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.
The general strike officially ended on the ninth morning, and by the last day of the month I had acquired another seven shops in all. I seemed to be running constantly backwards and forwards to the bank, but at least every one of my acquisitions was at a price that allowed Hadlow an accompanying smile, even if he warned me that funds were running low.
At our next board meeting, I was able to report that Trumper’s now owned twenty shops in Chelsea Terrace, which was more than the Shops Committee membership combined. However Hadlow did express a view to the board that we should now embark on a long period of consolidation if we wanted our recently acquired properties to attain the same quality and standard as the original thirteen. I made only one other proposal of any significance at that meeting, which received the unanimous backing of my colleagues—that Tom Arnold be invited to join the board.
I still couldn’t resist spending the odd hour sitting on the bench opposite Number 147 and watching the transformation of Chelsea Terrace as it took place before my eyes. For the first time I could differentiate between those shops I owned and those that I still needed to acquire, which included the fourteen owned by Wrexall’s committee members—not forgetting either the prestigious Number 1 or the Musketeer.
Seventy-two days had passed since the auction, and although Mr. Fothergill still purchased his fruit and vegetables regularly from Number 147 he never uttered a word to me as to whether or not Mrs. Trentham had fulfilled her contract. Joan Moore informed my wife that her former mistress had recently received a visit from Mr. Fothergill, and although the cook had not been able to hear all the conversation there had definitely been raised voices.
When Daphne came to visit me at the shop the following week I inquired if she had any inside information on what Mrs. Trentham was up to.
“Stop worrying about the damned woman,” was all Daphne had to say on the subject. “In any case,” she added, “the ninety days will be up soon enough, and frankly, you should be more worried about your Part II than Mrs. Trentham’s financial problems.”
“I agree. But if I go on at this rate, I won’t have completed the necessary work before next year,” I said, having selected twelve perfect plums for her before placing them on the weighing machine.
“You’re always in such a hurry, Charlie. Why do things always have to be finished by a certain date?”
“Because that’s what keeps me going.”
“But Becky will be just as impressed by your achievement if you manage to finish a year later.”
“It wouldn’t be the same,” I told her. “I’ll just have to work harder.”
“There are only a given number of hours in each day,” Daphne reminded me. “Even for you.”
“Well, that’s one thing I can’t be blamed for.”
Daphne laughed. “How’s Becky’s thesis on Luini coming along?”
“She’s completed the bloody thing. Just about to check over the final draft of thirty thousand words, so she’s still well ahead of me. But what with the general strike and acquiring all the new properties, not to mention Mrs. Trentham, I haven’t even had time to take Daniel to see West Ham this season.” Charlie started placing her order in a large brown paper bag.
“Has Becky discovered what you’re up to yet?” Daphne asked.
“No, and I make sure I only disappear completely whenever she’s working late at Sotheby’s or off cataloguing some grand collection. She still hasn’t noticed that I get up every morning at four-thirty, which is when I put in the real work.” I passed over the bag of plums and seven and tenpence change.
“Proper little Trollope, aren’t we?” remarked Daphne. “By the way, I still haven’t let Percy in on our secret, but I can’t wait to see the expression on their faces when—”
“Shhh, not a word…”
When you have been chasing something for a long time it’s strange how the final prize so often lands in your lap just when you least expect it.
I was serving at Number 147 that morning. It always annoyed Bob Makins to see me roll up my sleeves, but I do enjoy a little chat with my old customers, and lately it was about the only chance I had to catch up on the gossip, as well as an occasional insight into what the customers really thought of my other shops. However, I confess that by the time I served Mr. Fothergill the queue stretched nearly all the way to the grocery shop which I knew Bob still regarded as a rival.
“Good morning,” I said, when Mr. Fothergill reached the front of the queue. “And what can I offer you today, sir? I’ve got some lovely—”
“I wondered if we could have a word in private, Mr. Trumper?”
I was so taken by surprise that I didn’t reply immediately. I knew Mrs. Trentham still had another nine days to go before she had to complete her contract and I had assumed I would hear nothing before then. After all, she must have had her own Hadlows and Crowthers to do all the paperwork.
“I’m afraid the storeroom is the only place available at the moment,” I warned. I removed my green overall, rolled down my sleeves and replaced my jacket. “You see, my manager now occupies the flat above,” I explained as I led the auctioneer through to the back of the shop.
I offered him a seat on an upturned orange box while pulling up another box opposite him. We faced each other, just a few feet apart, like rival chess players. Strange surroundings, I considered, to discuss the biggest deal of my life. I tried to remain calm.
“I’ll come to the point straight away,” said Fothergill. “Mrs. Trentham has not been in touch for several weeks and lately she has been refusing to answer my calls. What’s more, Savill’s has made it abundantly clear that they have had no instruction to complete the transaction on her behalf. They have gone as far as to say that they are now given to understand that she is no longer interested in the property.”
“Still, you got your one thousand, two hundred pounds deposit,” I reminded him, trying to stifle a grin.
“I don’t deny it,” replied Fothergill. “But I have since made other commitments, and what with the general strike—”
“Hard times, I agree,” I told him. I felt the palms of my hands begin to sweat.
“But you’ve never hidden your desire to be the owner of Number 1.”
“True enough, but since the auction I’ve been buying up several other properties with the cash I had originally put on one side for your shop.”
“I know, Mr. Trumper. But I would now be willing to settle for a far more reasonable price—”
“And three thousand, five hundred pounds is what I was willing to bid, as no doubt you recall.”
“Twelve thousand was your final bid, if I remember correctly.”
“Tactics, Mr. Fothergill, nothing more than tactics. I never had any intention of paying twelve thousand, as I feel sure you are only too aware.”
“But your wife bid five thousand, five hundred pounds, even forgetting her later bid of fourteen thousand.”
“I can’t disagree with that,” I told him, dropping back into my cockney accent. “But if you ’ad ever married, Mr. Fothergill, you would know only too well why we in the East End always refer to them as the trouble and strife.”
“I’d let the property go for seven thousand pounds,” he said. “But only to you.”
“You’d let the property go for five thousand,” I replied, “to anyone who’d cough up.”
“Never,” said Fothergill.
“In nine days’ time would be my bet, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” I added, leaning forward and nearly falling off my box. “I’ll honor my wife’s commitment of five thousand, five ’undred pounds, which I confess was the limit the board ’ad allowed us to go to, but only if you ’ave all the paperwork ready for me to sign before midnight.” Mr. Fothergill opened his mouth indignantly. “Of course,” I added before he could protest, “it shouldn’t be too much work for you. After all, the contract’s been sitting on your desk for the last eighty-one days. All you have to do is change the name and knock off the odd nought. Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Fothergill, I must be getting back to my customers.”
“I have never been treated in such a cavalier way before, sir,” declared Mr. Fothergill, jumping up angrily. He turned and marched out, leaving me sitting in the storeroom on my own.
“I have never thought of myself as a cavalier,” I told the upturned orange box. “More of a roundhead, I would have said.”
Once I had read another chapter of Through the Looking-Glass to Daniel and waited for him to fall asleep, I went downstairs to join Becky for dinner. While she served me a bowl of soup I told her the details of my conversation with Fothergill.
“Pity,” was her immediate reaction. “I only wish he’d approached me in the first place. Now we may never get our hands on Number 1”—a sentiment she repeated just before climbing into bed. I turned down the gaslight beside me, thinking that perhaps Becky could be right. I was just beginning to feel drowsy when I heard the front doorbell sound.
“It’s past eleven-thirty,” Becky said sleepily. “Who could that possibly be?”
“A man who understands deadlines?” I suggested as I turned the gaslight back up. I climbed out of bed, donned my dressing gown and went downstairs to answer the door.
“Do come through to my study, Peregrine,” I said, after I had welcomed Mr. Fothergill.
“Thank you, Charles,” he replied. I only just stopped myself laughing as I moved a copy of Mathematics, Part Two from my desk, so that I could get to the drawer that housed the company checks.
“Five thousand, five hundred, if I remember correctly,” I said, as I unscrewed the top of my pen and checked the clock on the mantelpiece. At eleven thirty-seven I handed over the full and final settlement to Mr. Fothergill in exchange for the freehold of Number 1 Chelsea Terrace.
We shook hands on the deal and I showed the former auctioneer out. Once I had climbed back up the stairs and returned to the bedroom I found to my surprise that Becky was sitting at her writing desk.
“What are you up to?” I demanded.
“Writing my letter of resignation to Sotheby’s.”
Tom Arnold began going through Number 1 with far more than a fine-tooth comb in preparation for Becky joining us a month later as managing director of Trumper’s Auctioneers and Fine Art Specialists. He realized that I considered our new acquisition should quickly become the flagship of the entire Trumper empire, even if—to the dismay of Hadlow—the costs were beginning to resemble those of a battleship.
Becky completed her notice at Sotheby’s on Friday, 16 July 1926. She walked into Trumper’s, née Fothergill’s, the following morning at seven o’clock to take over the responsibility of refurbishing the building, at the same time releasing Tom so that he could get back to his normal duties. She immediately set about turning the basement of Number 1 into a storeroom, with the main reception remaining on the ground floor and the auction room on the first floor.
Becky and her team of specialists were to be housed on the second and third floors while the top floor, which had previously been Mr. Fothergill’s flat, became the company’s administrative offices, with a room left over that turned out to be ideal for board meetings.
The full board met for the first time at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace on 17 October 1926.
Within three months of leaving Sotheby’s Becky had “stolen” seven of the eleven staff she had wanted to join her and picked up another four from Bonham’s and Phillips. At her first board meeting she warned us all that it could take anything up to three years to clear the debts incurred by the purchase and refurbishment of Number 1, and it might even be another three before she could be sure they would be making a serious contribution to the group’s profits.
“Not like my first shop,” I informed the board. “Made a profit within three weeks, you know, Chairman.”
“Stop looking so pleased with yourself, Charlie Trumper, and try to remember I’m not selling potatoes,” my wife told me.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied and on 21 October 1926, to celebrate our sixth wedding anniversary, I presented my wife with an oil painting by van Gogh called The Potato Eaters.
Mr. Reed of the Lefevre Gallery, who had been a personal friend of the artist, claimed it was almost as good an example as the one that hung in the Rijksmuseum.
I had to agree even if I felt the asking price a little extravagant, but after some bargaining we settled on a price of six hundred guineas.
For some considerable time everything seemed to go quiet on the Mrs. Trentham front. This state of affairs always worried me, because I assumed she must be up to no good. Whenever a shop came up for sale I expected her to be bidding against me, and if there was ever any trouble in the Terrace I wondered if somehow she might be behind it. Becky agreed with Daphne that I was becoming paranoid, until Arnold told me he had been having a drink at the pub when Wrexall had received a call from Mrs. Trentham. Arnold was unable to report anything of significance because Syd went into a back room to take the call. After that my wife was willing to admit that the passing of time had obviously not lessened Mrs. Trentham’s desire for revenge.
It was some time in March 1927 that Joan informed us that her former mistress had spent two days packing before being driven to Southampton, where she boarded a liner for Australia. Daphne was able to confirm this piece of information when she came round to dinner at Gilston Road the following week.
“So one can only assume, darlings, that she’s paying a visit to that dreadful son of hers.”
“In the past she’s been only too willing to give lengthy reports on the bloody man’s progress to anyone and everyone who cared to listen, so why’s she not letting us know what she’s up to this time?”
“Can’t imagine,” said Daphne.
“Do you think it’s possible Guy might be planning to return to England now that things have settled down a little?”
“I doubt it.” Daphne’s brow furrowed. “Otherwise the ship would have been sailing in the opposition direction, wouldn’t it? In any case, if his father’s feelings are anything to go by, should Guy ever dare to show his face at Ashurst Hall he won’t exactly be treated like the prodigal son.”
“Something’s still not quite right,” I told her. “This veil of secrecy Mrs. Trentham’s been going in for lately requires some explanation.”
It was three months later, in June 1927, that the colonel drew my attention to the announcement in The Times of Guy Trentham’s death. “What a terrible way to die,” was his only comment.
Daphne attended the funeral at Ashurst parish church—because, as she explained later, she wanted to see the coffin lowered into the grave before she was finally convinced that Guy Trentham was no longer among us.
Percy informed me later that he had only just been able to restrain her from joining the gravediggers as they filled up the hole with good English sods. However, Daphne told us that she remained skeptical about the cause of death, despite the absence of any proof to the contrary.
“At least you’ll have no more trouble from that quarter,” were Percy’s final words on the subject.
I scowled. “They’ll have to bury Mrs. Trentham alongside him before I’ll believe that.”