As the Crow Flies Read online

  Becky looked around the boardroom table, wondering which way the vote would fall. The full board had been working together for three months since Trumper’s had opened its doors to the public, but this was the first major issue on which there had been any real disagreement.

  Charlie sat at the head of the table, looking unusually irritable at the thought of not getting his own way. On his right was the company secretary, Jessica Allen. Jessica did not have a vote but was there to see that whenever a vote occurred it would be faithfully recorded. Arthur Selwyn, who had worked with Charlie at the Ministry of Food during the war, had recently left the civil service to replace Tom Arnold on his retirement as managing director. Selwyn was proving to be an inspired choice, shrewd and thorough, while being the ideal foil to the chairman as he tended to avoid confrontation whenever possible.

  Tim Newman, the company’s young merchant banker, was sociable and friendly and almost always backed Charlie, though he was not averse to giving a contrary view if he felt the company finances might suffer. Paul Merrick, the finance director, was neither sociable nor friendly and continued to make it abundantly clear that his first loyalty would always be to Child’s Bank and its investment. As for Daphne, she rarely voted the way anyone might expect her to, and certainly was no placeman for Charlie—or anyone else, for that matter. Mr. Baverstock, a quiet, elderly solicitor who represented ten percent of the company stock on behalf of Hambros, spoke rarely, but when he did everyone listened, including Daphne.

  Ned Denning and Bob Makins, both of whom had now served Charlie for nearly thirty years, would rarely go against their chairman’s wishes, while Simon Matthews often showed flashes of independence that only confirmed Becky’s initial high opinion of him.

  “The last thing we need at the moment is a strike,” said Merrick. “Just at a time when it looks as if we’ve turned the corner.”

  “But the union’s demands are simply outrageous,” said Tim Newman. “A ten-shilling raise, a forty-four-hour week before overtime becomes automatic—I repeat, they’re outrageous.”

  “Most of the other major stores have already agreed to those terms,” interjected Merrick, consulting an article from the Financial Times that lay in front of him.

  “Chucked the towel in would be nearer the mark,” came back Newman. “I must warn the board that this would add to our wages bill by some twenty thousand pounds for the current year—and that’s even before we start to consider overtime. So there’s only one group of people who will suffer in the long run, and that’s our shareholders.”

  “Just how much does a counter assistant earn nowadays?” asked Mr. Baverstock quietly.

  “Two hundred and sixty pounds a year,” said Arthur Selwyn without having to check. “With incremental raises so that if they have completed fifteen years’ service with the company, the sum could be as high as four hundred and ten pounds a year.”

  “We’ve been over these figures on countless occasions,” said Charlie sharply. “The time has come to decide—do we stand firm or just give in to the union’s demands?”

  “Perhaps we’re all overreacting, Mr. Chairman,” said Daphne, who hadn’t spoken until then. “It may not prove to be quite as black or white as you imagine.”

  “You have an alternative solution?” Charlie made no attempt to hide his incredulity.

  “I might have, Mr. Chairman. First, let’s consider what’s at stake if we do give our staff the raise. An obvious drain on resources, not to mention what the Japanese would call ‘face.’ On the other hand, if we don’t agree to their demands, it’s possible that we might lose some of the better as well as the weaker brethren to one of our main rivals.”

  “So what are you suggesting, Lady Wiltshire?” asked Charlie, who always addressed Daphne by her title whenever he wished to show he didn’t agree with her.

  “Compromise, perhaps,” replied Daphne, refusing to rise. “If Mr. Selwyn considers that to be at all possible at this late stage. Would the trade unions, for example, be willing to contemplate an alternative proposal on wages and hours, drawn up in negotiation with our managing director?”

  “I could always have a word with Don Short, the leader of USDAW, if the board so wishes,” said Arthur Selwyn. “In the past I’ve always found him a decent, fair-minded man and he’s certainly shown a consistent loyalty to Trumper’s over the years.”

  “The managing director dealing direct with the trade union’s representative?” barked Charlie. “Next you’ll want to put him on the board.”

  “Then perhaps Mr. Selwyn should make an informal approach,” said Daphne. “I’m confident he can handle Mr. Short with consummate skill.”

  “I agree with Lady Wiltshire,” said Mr. Baverstock.

  “Then I propose that we allow Mr. Selwyn to negotiate on our behalf,” continued Daphne. “And let’s hope he can find a way of avoiding an all-out strike without actually giving in to everything the unions are demanding.”

  “I’d certainly be willing to have a try,” said Selwyn. “I could report back to the board at our next meeting.”

  Once again Becky admired the way Daphne and Arthur Selwyn between them had defused a time bomb the chairman would have been only too happy to let explode on the boardroom table.

  “Thank you, Arthur,” Charlie said a little begrudgingly. “So be it. Any other business?”

  “Yes,” said Becky. “I would like to bring to the board’s attention a sale of Georgian silver that will be taking place next month. Catalogues will be sent out during the coming week and I do hope any directors who are free on that particular day will try to attend.”

  “How did the last antiques sale work out?” asked Mr. Baverstock.

  Becky checked her file. “The auction raised twenty-four thousand, seven hundred pounds, of which Trumper’s kept seven and a half percent of everything that came under the hammer. Only three items failed to reach their reserve prices, and they were called back in.”

  “I’m only curious about the success of the sale,” said Mr. Baverstock, “because my dear wife purchased a Charles II court cupboard.”

  “One of the finest items in the sale,” said Becky.

  “My wife certainly thought so because she bid far more for the piece than she had intended. I’d be obliged if you didn’t send her a catalogue for the silver sale.”

  The other members of the board laughed.

  “I’ve read somewhere,” said Tim Newman, “that Sotheby’s is considering raising their commision to ten percent.”

  “I know,” said Becky. “That’s exactly why I can’t contemplate the same move for at least another year. If I’m to go on stealing their best customers I must stay competitive in the short term.”

  Newman nodded his understanding.

  “However,” Becky continued, “by remaining at seven and a half percent, my profits for 1950 won’t be as high as I might have hoped. But until the leading sellers are willing to come to us, that’s a problem I’ll continue to face.”

  “What about the buyers?” queried Paul Merrick.

  “They aren’t the problem. If you have the product to sell, the buyers will always beat a path to your door. You see, it’s the sellers that are the life blood of an auction house, and they’re every bit as important as the buyers.”

  “Funny old outfit you’re running,” said Charlie with a grin. “Any other business?”

  As no one spoke, Charlie thanked all the members of the board for their attendance and rose from his place, a signal he always gave to indicate that the meeting was finally over.

  Becky collected her papers and started walking back to the gallery with Simon.

  “Have you completed the estimates on the silver sale yet?” she asked as they jumped into the lift just before the doors closed. She touched the “G” and the lift began its slow journey to the ground floor.

  “Yes. Finished them last night. One hundred and thirty-two items in all. I reckon they might raise somewhere in the region of seven thousand po