by Lewis Orde
*
Ambassador Menendez and his wife didn’t attend church the next morning, too embarrassed to be seen in public. The cause of their embarrassment was the photograph on the front page of the News of the World. ‘Ambassador’s daughter turns street vendor,’ read the headline. The picture was of Catarina and Roland embracing behind the stall. The reporter had even dug deeply enough to learn why Roland was selling his merchandise from a market stall; the strike at the factory and subsequent trouble with Adler’s. Trouble with the unions was one thing, the story concluded humorously, but did British businessmen have to go to these lengths to find workers? Or were Argentinian diplomats so financially strapped that they had to send their daughters out to work in street markets?
‘You have brought disgrace to this family!’ Menendez thundered at his daughter. ‘You will not see this man again, ever! Until I decide what further action to take you will not leave this house without your brother. How dare you do something like this, working like a common peasant?’
‘I was not working! And even if I had been, it is nothing to be ashamed of!’
‘You are too young to know what is shameful and what is not! It is for me to decide. But be assured that you will never be in a position to shame this family again. I will make certain of that!’
Catarina blinked back tears and ran from her father. In her room she locked the door and threw herself onto the bed. Then she wept, letting the tears flow freely. Through them, she noticed the telephone on the bedside table. Perhaps her father could stop her from seeing Roland but he couldn’t stop her from talking to him. And she had to talk to him. Urgently. There was something he had to know, something she would have told him yesterday if only that blasted reporter hadn’t shown up.
*
In the drawing room, Menendez sat with his wife. ‘No more chances,’ he said. ‘Yesterday . . . that photograph in the newspaper today . . . enough! Catarina will no longer leave this house by herself. And after Christmas I will make arrangements for her to go to Spain. She will stay with our friends there. They will keep people like this Eagles away.’
This time, Señora Menendez didn’t argue. She knew her husband was right and that she – with her indulgent attitude toward her daughter – had been wrong. Catarina was hopelessly in love with the young Englishman. For her own welfare she had to be sent away, had to be given time to mend her emotions. Spain would be good for her. Their friends included government officials, men close to Franco. Catarina could mix in proper circles; there would be no opportunities for men like Roland Eagles to approach her.
‘A pity,’ the ambassador mused. ‘I would like to have seen Catarina meet someone from a noble English family.’
‘Perhaps she will marry into a noble Spanish family instead,’ Señora Menendez said, attempting to console her husband.
‘Perhaps.’ But it no longer mattered so much to Menendez, as long as Catarina was out of England away from the clutches of a man like Roland Eagles.
*
Roland was beset by troubles of his own that Sunday morning. His head throbbed where it had struck the road and his right eye was partially closed; a vivid blue-and-purple bruise discolored the skin. To make matters worse he had a furious Sally Roberts to contend with, who had been hammering on his door at nine-thirty, a copy of the News of the World in her hand.
‘You louse!’ she yelled at him when he opened the door dressed in his pajamas and robe, one hand caressing his injured eye. ‘You promised me exclusive rights.’
‘If you lower your voice I’ll let you in.’ He had not seen a newspaper yet, but he could guess why Sally was upset.
‘Christ, what happened to you?’ she gasped when he dropped his hand to close the door.
‘One of your delightful press colleagues happened to me. He tripped me up as I was chasing the bastard who took that photograph,’ he said, pointing to the newspaper. ‘I’m assuming there’s a photograph of Catarina and me in there, otherwise why would you be here so early in the morning screaming for my blood?’
Sally’s anger quickly changed to compassion. ‘Here, let me have a look.’ She led Roland into the kitchen and pressed a cold, damp cloth against his head while he related the incident of the previous afternoon. Sally clucked sympathetically. ‘Must make you like journalists even less.’
‘Let’s just say if I were Noah loading his ark I’d think twice before I’d let any member of the press on. Present company excluded, of course.’
‘Thanks. You had breakfast yet?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll make you something. Have you had that lump looked at?’ she asked as she busied herself around the kitchen.
‘Last night at Middlesex Hospital. The X-ray showed nothing. They wanted to keep me overnight for observation but I wasn’t about to do that.’
‘That’s not very smart. What about Catarina?’
‘God knows. When her father sees this, heaven help us all.’
The telephone rang. ‘That’s probably him now,’ Sally said. ‘Is it possible to shoot someone over the phone?’
‘Very funny. You get it.’
Sally picked up the receiver, then held it out to Roland. ‘For you. Catarina.’
He tried to forget the pain in his head. ‘Have you seen the newspaper?’ he said.
‘Yes. So have my parents. Who was that who answered the telephone?’
Despite the blistering headache, Roland smiled at the hint of jealousy in her question. ‘Sally Roberts.’
‘Why is she with you?’
‘For the same reason you’re calling. That photograph. Now what about your parents?’
‘I just had a terrible argument with my father. He’s forbidden me to ever see you again.’
The pain in Roland’s head increased. ‘What about when you go back to school after Christmas? He can’t keep you under guard forever.’
‘My brother is having his work and play interrupted to keep me under control. And I’m certain that’s only the beginning.’ There was a long pause; he could tell that she was crying. ‘Rollie, what are we going to do?’
Roland didn’t have the answer. Holding his hand over the mouthpiece he looked at Sally. ‘She wants to know what we’re going to do.’
‘Get a long ladder, take it to Wilton Crescent late at night, prop it up against her window and run away together.’
‘Thanks for nothing.’
‘What do you expect me to say? I don’t have any ideas.’
‘Rollie, are you still there?’ Catarina asked.
‘I’m still here. Listen, why don’t we just take each step at a time? Not see each other until your father’s had a chance to calm down a bit.’
‘He’ll never calm down, not this time. He thinks I’ve made a fool of him, and that is unforgivable. And there is something else . . .’
‘What?’ What else could there be?’
Before Catarina could answer there was a click on the line as if someone had lifted an extension. Suddenly a man’s voice cut into the conversation and Roland heard an explosion of angry Spanish. He only understood Catarina’s name spoken before the line went dead.
‘What happened?’ Sally asked.
‘Her father cut her off. Now what the hell do I do?’ He propped his chin up with his hands and closed his eyes. What did Catarina mean by only the beginning? Sending her back to Argentina? And what was something else?
If Sally hadn’t been there, Roland was certain he would have allowed himself the luxury of letting tears wash away the pain.
*
A taxi brought Monty Adler to the Mar-Cross factory early on Monday afternoon. He instructed the driver to wait, then walked into the reception area. Asked if he had an appointment to see Roland, Monty answered that he didn’t need one. He was correct.
‘I hear you did quite well with your market venture last week. Even got your picture in the paper.’
‘We made our money back,’ Roland answered, ignoring the reference to the photograph
. Why had the old man come? To mend fences, or to damn him? Whatever the reason, Roland welcomed the visit. It took his mind off Catarina and her family, even if only for a few minutes. She had not been out of his thoughts, and he felt helpless not being able to contact her. Not that he hadn’t tried; he’d phoned her repeatedly that morning. The first two times Señora Menendez had told him quite firmly that Catarina was unavailable. When he rang the third time the maid had answered, informing him that there was no one who would talk to him and he wasn’t to call again. Next he tried calling the embassy, where Menendez refused to speak to him. After repeated calls he’d been told by an aide that if he continued pestering embassy staff the matter would be referred to the police. Roland had slammed down the receiver, furious with the ambassador for his obstinacy, and even more furious with himself because he was powerless to do anything about it.
‘You made Adler’s look like dirt last week,’ Monty said, ‘running advertisements in the Mercury the way you did, bawling our name across a lousy street market. I don’t forgive lightly for that.’
‘I was left no choice.’
‘Don’t give me that rubbish about no choice! I offered you the full, agreed-upon price once I’d found out what Albert had done.’
‘And maybe you offered me the full price because you didn’t want to see the stuff going on sale in Berwick Street.’
‘Is that what you really think, sonny? Oh, no. I made a deal with you, and Monty Adler’s word is his bond. You ask anyone.’
‘Pity Albert didn’t inherit that trait.’
‘Maybe, but at least Albert’s got the brains not to pick a fight with someone a bloody sight tougher than he is.’
‘What does that mean?’
Monty’s mouth went tight. ‘I’m going to grind you into the dust, sonny. By the time I’m finished with you, you’re going to wish you’d stayed put in the army.’
‘Don’t forget David and Goliath – maybe I’ll do to Adler’s what you’re threatening to do to me.’
Monty snorted derisively. ‘Over my dead body, sonny. Over my dead body.’
‘I sincerely hope not!’ Roland called after him as he left the office. Crusty old fellow that he was, Roland couldn’t help feeling a sneaking admiration and affection.
*
Late that afternoon, Bruce Simpkins telephoned Roland to say he had resigned from Adler’s. ‘I’ve been thinking about quitting for some time, but when you’ve got a family to support and tenure at one place – even if it’s a madhouse like Adler’s – you tend to think twice. After this business, though, enough is enough. You did a favor for me by standing up to Albert and now I’d like to do you one in return.’
‘Favors are always welcome, Mr Simpkins.’
‘Your shop steward, Bert Phillips, was up here awhile back—’
‘Phillips? What was he doing at Adler’s?’
‘Trying to get me to pay him off and avert that blacking of Carters. I didn’t want anything to do with it, so I passed him off to Albert.’
‘Obviously Albert didn’t want anything to do with it either.’
‘Oh, he did,’ Simpkins corrected Roland. ‘He paid Phillips a hundred pounds – but to have the men black Carters.’
‘So we’d be late . . .’
‘It all fell right into Albert’s lap, Mr Eagles. He’d hoped to persuade Mr Monty to knock down your price. When Mr Monty went down sick, he didn’t have to. I gave my notice this morning and Mr Monty wanted to know why I was leaving. I gave him the whole story, Bert Phillips coming up, everything.’
‘Thank you very much for calling, Mr Simpkins.’
So, the old man hadn’t been lying. It had been Albert working behind his back. Monty was probably just as horrified by his son’s part in it as he was at having his name dragged through a street market. Poor devil, Roland couldn’t help thinking. When you get to that age you’re supposed to be sitting back, taking it easy – not trying to unravel a mess caused by a crook of a son.
Roland wondered how to tackle the problem of Bert Phillips. He had wanted to get rid of the shop steward, now he had the way . . .
Roland waited until the last working day before the Christmas break. In the afternoon he went onto the factory floor with a batch of white envelopes and Christmas boxes which he passed around. Some of the men were obviously surprised at receiving a gift after the action against the company. Roland told them he didn’t hold grudges. Even with the strike it had been a good year; it was his custom to share it.
He held on to Bert Phillips’ envelope until last and stayed around while the shop steward greedily ripped it open. Phillips expected to find money inside, as the other men had. Instead, he found his employment cards, all stamped up to date.
‘What’s this?’ The shop steward looked around, bewildered. The other men stared at him, uncertain what was happening.
‘A Christmas present to go with the hundred pounds you took to stir up trouble here. Maybe next time’ – Roland turned to the other men – ‘you’ll elect a shop steward who works for your benefit, not his own.’ Without another word he returned to his office, leaving Phillips to explain why he had been fired on Christmas Eve.
*
Roland spent his Christmas with the Aronson family in South Kensington. There was no turkey, no Christmas tree, no mistletoe, and the only presents were those Roland gave to Simon’s daughters, identical gold pen-and-pencil sets; he had no idea what one gave to fifteen- and twelve-year-old girls.
Originally, Roland had planned to spend Christmas with Catarina. Since that was now out of the question, he didn’t want to substitute alternate festivities. He’d even turned down Sally’s late invitation to a Christmas in the country with her parents near Aldershot. But a quiet afternoon and evening with the Aronsons was perfect.
Before dinner, Sharon pestered him for a ride in the XK-120. Roland looked at Nadine, who nodded a cautious approval. They both bundled up in warm clothing before he took her for a half-hour spin with the roof down. He drove toward Victoria, past the back of Buckingham Palace, through Wilton Crescent. All the drapes in the Menendez home were drawn. The family might have gone away for Christmas, Roland reasoned, with Catarina in tow as a virtual prisoner.
‘Want to play some backgammon after dinner?’ Sharon asked when they returned to Kensington. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind and her eyes sparkled.
‘I want to talk to your father first.’
‘If you don’t play I’ll tell him you drove through two red lights and knocked down an old lady.’
‘Did I?’ Roland had been so preoccupied thinking about Catarina after he’d driven down Wilton Crescent that it seemed anything was possible.
‘Of course not, silly.’ She kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his arm. Roland remembered blushing when Sharon had kissed him on his first visit to the Aronson home. Then she had been a child. Now, at fifteen, she had grown into a young, self-assured woman. He felt uncomfortably warm at her closeness. Embarrassed, he pulled away quickly.
Later that evening, Roland sat with Simon in the book-lined room where they had once played a hand of poker for equal shares in the company. Now Roland had expansion on his mind. ‘I think we should look seriously into retailing, Simon.’
‘A few days in the market gave you that much confidence, eh?’
‘Not confidence, an education. I learned a very simple but valuable lesson in Berwick Street which you, as a banker should be able to appreciate. A manufacturer has to wait for his money for however long the billing period is. A retailer gets his money the instant the product changes hands. That makes a lot of sense to me.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Come the new year, why don’t we begin looking for small electrical shops? A chain if we can pick up one for the right price, otherwise single shops and we’ll form our own chain.’
‘Supply them from Mar-Cross?’
‘Some of the lines, obviously. We’ll keep both businesses separate so our custome
rs won’t get upset.’
Simon nodded. ‘All right, let’s look into it. But there is one thing we must clear up first. This business with the Menendez family, Roland. Sort it out. You’ve been distracted all day long, and I would hate for you to speculate with our money in the same frame of mind.’
‘I’ll do my best. This whole damned mess is Albert’s fault, you know.’
‘Do I? How did you reach that conclusion?’
‘If Albert hadn’t double-crossed us, there wouldn’t have been any picture of me and Catarina in the paper. I’d still be seeing her, and I’d still be on good terms with Monty Adler.’
‘There are many other large stores we can sell to besides Adler’s. Besides, you’ve just broached the possibility of our becoming retailers – someday we may not need Adler’s or any of them.’ Simon was suddenly perplexed. A cloud seemed to have fallen over Roland – even more so than what he was already feeling about Catarina – and he didn’t understand it. ‘Is being on good terms with the old man so important to you?’
‘I suppose it is. It wasn’t Monty who tried to put one over on us, it was his son. Yet Monty’s carrying the full weight of it, and I can’t help feeling sorry for him.’
‘Sorry for him?’ Simon burst out laughing. ‘You’re the first person I’ve ever heard express sympathy for Monty Adler. Congratulations.’
Chapter Six
Unknown to most, Monty Adler’s crusty exterior concealed one soft spot he reserved for his twenty-six-year-old grandson, Michael. Often the old man wondered how he could have produced a sly, spineless son like Albert who, in turn, had fathered a mensch like Michael. In fact, Monty decided, Michael could have been Meir’s son. That was who he really took after. Good-natured, honest, unafraid of hard work; even in appearance he was as Monty remembered Meir to have been: tall and muscular, a young man who took pride in his body and reveled in the athletic enjoyment it brought him.
