Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

During the days that followed, Mrs. Trentham received over a hundred letters of condolence, one or two of which pointed out that she could at least be consoled with the knowledge that there was a second son to take Guy's place.

The next day Nigel's photograph replaced his elder brother's on the bedside table.

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.