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 11 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.