; it’s bad for the heart, and you’re getting quite paunchy.’
‘And you were complaining about me telling you what to do.’
They had breakfast sent up from the kitchens that serviced the apartment block, though Julia preferred to cook the evening meal herself in the well-fitted apartment kitchen. ‘I must tell the kitchen not to send so much up.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. The fact is, my dear, you resemble a starving greyhound. There’s nothing like a good English breakfast to start off the day. I enjoy it, and I’m not going to deprive myself of it because of a stupid fashion that directs we all must look as though we’re suffering from intestinal worms and malnutrition.’
Julia nearly choked on a sip of her black coffee. ‘Good Lord, what a perfectly vile thing to say at breakfast! I shan’t stay here and listen to another word of it. I’m going to take my bath; after that I’m doing some last-minute Christmas shopping before meeting some of the girls for lunch at the Popular Café in Piccadilly. They usually have an orchestra.’
‘I took your mother to lunch there shortly after it opened. It’s a very well-patronized venue.’
‘It’s handy for the shops in Regent Street, too. She slanted her head to one side and gazed at him. I do miss Mummy, you know, but she wouldn’t want us to be sad. If you’re good I might buy you your favourite cigar as a treat, though you should really give up smoking. You were coughing in your sleep last night.’
He chuckled. ‘May I remind you again that I happen to be the parent, and you’re the child.’
‘Hardly that any more.’ She rose, and pulling her robe around her she kissed her father’s balding forehead. ‘Good luck with the new manager. I’ll come to the factory to say hello later on. You can introduce us. What time is your appointment with Martin Lee-Trafford, did you say?’
‘I didn’t, but it’s two p.m. Before that I have an appointment with Latham Miller.’
‘Oh, what for?’
‘Nothing that would interest you, dear, just business,’ he said vaguely.
‘Latham Miller is a strange man, quite active in society. I often see him, usually as part of a crowd and at the centre of attention.’
‘He’s very wealthy.’
She laughed. ‘That’s a rather mercenary thing to say. I do hope you don’t put me in that basket . . . but then, I don’t have to marry for money. Besides, Mr Miller is quite handsome in his own way. I’m sure he could attract a woman without having to flash his wallet at her.’
Her father made a quiet humming sound in his throat. ‘Tell me what you think is odd about him.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s because you expect a man of his age to be settled down and married, not hanging around younger people at parties. He must be in his early forties. Irene describes him as filthy rich, and she thinks the sun shines out of his, um . . . eyes.’
‘He was married once . . . before the war, to an American woman. She was a very nice woman, who lost her life when the Titanic went down.’
‘Oh, the poor man, how dreadful for him . . . and for her, of course. She must have been terrified.’
‘One can only hope for a more peaceful end.’
Talking of death was unsettling. She kissed him. ‘I’ll drop in at the factory later with your favourite cake for afternoon tea, about three I expect. It will give me an excuse to look Martin Lee-Trafford over. Then I’m coming back home to decorate the Christmas tree. I’ve booked one with the doorman, just a small one for the two of us to enjoy. His brother sells them. He’s a former soldier, so it’s all for the cause . . . and I’m going to cook us a proper Christmas dinner with a turkey.’
‘A small turkey, I hope.’
‘Well . . . it’s larger than the doorman led me to expect. He said there’s no such thing as a small turkey unless we wanted a chicken. Anyway, the poor creature is hanging in the larder. We�
�ll manage, I expect.’
And at least she could cook well, so she wasn’t entirely useless, Julia thought as she headed towards her bedroom. She turned on the tap in the adjoining bathroom, added some bath salts, then going back to the bedroom threw the wardrobe doors wide open.
Her glance travelled along the rack of clothing while she waited for the bath to fill. She selected a classic calf-length dress in olive green. Over it she’d wear her fawn coat with the raglan sleeves and fur collar. She’d also wear the brooch that Latham Miller had given her, a pretty twinkling star set in a crescent moon. Brown court shoes with Louis heels and pointed toes matched her handbag, and completed her outfit – even though they were crippling.
After a while, her father shouted goodbye from somewhere near the outside door to the hall.
‘I’ll see you later, darling. Don’t forget to wear your scarf,’ she called out.
An hour later she blotted her lipstick on a piece of toilet tissue, picked up her bag and went downstairs to raid her father’s safe. Taking six crisp, white, five-pound notes from the safe she folded them into her purse. It was better to take too much than too little, she thought, and if she didn’t need it all she could always put it back.
If Latham Miller was annoyed he didn’t show it. Benjamin Howard had demanded far too much for his factory. The building was in good repair and fairly central, but as a toy factory it was no longer profitable, mainly because of overstaffing. If Latham bought it as a business, he’d need to cut staffing by a third. The wily old owner knew that and had made it part of the requirement that the staff be kept on.
‘I’m a businessman not a benevolent society,’ Latham pointed out. ‘I’d be manufacturing domestic ware, and I’m negotiating for some government contracts. I’ll be installing machines if my tender is successful. Some of your workers are well past retirement age. They should be put out to grass.’
Benjamin had got on his high horse at that. ‘The staff are loyal and dedicated. The toy factory was started by my grandfather. It’s a tradition and I want it to stay that way. If I sell it, it will be as a going concern.’
More fool him, Latham thought. Nobody would buy a failing toy factory that had outlived its usefulness and had been running at a loss for the past three years. It would have to be sold in the end, and for less than Latham would pay for it now.
‘I’ve seen the books, Benjamin. If you hang on to it much longer you’ll be bankrupt, and forced to sell it below market value to cover your debts. I’m interested in buying the building so my other interests have room to expand, not in buying the toy business itself. You’ll have to negotiate. No businessman worth his salt would buy this place with so many conditions attached to it.’
‘Things will look up in the New Year, and I’ll have a new manager to run the place. Martin Lee-Trafford. Do you know him?’
‘We’ve never met.’
‘He’s sound. I was at school with his father.’
And that was the only factor Benjamin would consider; he’d put his faith in the old school tie. Latham didn’t want to wait, but he would. In the end he’d get the place for the price he was willing to pay. He’d give the old man six months to come to his senses.
As he was leaving a young man was coming in, probably Martin Lee-Trafford. He had a haunted look in his eyes that stated he’d seen too much.
Poor sod, Latham thought, and nodded to him as they passed each other.
Two
The interview was over, the appointment his. Martin was surprised that he’d been offered the position, when the man he’d passed coming in looked like a manager should in a tailored grey, single-breasted suit and navy-blue tie, his coat folded over his arm. He looked sure of himself, with briefcase in hand.
For the past three years Martin had been unemployed and unemployable, living off a legacy from his father. He’d spent some of that time in a hospital, long days that he couldn’t remember, when he’d felt like a grey ghost of himself – so he’d wondered if he’d died on the front and was existing in some sort of limbo before being assessed and despatched to either heaven or hell.
He hadn’t expected to come home from France to an empty house, the windows boarded up and his father’s coffee cup with dried dregs in it still on the bedside table next to the bed where he’d died. He understood that his father’s lawyer had seen to the other things, the funeral the headstone and the estate.
He had sat in the empty cavern of the house in the dark, feeling as though he was in a tomb too. And he’d dreamed of the blood and gore, of the burned and dying flesh and pleading eyes of those he couldn’t help – and it had brought him screamingly awake and shaking, and thinking he was in hell. One night he’d got up and had begun to drag all his father’s stuff from the house into the garden, where he’d intended to set fire to it.
His neighbour had called the police, who had taken him to hospital.
‘I wanted to see what hell was like,’ was all he could say.
‘Hell . . . You’ve already been there, haven’t you?’ It had been a sympathetic psychiatrist who’d reminded him of the fact. Little by little Hugh Cahill had become his shoulder to lean on, become his friend. Little by little the man had pushed and pulled, made him keep a diary of his thoughts and dreams and encouraged him to discuss them until he was unable to stand his own self-pity and had begun to rationalize what had happened to him in his own mind. Only then was he strong enough to begin to stand on his own two feet.
‘Go home, Martin. Take your pills, find a good woman and have some children to give you purpose. Live your life for all the others who lost theirs,’ Hugh had said.
Only he hadn’t taken the pills. They’d made him feel flat and strangely muted. Like a piano that hadn’t been cleaned or issued a sound for several years, he was completely out of tune. As for women – he’d found women who could make his body function, but he discovered he was unable to participate with them on an emotional level. Perhaps it was just as well, for a man who didn’t feel anything apart from the need to satisfy his body, would probably make a lousy husband.
Work had been hard to find too. Even if someone had been willing to take him into partnership as a GP, Martin knew he wasn’t ready to return to doctoring yet, especially surgery. If he ever thought he was, he’d do a refresher course. Too many of his patients had died, and although he knew they’d been past saving, he couldn’t quite trust himself now. He gazed down at his hands and experienced a fine tremor that always came when he concentrated on them. Inwardly, he cursed them because he knew that nothing was physically wrong with him.
Martin gazed at Benjamin. He’d forgotten there were people who cared about what had happened to people like him. ‘I’m very grateful for this chance, sir. Your letter came out of the blue. I was surprised you didn’t take the candidate before me. He looked very smart and confident.’
‘He is smart and confident. That was Latham Miller and he wasn’t after a job he was after my factory. He wants to buy the building and put me out of business. There weren’t any other candidates. I wondered what had happened to you, and heard that you were in trouble. It happens that I need a manager, and I knew you’d experienced factory life. I’m sorry the pay isn’t better, but times have been hard.’ The man lumbered to his feet and patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll take you on a tour of the factory and introduce you. My daughter should be here by the time we’ve finished. She’s looking forward to meeting you.’
‘I believe I may have met your daughter when we were children . . . in Bournemouth,’ Martin said.
‘Ah yes . . . We came down from Waterloo on the train. Julia was excited at the thought of building a sandcastle. She was only five then and you were just a lad.’
Martin’s mouth twisted into a grimace. ‘I was eleven, and rather superior, I’m afraid. I put a worm down the back of your daughter’s dress and made her cry.’
The old man chuckled. ‘You gave her quite a fright and she kicked up a fuss, as I recall.’
> ‘And kicked me in the shin for my trouble. Perhaps I should apologize.’
‘Oh, Julia never holds a grudge. I imagine she’s forgotten about it. Besides, if she kicked you in the shin I think that would have satisfied her five-year-old sense of honour at the time.’
The factory building was three stories high. Benjamin introduced him to everyone as they went, using the familiarity of first names. The ground floor housed jigsaws and stamping machines, plus the packing benches. In the corner the manager and the clerk’s offices took up space. The only difference, the clerk’s office had a caged aperture that offered a semblance of security, for the wage packet could be pushed through a gap at the bottom and signed for.
Next to that was a small showroom that displayed the various goods for the buyers. The first floor was overflowing with bolts of cloth and stacks of cardboard. The top floor acted as a warehouse. There were stacks of boxes containing jigsaw puzzles, snakes and ladders and other games. A goods lift which was operated by a hand winch and supported by thick ropes, was lowered down through a shaft to the bottom floor.
Martin frowned. ‘You seem to have a lot of stock left for this time of year.’
‘Yes . . . Sales have slowed down considerably. I was thinking of donating some of the goods to charity.’
‘Better for the business if you try to sell them off cheaply and recoup production costs. Most toy factories have outlets in Curzon Street.’
‘We can’t afford it, since wages have gone up, and so have rents.’
‘Do you have figures from the last stocktake?’
Benjamin was puffing from his stair-climbing exertions. ‘I haven’t done one since before the war. It’s probably in the clerk’s files.’
They worked their way back down to the office, stopping to chat as he was introduced to various members of the workforce. One or two of the older workers addressed Benjamin familiarly by his first name, something Martin disapproved of, and some stood around talking.
