As the Crow Flies

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. She paused and checked her notes. “I should like to begin by…”

She may have started somewhat hesitantly, but she soon got into her stride as she explained, point by point, why the company’s staffing policy was outdated and the steps we should take to rectify the situation as quickly as possible. These included early retirement for men of sixty and women of fifty-five; the leasing of shelf space, even whole floor sections, to recognized brand names, which would produce a guaranteed cash flow without financial risk to Trumper’s, as each lessee would be responsible for supplying its own staff; and a larger percentage discount on merchandise for any firms who were hoping to place orders with us for the first time. The presentation took Cathy about forty minutes, and when she concluded it was several moments before anyone round the table spoke.

If her initial presentation was good, her handling of the questions that followed was even better. She dealt with all the banking problems Tim Newman and Paul Merrick could throw at her, as well as the trade union anxieties Arthur Selwyn raised. As for Nigel Trentham, she handled him with a calm efficiency that I was only too painfully aware I could never equal. When Cathy left the boardroom an hour later all the men rose again except Trentham, who stared down at the report in front of him.

As I walked up the path that evening Cathy was on the doorstep waiting to greet me.

“Well?”

“Well?”

“Don’t tease, Charlie,” she scolded.

“You were appointed to be our new personnel director,” I told her, grinning. For a moment even she was speechless.

“Now you’ve opened this can of worms, young lady,” I added as I walked past her, “the board rather expects you to sort the problem out.”

Cathy was so obviously thrilled by my news that I felt for the first time perhaps Daniel’s tragic death might be behind us. I phoned Dr. Atkins that evening to tell him not only how Cathy had fared but that, as a result of her presentation, she had been elected to the board. However, what I didn’t tell either of them was that I had been forced to agree to another of Trentham’s nominations to the board in order to ensure that her appointment went through without a vote being called for.

From the day Cathy arrived at the boardroom table it was clear for all to see that she was a serious contender to succeed me as chairman and no longer simply a bright girl from Becky’s fold. However, I was well aware that Cathy’s advancement could only be achieved while Trentham remained unable to gain control of fifty-one percent of Trumper’s shares. I also realized that the only way he could hope to do that was by making a public bid for the company, which I accepted could well become possible once he got his hands on the money held by Hardcastle Trust. For the first time in my life I wanted Mrs. Trentham to live long enough to allow me to build the company to such a position of strength that even the Trust money would prove inadequate for Nigel Trentham to mount a successful takeover bid.

On 2 June 1953 Queen Elizabeth was crowned, four days after two men from different parts of the Commonwealth conquered Everest. Winston Churchill best summed it up when he said: “Those who have read the history of the first Elizabethan era must surely look forward with anticipation to participating in the second.”

Cathy took up the Prime Minister’s challenge and threw all her energy into the personnel project the board had entrusted her with, and was able to show a saving of forty-nine thousand pounds in wages during 1953 and a further twenty-one thousand pounds in the first half of 1954. By the end of that fiscal year I felt she knew more about the running of Trumper’s at staff level than anyone around that table, myself included.

During 1955 overseas sales began to fall sharply, and as Cathy no longer seemed to be extended and I was keen for her to gain experience of other departments I asked her to sort out the problems of our international department.

She took on her new position with the same enthusiasm with which she tackled everything, but during the next two years began to clash with Nigel Trentham over a number of issues, including a policy to return the difference to any customer who could prove he had paid less for a standard item when shopping at one of our rivals. Trentham argued that Trumper’s customers were not interested in some imagined difference in price that could be compared with a lesser known store, but only in quality and service, to which Cathy replied, “It isn’t the customers’ responsibility to be concerned with the balance sheet, it’s the board’s on behalf of our shareholders.”

On another occasion Trentham came near to accusing Cathy of being a communist when she suggested a “workers’ share participation scheme” which she felt would create company loyalty that only the Japanese had fully understood—a country, she explained, where it was not uncommon for a company to retain ninety-eight percent of its staff from womb to tomb. Even I was unsure about this particular idea, but Becky warned me in private that I was beginning to sound like a “fuddy duddy,” which I assumed was some modern term not to be taken as a compliment.

When Legal and General failed to get our insurance business they sold their two percent holding outright to Nigel Trentham. From that moment I became even more anxious that he might eventually get his hands on enough stock to take over the company. He also proposed another nomination to the board which, thanks to Paul Merrick’s seconding, was accepted.

“I should have secured that land thirty-five years ago for a mere four thousand pounds,” I told Becky.

“As you have reminded us so often in the past, and what’s worse,” Becky reminded me, “is that Mrs. Trentham is now more dangerous to us dead than alive.”

Trumper’s took the arrival of Elvis Presley, Teddy boys, stilettos and teenagers all in its stride. “The customers may have changed, but our standards must not be allowed to,” I continually reminded the board.

In 1960 the company declared a seven-hundred-and-fifty-seven-thousand-pound net profit, a fourteen percent return on capital, and a year later went on to top this achievement by being granted a Royal Warrant from the monarch. I instructed that the House of Win

dsor’s coat of arms should be hung above the main entrance to remind the public that the Queen shopped at the barrow on a regular basis.

I couldn’t pretend that I had ever seen Her Majesty carrying one of our familiar blue bags with its silver motif of a barrow, or spotted her as she traveled up and down the escalators during peak hours, but we still received regular telephone calls from the Palace when they found themselves running short of supplies: which only proved yet again my old granpa’s theory that an apple is an apple whoever bites it.

The highlight of 1961 for me was when Becky finally opened the Dan Salmon Centre in Whitechapel Road—another building that had run considerably over cost. However, I didn’t regret one penny of the expenditure—despite Merrick’s niggling criticism—as I watched the next generation of East End boys and girls swimming, boxing, weightlifting and playing squash, a game I just couldn’t get the hang of.

Whenever I went to see West Ham play soccer on a Saturday afternoon, I could always drop into the new club on my way home, and watch the African, West Indian and Asian children—the new East Enders—battle against each other just as determinedly as we had done against the Irish and Eastern European immigrants.

“The old order changeth, yielding place to new; And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.” Tennyson’s words, chiseled in the stone on the archway above the center, brought my mind back to Mrs. Trentham, who was never far from my thoughts, especially while her three representatives sat around the boardroom table eager to carry out her bidding. Nigel, who now resided at Chester Square, seemed happy to wait for everything to fall into place before he marshaled his troops ready for the attack.

I continued to pray that Mrs. Trentham would live to a grand old age as I still needed more time to prepare some blocking process to ensure that her son could never take over the company.

It was Daphne who first warned me that Mrs. Trentham had taken to her bed and was receiving regular visits from the family GP. Nigel Trentham still managed to keep a smile on his face during those months of waiting.

Without warning on 7 March 1962 Mrs. Trentham, aged eighty-eight, died.

“Peacefully in her sleep,” Daphne informed me.