“Good morning, Borwick, it’s Major Fisher, the chairman of the company. How can I help?”
“Good morning, major. It’s quite simple really, you’ve got three days’ supply of cod piled up on my dockside, which I’d like picked up as soon as possible.”
“I’ll get on to it straightaway.”
“Thank you, major, because if it hasn’t been removed by four o’clock I’ll have no choice but to dump it back in the sea.” The phone went dead.
“Where are the lorries that pick up the morning catch?”
“The drivers hung around until midday, but as no one had the authority to give the order for them to go to the harbor, they packed up for the day and went home. You only missed them by a few minutes, major. They’ll be back at six tomorrow morning. Bob was always here first thing. Liked to go down to the docks and supervise the loading himself. That way, he could be sure no one palmed him off with yesterday’s catch.”
Fisher slumped into a chair and stared at a pile of unopened letters addressed to Mr. Bingham. “Do I have a secretary, by any chance?” he asked.
“Val. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about this place.”
Fisher managed a weak smile. “So where is she?”
“On maternity leave, and not expected back for some months. But I know she put an ad in the Grimsby Evening Telegraph for a temp,” he added as a man who looked like a heavyweight boxer stomped into the room.
“Which one of you’s in charge?” he demanded.
Perry pointed to the major.
“We need some help with the unloading, guv.”
“Unloading what?”
“’Undred and forty-eight crates of fish paste jars. Same time every Tuesday. If you haven’t got anyone to unload them, we’ll have to take them back to Doncaster, and that’ll cost you.”
“Perhaps you could give them a hand, Perry.”
“I’m management, major. The unions would down tools if I so much as looked at a crate.”
That was when Fisher realized that every one of them was singing from the same hymn sheet, and he wasn’t the choirmaster.
The major lasted for three days, during which time, not one pot of Bingham’s fish paste left the factory. On balance, he decided that doing battle with the Germans in North Africa was far easier than trying to work with a bunch of bolshie shop stewards on Humberside.
On Friday night, after the workers — all two hundred of them — had collected their wage packets and gone home, the curtain finally came down. The major checked out of the Humber Royal Hotel and took the last train back to London.
“Bingham’s shares have fallen another ten percent,” said Seb.
“What’s the spot price?” asked Bob.
Seb checked the ticker-tape machine in his office. “Seven shillings and sixpence. No, seven shillings and fourpence.”
“But they were a pound only a week ago.”
“I know, but that was before the major beat a hasty retreat back to London.”
“Then it must be time for me to come back and sort the place out,” said Bob.
“Not quite yet. But be sure to have the number of a local travel agent handy.”
“So what am I expected to do in the meantime?” growled Bob.
“Canasta?”
Virginia and Priscilla had barely been on speaking terms for the past week, and a chance remark over breakfast started a row that had been simmering for some time.
“Bofie Bridgwater was telling me last night that—”
“Bofie Bridgwater is a chinless wonder and a prize ass,” snapped Priscilla.
“Who just happens to have a title, and thousands of acres.”
“I’m not interested in his title, and before all this happened I had thousands of acres.”
“And you still would have,” said Virginia, “if you hadn’t made such a fool of yourself in court.”
“How was I to know Robert would be willing to let go of the company? I was simply trying to show how generous I thought he’d been, and now I don’t even have a roof over my head.”
“Well, you can stay here for a little longer,” said Virginia, “but perhaps it might be wise to start looking for a place of your own. After all, I can hardly be expected to go on subsidizing you forever.”
“But you said I could always rely on your support.”
“I don’t remember saying always,” said Virginia, as she dropped a slice of lemon in her tea.
Priscilla stood up, folded her napkin, and placed it on the table. She left the room without another word, walked upstairs to the guest bedroom, and began to pack.
“Dad, you can catch the next plane home.”
“At last. But why now?”
“Mum’s finally come to her senses. She walked out of Lady Virginia’s flat about an hour ago.”
“What makes you think she won’t walk back in again?”
“Because she was lugging three suitcases, and took a taxi to the Mulberry Hotel in Pimlico.”
“I’m on my way to the airport,” said Bob.
Clive put the phone down. “Should I pick Dad up at Heathrow and drive him to the Mulberry?”
“I don’t think so,” said Seb. “You’ll only get in the way. Wait until he calls you.”
Clive joined his mother and father later that evening for a drink at the Savoy.
“So romantic,” said Priscilla, who was holding Bob’s hand. “Your father has booked the same suite where we spent the first night of our honeymoon.”
“But you’ll be living in sin,” mocked Clive.
“Not for long,” said Priscilla. “We’re off to see Mrs. Justice Havers in the morning. Our counsel seems to think she can sort things out.”
“I have a feeling her ladyship won’t be all that surprised,” said Clive.
“When did you suddenly become so wise?” asked Bob.
“When you left me with no choice but to stand on my own two feet.”
“There’s a Mr. Bingham on the phone for you,” said the switchboard operator.
“Bob, are you still in London?” asked Seb. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”
“No, I’m back in Grimsby, reemploying most of my staff. They seem to have enjoyed their extended holiday about as much as I did.”
“I see the share price is up a couple of pence.”
“Yes, but it will be some time before everything’s up and running smoothly again. Perhaps you ought to buy a few shares while the price is so low.”
“I’ve been buying them for the past month,” said Seb. “I now own about four percent of Bingham’s Fish Paste.”
“If I had a board,” said Bob, “I’d put you on it. However, I’m still in your debt, not least for your role as matchmaker. So why don’t you send me a hefty bill for your professional services.”
“Now that we’ve vanquished Lady Virginia, I’d rather seek your advice on another problem I’m facing.”
“Virginia Fenwick won’t be vanquished until she’s six foot under. But how can I help?”
“I want to take over Farthings Bank and remove Adrian Sloane once and for all. But I can’t hope to pull it off without your help.”
“You can’t win them all,” said Lady Virginia, “but as Wellington reminded us after Waterloo, it’s only the final battle that really matters.”
“And who’s playing Napoleon on this particular battlefield?”