Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

Charlie made no attempt to defend himself, just poured Percy another brandy before clipping off the end of a cigar.

"Hoskins will be driving us to the ceremony," Daphne announced, "so we'll see you there. That is, assuming on this occasion they've been considerate enough to allow us to be seated in the first thirty rows."

Charlie was pleased to find that Daphne and Percy had been placed only a row behind them so this time were close enough to the stage to follow the entire proceedings.

"Who are they?" demanded Daniel, when fourteen dignified old gentlemen walked onto the platform wearing long black gowns and purple hoods, and took their places in the empty chairs.

"The Senate," explained Becky to her eight-year-old son. "They recommend who shall be awarded degrees. But you mustn't ask too many questions, Daniel, or you'll only annoy all the people sitting around us."

At that point, the vice-chancellor rose to present the scrolls.

"I'm afraid we'll have to sit through all the BAs before they reach me," said Becky.

"Do stop being so pompous, darling," said Daphne. "Some of us can remember when you considered being awarded a degree was the most important day in your life."

"Why hasn't Daddy got a degree?" asked Daniel as he picked up Becky's program off the floor. "He's just as clever as you are, Mummy."

"True," said Becky. "But his daddy didn't make him stay at school as long as mine did."

Charlie leaned across. "But his granpa taught him instead how to sell fruit and vegetables, so he could do something useful for the rest of his life."

Daniel was silenced for a moment, as he weighed the value of these two contrary opinions.

"The ceremony's going to take an awfully long time if it keeps going at this rate," whispered Becky when after half an hour they had only reached the P's.

"We can wait," whispered Daphne cheerfully. "Percy and I haven't a lot planned before Goodwood."

"Oh, look, Mummy," said Daniel. "I've found another Arnold, another Moore and another Trumper on my list."

"They're all fairly common names," said Becky, not bothering to check the program as she placed Daniel on the edge of her seat.

"Wonder what he looks like?" asked Daniel. "Do all Trumpers look the same, Mummy?"

"No, silly, they come in all shapes and sizes."

"But he's got the same first initial as Dad," Daniel said, loudly enough for everyone in the three rows in front of them to feel they were now part of the conversation.

"Shhh," said Becky, as one or two people turned round and stared in their direction.

"Bachelor of Arts," declared the vice-chancellor. "Mathematics second class, Charles George Trumper."

"And he even looks like your dad," said Charlie as he rose from his place and walked up to receive his degree from the vice-chancellor. The applause increased once the assembled gathering became aware of the age of this particular graduate. Becky's mouth opened wide in disbelief, Percy rubbed his glasses, while Daphne showed no surprise at all.

"How long have you known?" demanded Becky through clenched teeth.

"He registered at Birkbeck College the day after you were awarded your degree."

"But when has he found the time?"

"It's taken him nearly eight years and an awful lot of early mornings while you were sound asleep."

By the end of her second year Becky's financial forecasts for Number 1 had begun to look a little too optimistic. As each month passed by the overdraft seemed to remain constant, and it was not until the twenty-seventh month that she first began to make small inroads on the capital debt.

She complained to the board that although the managing director was continually helping with the turnover he was not actually contributing to the profits because he always assumed he could purchase their most sought-after items at the buy-in cost.

"But we are at the same time building a major art collection, Mrs. Trumper," he reminded her.

"And saving a great deal on tax while also making a sound investment," Hadlow pointed out. "Might even prove useful as collateral at some later date."

"Perhaps, but in the meantime it doesn't help my balance sheet, Chairman, if the managing director is always making off with my most saleable stock—and it certainly doesn't help that he's worked out the auctioneer's code so that he always knows what our reserve price is."

"You must look upon yourself as part of the company and not as an individual, Mrs. Trumper," said Charlie with a grin, adding, "though I confess it might have been a lot cheaper if we had left you at Sotheby's in the first place."

"Not to be minuted," said the chairman sternly. "By the way, what is this auctioneer's code?"

"A series of letters from a chosen word or words that indicate numbers; for example, Charlie would be C-1, H-2, A-3 but if any letter is repeated then it has to be ignored. So once you've worked out the two words we are substituting for one to zero and can get your hands on our master catalogue you will always know the reserve price we have set for each painting."

"So why don't you change the words from time to time?"

"Because once you've mastered the code, you can always work out the new words. In any case, it takes hours of practice to glance down at QNHH, and know immediately it's—"

"One thousand, three hundred pounds," said Charlie with a smile of satisfaction.

While Becky tried to build up Number 1, Charlie had captured four more shops, including the barber and the newsagent, without any further interference from Mrs. Trentham. As he told his fellow-directors, "I no longer believe she possesses the finances to challenge us."

"Until her father dies," Becky pointed out. "Once she inherits that fortune she could challenge Mr. Selfridge and then there will be nothing Charlie can do about it."

Charlie agreed, but went on to assure the board that he had plans to get his hands on the rest of the block long before that eventuality. "No reason to believe the man hasn't got a good few years left in him yet."

"Which reminds me," said the colonel, "I'll be sixty-five next May, and feel that would be an appropriate time for me to step down as chairman."

Charlie and Becky were stunned by this sudden announcement, as neither of them had ever given a moment's thought as to when the colonel might retire.

"Couldn't you at least stay on until you're seventy?" asked Charlie quietly.

"No, Charlie, though it's kind of you to suggest it. You see, I've promised Elizabeth that we will spend our last few years on her beloved Isle of Skye. In any case, I think it's time you became chairman."

The colonel officially retired the following May. Charlie threw a party for him at the Savoy to which he invited every member of staff along with their husbands or wives. He laid on a five-course dinner with three wines for an evening that he hoped the colonel would never forget.

When the meal came to an end, Charlie rose from his place to toast the first chairman of Trumper's before presenting him with a silver barrow which held a bottle of Glenlivet, the colonel's favorite brand of whisky. The staff all banged on their tables and demanded the outgoing chairman should reply.

The colonel rose, still straight as a ramrod, and began by thanking everyone for their good wishes for his retirement. He went on to remind those present that when he had first joined Mr. Trumper and Miss Salmon in 1920 they only possessed one shop in Chelsea Terrace, Number 147. It sold fruit and vegetables, and they had acquired it for the princely sum of one hundred pounds. Charlie could see as he glanced around the tables that many of the younger staff—and Daniel, who was wearing long trousers for the first time—just didn't believe the old soldier.

"Now," the colonel continued, "we have twenty-four shops and a staff of one hundred and seventy-two. I told my wife all those years ago that I hoped I would live to see Charlie"—there was a ripple of laughter—"Mr. Trumper, own the whole block, and build the biggest barrow in the world. Now I'm convinced I will." Turning to Charlie he raised his glass and said, "And I wish you luck, sir."