"But it could take days for me to get the necessary paperwork sorted out."
"That's not my problem."
"But we're at war, man."
"Which is why we must all try to keep to the regulations. I'm sure the Germans do."
"I don't give a damn what the Germans do," said Charlie. "I've got a million tons of rice coming through this port every month and I want to distribute every last grain of it as quickly as possible. Do I make myself clear?"
"You certainly do, Mr. Trumper, but I shall still require the official papers correctly completed before you get your rice."
"I order you to release that rice immediately," said Charlie, barking at him for the first time.
"No need to raise your voice, Mr. Trumper, because as I've already explained you don't have the authority to order me to do anything. This is the Docks and Harbour Board and it doesn't, as I'm sure you know, come under the Ministry of Food. I should go back to London, and this time do try a little harder to see that we get the correct forms properly filled in."
Charlie felt he was too old to hit the man, so he simply picked up the telephone on Simkins' desk and asked for a number.
"What are you doing?" demanded Simkins. "That's my telephone—you don't have the proper authority to use my telephone."
Charlie clung to the phone and turned his back on Simkins. When he heard the voice on the other end of the line, he said, "It's Charlie Trumper. Can you put me through to the Prime Minister?"
Simkins' cheeks turned first red, then white, as the blood drained quickly from his face. "There's really no need—" he began.
"Good morning, sir," said Charlie. "I'm down in Southampton. The rice problem I mentioned to you last night. There turns out to be a bit of a hold-up at this end. I don't seem to be able—"
Simkins was now frantically waving his hands like a semaphore sailor in an attempt to gain Charlie's attention, while at the same time nodding his head energetically up and down.
"I've got a million tons coming in every month, Prime Minister, and the girls are just sitting on their—"
"It will be all right," whispered Simkins as he began to circle Charlie. "It will be all right, I can assure you."
"Do you want to speak to the man in charge yourself, sir?"
"No, no," said Simkins. "That won't be necessary. I have all the forms, all the forms you need, all the forms."
"I'll let him know, sir," said Charlie, pausing for a moment. "I'm due back in London this evening. Yes, sir, yes, I'll brief you the moment I return. Goodbye, Prime Minister."
"Goodbye," said Becky as she put down the telephone. "And no doubt you'll tell me what all that was about when you do get home tonight."
The minister roared with laughter when Charlie repeated the whole story to him and Jessica Allen later that evening.
"You know, the Prime Minister would have been quite happy to speak to the man if you had wanted him to," said Woolton.
"If he'd done that Simkins would have had a heart attack," said Charlie. "And then my rice, not to mention my drivers, would have been stuck in that port forever. In any case, with the food shortage the way it is I wouldn't have wanted the wretched man to waste another of his biscuits."
Charlie was in Carlisle attending a farmers' conference when an urgent call came through for him from London.
"Who is it?" he asked as he tried to concentrate on a delegate who was explaining the problems of increasing turnip yields.
"The Marchioness of Wiltshire," whispered Arthur Selwyn.
"Then I'll take it," said Charlie, and left the conference room to return to his bedroom, where the hotel operator put the call through.
"Daphne, what can I do for you, my luv?"
"No, darling, it's what I can do for you, as usual. Have you read your Times this morning?"
"Glanced at the headlines. Why?" asked Charlie.
"Then you'd better check the obituaries page more carefully. In particular, the last line of one of them. I won't waste any more of your time, darling, as the Prime Minister keeps reminding us just what a vital role you're playing in winning the war."
Charlie laughed as the line went dead.
"Anything I can do to help?" asked Selwyn.
"Yes, Arthur, I need a copy of today's Times."
When Selwyn returned with a copy of the morning paper, Charlie flicked quickly through the pages until he came to the obituaries: Admiral Sir Alexander Dexter, a First World War commander of outstanding tactical ability; J. T. Macpherson, the balloonist and author; and Sir Raymond Hardcastle, the industrialist . . .
Charlie skimmed through the bare details of Sir Raymond's career: born and educated in Yorkshire; built up his father's engineering firm at the turn of the century. During the twenties Hardcastle's had expanded from a fledgling company into one of the great industrial forces in the north of England. In 1937 Hardcastle sold his shareholding to John Brown and Company for seven hundred and eighty thousand pounds. But Daphne was right—the last line was the only one that really concerned Charlie.
"Sir Raymond, whose wife died in 1914, is survived by two daughters, Miss Amy Hardcastle and Mrs. Gerald Trentham."
Charlie picked up the telephone on the desk beside him and asked to be put through to a Chelsea number. A few moments later Tom Arnold came on the line.
"Where the hell did you say Wrexall was to be found?" was the only question Charlie asked.
"As I explained when you last inquired, Chairman, he now runs a pub in Cheshire, the Happy Poacher, in a village called Hatherton."
Charlie thanked his managing director and replaced the receiver without another word.
"Can I be of any assistance?" asked Selwyn dryly.
"What's my program for the rest of the day looking like, Arthur?"
"Well, they haven't quite finished with the turnips yet, then you're meant to be attending more sessions all afternoon. This evening you're proposing the health of the government at the conference dinner before finally presenting the farmers' annual dairy awards tomorrow morning."
"Then pray I'm back in time for the dinner," said Charlie. He stood up and grabbed his overcoat.
"Do you want me to come with you?" asked Selwyn, trying to keep up with his master.
"No, thank you, Arthur. It's a personal matter. Just cover for me if I'm not back in time."
Charlie ran down the stairs and out into the yard. His driver was dozing peacefully behind the wheel.
Charlie jumped into his car and the slammed door woke him up. "Take me to Hatherton."
"Hatherton, sir?"
"Yes, Hatherton. Head south out of Carlisle, and by then I should be able to point you in the right direction." Charlie flicked open the road map, turned to the back and began running his finger down the H's. There were five Hathertons listed but luckily just the one in Cheshire. The only other word Charlie uttered on the entire journey was "Faster," which he repeated several times. They passed through Lancaster, Preston and Warrington before coming to a halt outside the Happy Poacher half an hour before the pub was due to close for the afternoon.
Syd Wrexall's eyes nearly popped out of his head when Charlie strolled in the front door.
"A Scotch egg and a pint of your best bitter, landlord, and no short measures," Charlie said with a grin, placing a briefcase by his side.
"Fancy seeing you in these parts, Mr. Trumper," declared Syd after he had shouted over his shoulder "Hilda, one Scotch egg, and come and see who's 'ere."
"I was just on my way to a farmers' conference in Carlisle," explained Charlie. "Thought I'd drop by and have a pint and a snack with an old friend."
"That's right neighborly of you," said Syd as he placed the pint of bitter on the counter in front of him. "Of course, we read about you in the papers a lot nowadays, and all the work you're doing with Lord Woolton for the war effort. You're becoming quite a celebrity."