Page 28 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)
CHAPTER SEVEN
With hard work, Dolphin Books managed to relocate into its new premises by the middle of June.
The area, in North Acton, had been farmland at the beginning of the century, providing milk, vegetables and hay to the vast market of London, and also, by one of those quirks of history, hosting an unexpected number of mushroom farms. During the war, several munitions factories and army vehicle parks had been sited there, along with a military hospital and a prisoner-of-war camp.
After the war, because of the proximity to London and a number of new roads and railways, it had started to develop into what was being called an industrial estate, with nearby housing developments along the Western Avenue and the North Circular Road providing plentiful labour.
The last of the farmers sold up, and now factories produced goods as varied as canned food, aircraft parts, ice cream, fountain pens, radio sets, biscuits and agricultural machinery.
Dolphin’s new premises were a plain, two-storey, yellow-brick office building facing the road, with the warehousing and packing facilities at the back around a large yard.
‘Not pretty,’ Charlotte said. ‘But much more comfortable.’
The modern steel-framed windows let in lots of light while keeping out draughts. ‘The saving on electricity will be enormous,’ Molly said. ‘And it’s so clean. No more splintery, dusty old wooden floors.’
‘The outside is bound to look a bit raw when it’s so new,’ said Vivian.
‘The Hoover Building is beautiful. It has actual lawns,’ Charlotte mentioned wistfully. It was a gleaming white modern edifice not far away, which had already become a landmark on the Western Avenue.
‘My dear child, Dolphin Books is not in the same league as the Hoover Company – but we can have a patch of grass at the front and a flowerbed or two once we’ve settled in, if it will make you happier.’
‘There’s quite a lot of research now into working conditions,’ Molly said, ‘that shows workers are more productive if their surroundings are pleasant.’
‘Well, I don’t see what could be nicer than working surrounded by books,’ Charlotte said loyally, and Vivian laughed.
‘And the journey isn’t too bad for us, from Arlington Street, when you take the car,’ Molly said to him. ‘We just have to walk to Bond Street, and it’s straight through on the Central Line.’
‘There was a plan back in 1902 or 1903 to run the Central Line through our own dear Green Park station, which would have been even more convenient,’ Vivian said. ‘What a pity it fell through.’
‘You know such interesting things,’ Charlotte exclaimed.
‘I was talking to an enterprising young man the other day who wants to write a history of the London Underground. I think it would make a perfect book for us, for when we start our non-fiction list.’
‘Reading about the Tube while on the Tube, with a book bought from a slot machine on the Tube platform,’ said Molly. ‘Ouroboros in action.’
‘Heard anything from Milo lately?’ Vivian asked Charlotte.
‘Just a postcard last week,’ Charlotte said. ‘A picture of the Taj Mahal.’ She tried not to let her discontent show, but it had not been an informative postcard. And, in fact, he had sent her the same one a month earlier.
Basil had said helpfully, ‘He probably didn’t even send it himself. I expect he signed a whole batch at once, and left them with some obliging clerk to post at intervals.’
‘Why do you say such horrid things, Basil?’ Charlotte had said crossly.
‘Just trying to keep your feet on the ground, dear. I don’t altogether trust your Lord of the Elves and Assorted Little People.’
‘In the first place, you have no business trusting or not trusting him. He’s not your fiancé—’
‘He’s barely yours ,’ Basil interrupted.
Charlotte forgot her second point, and said instead, ‘I wasn’t going to invite you to our wedding, but on second thoughts I shall make you come, just to apologise.’
‘Speaking of weddings, your family is rather cornering the market, wouldn’t you say?’
June, of course, was the month for weddings, and two of Charlotte’s brothers were to tie the knot within a week of each other.
‘I do wonder,’ Charlotte said, ‘whether Robert is doing it to show Richard up. Richard’s will be such a little thing, and Robert’s so grand.’
‘It would make for a much better plot if he was inspired by malice. But remember it’s the bride’s family who do all the wedding stuff – the groom just has to turn up.’
‘Mummy says Robert still hasn’t replied to the invitation, so I suppose that means he’s not coming.’
‘It seems not. Richard has asked me to be his supporter.’
‘Do they have supporters at a register-office wedding?’
‘I suppose they must, even if they don’t call them that. Cynthia is having a bridesmaid, at any rate, Richard told me.’
‘Yes, I know – a schoolfriend of hers.’
‘It’s such a pity I didn’t get invited to Robert’s wedding,’ Basil said, with an air of pathos. ‘As a journalist, I would have liked to be able to compare the two – family only at Caxton Hall, and the entire fashionable world at St Margaret’s.’
‘I’ll tell you all about it afterwards,’ Charlotte said.
‘Perhaps I’ll stand outside in the street with the rest of the spectators and take notes as people go in. Will you wave to me?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Charlotte.
In the train down to Hampshire, Basil pondered on what sort of frosty reception he might meet, not because he had done anything bad lately, but because he was so accustomed to being dressed-down he never expected anything else.
But his parents were so happy about the safe arrival of their first grandchild, they hadn’t room for any negative emotions.
His mother embraced him with a radiant smile and said, ‘Isn’t it wonderful? And they really hoped for a boy!’
His father gave a lopsided grin as he said, ‘I didn’t expect to be this moved. I suppose you can’t know until you experience it.’
It made Basil feel such a degree of gratitude towards Barbara that he refrained from saying, when the baby was presented to him, that it looked a poor specimen – which was odd, because Babsy was pretty decent-looking for a sister, and old Freddie must have been handsome when he was young.
He peered at the creased brick-red face, which was not improved by the contrast with the lacy white bonnet. ‘What are you calling it?’ he asked.
‘Douglas Frederick,’ Barbara said. ‘We’re going to have a big christening party when I’m out of bed. I want you to be one of his godparents.’
Basil couldn’t help it. He roared with laughter. ‘I’m sure Freddie didn’t agree to that! He’s met me more than once. He must be aware of how unsuitable I’d be.’
Barbara shook her head at him with a fond smile. Nothing could disperse her euphoria. ‘Don’t be silly, Bozzy darling – you’ll be splendid.’
He bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Your blind faith in me is what keeps me going. But I’m not godfather material. Choose someone else, and save yourself disappointment.’
The nurse came in to say Mother had had enough excitement and it was time for visitors to go, and Basil exited promptly with relief, going downstairs to join his parents.
‘Douglas?’ he said, as he entered the sitting-room. ‘Where on earth did they get that from?’
‘It’s the name of Freddie’s brother, who died in the war,’ Helen said. ‘And his grandfather, I think. A family tradition, anyway. And Frederick after his father, of course. What did you think of him?’
‘The baby? It looks like a slightly shrivelled tomato. Why did they put that terrible hat on it?’
‘You’re trying to be provoking,’ Helen said, ‘and of course it – he – will look better in a few days. Babies are always crumpled to begin with.’
Jack said, ‘In that case, darling, there’s no point in asking people what they think about a brand-new baby, is there?’
‘Well, I suppose I wanted to hear how he feels about being an uncle.’
‘Oh, my God, I am, aren’t I? It sounds ancient. Crusty old Uncle Basil. I think I shall start wearing a smoking-cap and harrumphing. How does one harrumph, by the way?’
Jack laughed. ‘You’ll never get a straight answer out of him. How are you, my boy? How’s the job going? Do you like the new premises?’
‘I’m so pleased you are settled at last,’ Helen added.
Basil was thrown into a quandary. He didn’t like the new premises.
Even if he played hooky, there was nowhere to go, surrounded as they were by acres of industrial estate.
It was an eight-minute walk to the Tube station, and then at least thirty minutes into Town.
He hated not being in London, and any day now, Aunt Molly and Uncle Vivian were going to turn their attention to training him properly for a serious, permanent job at Dolphin Books, and his goose would be cooked.
Next thing they’d be saying he ought to live nearer the job, and wanting him to move to a room in North Acton.
He had come to the conclusion that he would have to find another job.
He was pretty sure that if he chucked Dolphin, Aunt Molly would not want to keep harbouring him in Arlington Street, which would mean getting lodgings, which in turn would mean earning a living.
It was a horrible prospect, but far worse to be marooned for ever in the arid waste, caught ’twixt the wind of the railway lines and the water of the Grand Union Canal.
What job he could do – or, rather, what was the least objectionable job that would take him – was one problem; how to sell the idea to the Aged Ps the more immediate one.
He assumed an earnest expression. ‘That’s something I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said.
His mother’s face registered dismay. ‘Oh, Basil! What have you done now?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, in a wounded tone. ‘I don’t know why you always assume I’m in trouble.’
‘You usually are,’ his father said.
‘I’m doing rather well, as a matter of fact. Aunt Molly is very pleased with me,’ he said. ‘But that’s the problem.’
‘How is it a problem?’ Helen asked.