"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."
Daniel
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.