As the Crow Flies by Jeffrey Archer
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, sir?”
“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 learned 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 turned, 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, turned 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 Woolton fully understood Charlie’s dilemma, and made it clear how sad he and all at the department would be to see him go.
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.”
1931–1947
CHAPTER
29
“You’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 mean?” 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 “swot” 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.
I did quite well in other subjects and although I was not much good at games I took up the cello and was invited to join the school orchestra, but my form master said none of this was important because I was obviously going to be a mathematician for the rest of my life. I didn’t understand what he meant at the time, as I knew Dad had left school at fourteen to run my great-grandfather’s fruit and vegetable barrow in Whitechapel, and even though Mum had gone to London University she still had to work at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace to keep Dad “in the style to which he’d become accustomed.” Or that’s what I used to hear Mum telling him at breakfast from time to time.
It must have been around that time that I discovered what the word “bastard” really meant. We were reading King John out loud in class, so I was able to ask Mr. Saxon-East, my English master, without drawing too much attention to the question. One or two of the boys looked round and sniggered, but this time there were no pointed fingers or whispers, and when I was told the meaning I remember thinking Neil Watson hadn’t been that far off the mark in the first place. But of course such an accusation could not be leveled at me, because my very first memories had involved my mum and dad being together. They had always been Mr. and Mrs. Trumper.
I suppose I would have dismissed the whole memory of that early incident if I hadn’t come down to the kitchen one night for a glass of milk and overheard Joan Moore talking to Harold the butler.
“Young Daniel’s doing well at school,” said Harold. “Must have his mother’s brains.”
“True, but let’s pray that he never finds out the truth about his father.” The words made me freeze to the stair rail. I continued to listen intently.
“Well, one thing’s for certain,” continued Harold. “Mrs. Trentham’s never going to admit the boy’s her grandson, so heaven knows who’ll end up with all that money.”
“Not Captain Guy any longer, that’s for sure,” said Joan. “So perhaps that brat Nigel will be left the lot.”
After that the conversation turned to who should lay up for breakfast so I crept back upstairs to my bedroom; but I didn’t sleep. Although I sat on those steps for many hours during the next few months, patiently waiting for another vital piece of information that might fall from the servants’ lips, the subject never arose between them again.
The only other occasion I could recall having heard the name “Trentham” had been some time before, when the Marchioness of Wiltshire, a close friend of my mother’s, came to tea. I remained in the hall when my mother asked, “Did you go to Guy’s funeral?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t well attended by the good parishioners of Ashurst,” the marchioness assured her. “Those who remembered him well seemed to be treating the occasion more as if it were a blessed release.”
“Was Sir Raymond present?”
“No, he was conspicuous by his absence,” came back the reply. “Mrs. Trentham claimed he was too old to travel, which only acted as a sad reminder that she still stands to inherit a fortune in the not too distant future.”
New facts learned, but they still made little sense.
The name of “Trentham” arose in my presence once more when I heard Daddy talking to Colonel Hamilton as he was leaving the house after a private meeting that had been held in his study. All Daddy said was, “However much we offer Mrs. Trentham, she’s never going to sell those flats to us.”
The colonel vigorously nodded his agreement, but all he had to say on the subject was, “Bloody woman.”
When both my parents were out of the house, I looked up “Trentham” in the telephone directory. There was only one listing: Major G. H. Trentham, MP, 19 Chester Square. I wasn’t any the wiser.
When in 1939 Trinity College offered me the Newton Mathematics Prize Scholarship I thought Dad was going to burst, he was so proud. We all drove up to the university city for the weekend to check my future digs, before strolling round the college’s cloisters and through Great Court.
The only cloud on this otherwise unblemished horizon was the thunderous one of Nazi Germany. Conscription for all those over twenty was being debated in Parliament, and I couldn’t wait to play my part if Hitler dared to plant as much as a toe on Polish soil.
My first year at Cambridge went well, mainly because I was being tutored by Horace Bradford who, along with his wife, Victoria, was considered to be the pick of the bunch among a highly talented group of mathematicians who were teaching at the uni
Mrs. Bradford rejoiced in the fact that my mother had been awarded her degree from London University in 1921, while Cambridge still refused to acknowledge hers even existed in 1939.
At the end of my first year I, like many Trinity undergraduates, applied to join the army, but my tutor asked me if I would like to work with him and his wife at the War Office in a new department that would be specializing in code-breaking.
I accepted the offer without a second thought, relishing the prospect of spending my time sitting in a dingy little back room somewhere in Bletchley Park attempting to break German codes. I felt a little guilty that I was going to be one of the few people in uniform who was actually enjoying the war. Dad gave me enough money to buy an old MG, which meant I could get up to London from time to time to see him and Mum.
Occasionally I managed to grab an hour for lunch with him over at the Ministry of Food, but Dad would only eat bread and cheese accompanied by a glass of milk as an example to the rest of his team. This may have been considered edifying but it certainly wasn’t nourishing, Mr. Selwyn warned me, adding that my father even had the minister at it.
“But not Mr. Churchill?” I suggested.
“He’s next on his list, I’m told.”
In 1943 I was made up to captain, which was simply the War Office acknowledging the work we were all doing in our fledgling department. Of course, my father was delighted but I was sorry that I couldn’t share with my parents our excitement when we broke the code used by the German U-boat commanders. It still baffles me to this day why they continued to go on using the four-wheel enigma key long after we’d made our discovery. The code was a mathematician’s dream that we finally broke on the back of a menu at Lyons Corner House just off Piccadilly. The waitress serving at our table described me as a vandal. I laughed, and remember thinking that I would take the rest of the day off and go and surprise my mother by letting her see what I looked like in my captain’s uniform. I thought I looked rather swish, but when she opened the front door to greet me I was shocked by her response. She stared at me as if she’d seen a ghost. Although she recovered quickly enough, that first reaction on seeing me in uniform became just another clue in an ever more complex puzzle, a puzzle that was never far from the back of my thoughts.