As the Crow Flies (53 page)

“All
that it needed was the date and your signature,” said Syd. “I never thought you’d
do that to me Charlie, after all these years.”

“As
you well know, Syd, I’m a man of my word. I’m only sorry my managing director
wasn’t properly acquainted with our personal arrangement.” Charlie removed a
wallet from his pocket, took out a checkbook, and wrote out the words “Syd
Wrexall” on the top line and “six thousand pounds” on the line below before
signing it with a flourish.

“You’re
a gentleman, Charlie, I always said you were. Didn’t I always say he was,
Hilda?”

Mrs.
Wrexall nodded enthusiastically as Charlie smiled, picked up the contract and
placed all the papers inside his briefcase and then shook hands with the
publican and his wife.

“How
much is the damage?” he asked after he had drained the last drop of his beer.

“It’s
on the house,” said Wrexall.

“But,
Syd... “

“No,
I insist, wouldn’t dream of treating an old friend like a customer, Charlie. On
the house,” he repeated as the telephone rang and Hilda Wrexall went off to
answer it.

“Well,
I must be on my way,” said Charlie. “Otherwise I’ll be late for this
conference, and I’m meant to be delivering another speech tonight. Nice to have
done business with you, Syd.” He had just reached the door of the pub as Mrs.
Wrexall came rushing back to the counter.

“There’s
a lady on the line for you, Syd. Calling long distance. Says her name is Mrs.
Trentham.”

As
the months passed Charlie became the master of his brief. No port directors
could be sure when he might burst into their offices, no suppliers were
surprised when he demanded to check their invoices and the president of the
National Farmers’ Union positively purred whenever Charlie’s name came up in
conversation.

He
never found it necessary to phone the Prime Minister, although Mr. Churchill
did phone him on one occasion. It was four forty-five in the morning when
Charlie picked up the receiver on his desk.

“Good
morning,” he said.

“Trumper?”

“Yes,
who’s that?”

“Churchill.”

“Good
morning, Prime Minister. What can I do for you, ser?”

“Nothing.
I was just checking that it was true what they say about you. By the way, thank
you.” The phone went dead.

Charlie
even managed from time to time to have lunch with Daniel. The boy was now
attached to the War Office, but would never talk about the work he was involved
in. After he was promoted to captain, Charlie’s only worry became what Becky’s
reaction would be if she ever saw him in uniform.

When
Charlie visited Tom Arnold at the end of the month he reamed that Mr. Hadlow
had retired as manager of the bank and his replacement, a Mr. Paul Merrick, was
not proving to be quite as amenable. “Says our overdraft is reaching
unacceptable levels and perhaps it’s time we did something about it,” explained
Tom.

“Does
he?” said Charlie. “Then I shall obviously have to see this Mr. Merrick and
tell him a few home truths.”

Although
Trumper’s now owned all the shops in Chelsea Terrace, with the exception of the
bookshop, Charlie was still faced with the problem of Mrs. Trentham and her
bombed-out flats, not to mention the additional worry of Herr Hitler and his
unfinished war: these he tended to place in roughly the same category, and
nearly always in that order.

The
war with Herr Hitler began to take a step in the right direction towards the
end of 1942 with the victory of the Eighth Army at El Alamein. Charlie felt
confident that Churchill was right when he declared that the tide had turnd, as
first Africa, followed by Italy, France and finally Germany were invaded.

But
by then it was Mr. Merrick who was insisting on seeing Charlie.

When
Charlie entered Mr. Merrick’s office for the first time he was surprised to
find how young Mr. Hadlow’s replacement was. It also took him a few moments to
get used to a bank manager who didn’t wear a waistcoat or a black tie. Paul
Merrick was a shade taller than Charlie and every bit as broad in everything
except his smile. Charlie quickly discovered that Mr. Merrick had no small
talk.

“Are
you aware, Mr. Trumper, that your company account is overdrawn by some
forty-seven thousand pounds and your present income doesn’t even cover... “

“But
the property must be worth four or five times that amount.”

“Only
if you’re able to find someone who’s willing to buy it.”

“But
I’m not a seller.”

“You
may be left with no choice, Mr. Trumper, if the bank decides to foreclose on
you.”

“Then
I’ll just have to change banks, won’t I,” said Charlie.

“You
have obviously not had the time recently to read the minutes of your own board
meetings because when they last met, your managing director Mr. Arnold reported
that he had visited six banks in the past month and none of them had showed the
slightest interest in taking over Trumper’s account.”

Merrick
waited for his customer’s response but as Charlie remained silent he continued.
“Mr. Crowther also explained to the board on that occasion that the problem you
are now facing has been caused by property prices being lower now than they
have been at any time since the 1930s.”

“But
that will change overnight once the war is over.”

“Possibly,
but that might not be for several years and you could be insolvent long before
then... “

“More
like twelve months would be my guess.”

“...
especially if you continue to sign checks to the value of six thousand pounds
for property worth about half that amount.”

“But
if I hadn’t... “

“You
might not be in such a precarious position.”

Charlie
remained silent for some time. “So what do you expect me to do about it?” he
asked finally.

“I
require you to sign over all the properties and stock held by your company as
collateral against the overdraft. I have already drawn up the necessary papers.”

Merrick
swiveled round a document that lay on the middle of his desk. “If you feel able
to sign,” he added, pointing to a dotted line near the bottom of the page
marked by two pencil crosses, “I would be willing to extend your credit for a
further twelve months.”

“And
if I refuse?”

“I’ll
be left with no choice but to issue an insolvency notice within twenty-eight
days.”

Charlie
stared down at the document and saw that Becky had already signed on the line
above his. Both men remained silent for some time as Charlie weighed up the
alternatives. Then without offering any further comment Charlie took out his
pen, scrawled a signature between the two penciled crosses, swiveled the
document back round, turnd and marched out of the room without another word.

The
surrender of Germany was signed by General Jodl and accepted on behalf of the
Allies by General Bedell Smith at Reims on 7 May 1945.

Charlie
would have joined the VE Day celebrations in Trafalgar Square had Becky not
reminded him that their overdraft had reached nearly sixty thousand pounds and
Merrick was once again threatening them with bankruptcy.

“He’s
got his hands on the property and all our stock what else does he expect me to
do?” demanded Charlie.

“He’s
now suggesting that we sell the one thing that could clear the debt, and would
even leave some capital over to see us through the next couple of years.”

“And
what’s that?”

“Van
Gogh’s The Potato Eaters. “

“Never!”

“But
Charlie, the painting belongs to...”

Charlie
made an appointment to see Lord Woolton the following morning and explained to
the minister he was now faced with his own problems that required his immediate
attention. He therefore asked, now that the war in Europe was over, if he could
be released from his present duties.

Lord
Wooleon fully understood Charlie’s dilemma and made it clear how sad he and all
at the department would be to see him So.

When
Charlie left his office a month later the only thing he took with him was
Jessica Allen.

Charlie’s
problems didn’t ease up during 1945 as property prices continued to fall and
inflation continued to rise. He was nevertheless touched when, after peace had
been declared with Japan, the Prime Minister held a dinner in his honor at
Number 10. Daphne admitted that she had never entered the building, and told
Becky that she wasn’t even sure she wanted to. Percy admitted he wanted to, and
was envious.

There
were several leading cabinet ministers present for the occasion. Becky was
placed between Churchill and the rising young star Rab Butler, while Charlie
was seated next to Mrs. Churchill and Lady Woolton. Becky watched her husband
as he chatted in a relaxed way with the Prime Minister and Lord Woolton, and
had to smile when Charlie had the nerve to offer the old man a cigar he had
specially selected that afternoon from Number 139. No one in that room could
possibly have guessed that they were on the verge of bankruptcy.

When
the evening finally came to an end, Becky thanked the Prime Minister, who in
turn thanked her.

“What
for?” asked Becky.

“Taking
telephone calls in my name, and making excellent decisions on my behalf,” he
said, as he accompanied them both down the long corridor to the front hall.

“I
had no idea you knew,” said Charlie, turning scarlet.

“Knew?
Woolton told the entire cabinet the next day. Never seen them laugh so much.”

When
the Prime Minister reached the front door of Number 10, he gave Becky a slight
bow and said, “Good night, Lady Trumper.”

“You
know what that means, don’t you?” said Charlie as he drove out of Downing
Street and turned right into Whitehall.

“That
you’re about to get a knighthood?”

“Yes,
but more important, we’re going to have to sell the van Gogh.”

“Y
ou’re a little
bastard,” remains my first memory. I was five and three-quarters at the time
and the words were being shouted by a small girl on the far side of the
playground as she pointed at me and danced up and down. The rest of the class
stopped and stared, until I ran across and pinned her against the wall.

“What
does it mean?” I demanded, squeezing her arms.

She
burst into tears and said, “I don’t know. I just heard my mum tell my dad that
you were a little bastard.”

“I
know what the word means,” said a voice from behind me. I turned round to find
myself surrounded by the rest of the pupils from my class, but I was quite
unable to work out who had spoken.

“What
does it meanly I said again, even louder.”

“Give
me sixpence and I’ll tell you.”

I
stared up at Neil Watson, the form bully who always sat in the row behind me.

“I’ve
only got threepence.”

He
considered the offer for some time before saying, “All right then, I’ll tell
you for threepence.”

He
walked up to me, thrust out the palm of his hand, and waited until I’d slowly
unwrapped my handkerchief and passed over my entire pocket money for the week.
He then cupped his hands and whispered into my ear, “You don’t have a father.”

“It’s
not true!” I shouted, and started punching him on the chest. But he was far bigger
than me and only laughed at my feeble efforts. The bell sounded for the end of
break and everyone ran back to class, several of them laughing and shouting in
unison, “Daniel’s a little bastard.”

Nanny
came to pick me up from school that afternoon and when I was sure none of my
classmates could overhear me I asked her what the word meant. She only said, “What
a disgraceful question, Daniel, and I can only hope that it’s not the sort of
thing they’re teaching you at St. David’s. Please don’t let me ever hear you
mention the word again.”

Over
tea in the kitchen, when nanny had left to go and run my bath, I asked cook to
tell me what “bastard” meant. All she said was, “I’m sure I don’t know, Master
Daniel, and I would advise you not to ask anyone else.”

I
didn’t dare ask my mother or father in case what Neil Watson had said turned
out to be true, and I lay awake all night wondering how I could find out.

Then
I remembered that a long time ago my mother had gone into hospital and was
meant to come back with a brother or sister for me, and didn’t. I wondered if
that’s what made you a bastard.

About
a week later nanny had taken me to visit Mummy at Guy’s Hospital but I can’t
recall that much about the outing, except that she looked very white and sad. I
remember feeling very happy when she eventually came home.

The
next episode in my life that I recall vividly was going to St. Paul’s School at
the age of eleven. There I was made to work really hard for the first time in
my life. At my prep school I came top in almost every subject without having to
do much more than any other child, and although I was called “swat” or “swotty,”
it never worried me. At St. Paul’s there turned out to be lots of boys who were
clever, but none of them could touch me when it came to maths. I not only
enjoyed a subject so many of my classmates seemed to dread but the marks I was
awarded in the end of term exams appeared always to delight my mum and dad. I
couldn’t wait for the next algebraic equation, a further geometric puzzle or
the challenge of solving an arithmetic test in my head while others in the form
sucked their pencils as they considered pages of longhand figures.