Chapter 1

Monday 15 September 1975, 12 noon

I, Harry Crabtree had been a travelling salesman for Small Widget Engineering & Company Limited in Birmingham ever since I completed my National Service, getting on for fifty years ago. My patch covered most of the south central and south west of England. Another salesman covered the south east, including all the Home Counties except for the plum area in the immediate vicinity of Greater London, it was the son of the principle owner of the company, a long-established family firm, that worked that rich seam of sales commissions, and would do until he took over the top job from his old man.

At the time I was thinking back to, September 1975, the country was covered in tiny industrial estates on the edges of even the smallest town, with small and medium-sized independent manufacturing or assembly companies on every corner of these estates, employing mostly local workers. No matter what final product they produced or assembled, they needed self-tapping screws, nuts, bolts and washers, even the odd wood screw, to hold everything together, be they Whitworth, AF, BSF (British Standard Fine) or the new Metric sizes they were having to tool up for at the time. And Birmingham was then the centre of the world as far as manufacturing such small metal fittings goes.

Of course, the firm I worked for, Small Widget Engineering & Company Limited, was one of the best and produced a wide range of other fixings in the form of chains and latches, and could cast, press, drill or lathe almost anything in metal that a customer wanted. However, their bread and butter, as was mine, were nuts, bolts and washers, and I had to sell millions of them each year to meet my monthly quotas and targets. The bonuses I earned on new sales formed the larger part of my income, my base salary plus percentages of follow up supplies and allowances for fuel, board and food for entertaining customers was as low as they could be.

“Hello, Sir, can I help you?”

My thoughts were interrupted by the young lady with the bright red-lipped smile behind the counter in the Reception of King & Son’s, a small manufacturing company of white goods on the edge of a small Cotswold town. I looked up and down the top half of the sitting girl, estimating her to be a busty single woman in her early twenties, her make-up too heavily applied for my taste, especially the mascara matted on her eyelashes which draw my attention away from her eyes. Otherwise, cleaned up, I concluded, she’d probably be quite pretty.

“Good morning, Miss, I’m Mr Harry Crabtree from Small Widget Engineering & Company Limited,” I replied, with relaxed shoulders and putting on my very best smile, placing my already removed trilby hat on the counter, exuding as much calm confidence in my voice and movements as I felt necessary. “I wondered if I could speak with your Purchasing Manager this morning?”

“Do you have an appointment, Sir?”

“No, Miss, I don’t,” I replied, as I opened what looked like a silver cigarette case, extracted a calling card from within and handed it over to the young lady, “l noticed your company was adverting for assembly line staff in the local newspaper, that I was perusing this morning, and thought I would drop in and let your Purchasing Manager know about the best deal he could possibly get in small metal fixings.”

The girl frowned, her eyes narrowed, her voice became frosty. “Our Managers don’t normally see cold callers, Sir.”

“Oh, really? I’m surprised,” I said in a cheerful upbeat voice, my face as wide open as a pulpit bible on Sundays, “in these competitive times, with so many small local companies like this going to the wall, you’d think all would welcome with open arms the opportunity to be in on one of the best supply deals in metal fixings going.”

“Well, with respect, Mr Crabtree, that’s what everyone says,” the bright young girl retorted haughtily, “and our, er, Purchasing Manager won’t see anyone without a prior appointment.”

“No problem, then. Could I arrange an appointment with your Purchasing Manager for later today or even tomorrow morning? I expect to be in this general area all this week.”

“I’m afraid not, Sir.”

“Ahh, doesn’t he see new potential suppliers, even by prior arranged appointment, my dear?”

“No, never. We actually have supplies of small metal fixings coming out of our ears.”

“Mmm. He doesn’t even see anyone when it’s this close to lunchtime and I’ve got the Roller outside ready to transport your Purchasing Manager to the best local restaurant around, you know, the smartly refurbished pub just out on the By-pass?”

“Roller?” she enquired, her pencil-thin eyebrows raised.

“Yes, my Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow V8 4-door saloon. I temporarily parked it in the Managing Director’s slot just opposite your front entrance. You can just see it from here. The silver and blue paintwork gleams in this Autumn sunshine, doesn’t it? Quite honestly, it was the only vacant space out front that was big enough for this wonderful machine. Mind you, I can shift it in a jiffy should your MD return in the next few minutes. However, I do have a table booked for my own lunch, naturally, but it would be a very small thing to change my reservation to a table for two if I could find pleasant company to enjoy a repast with me before discussing business that might well prove to be as much to his liking as would be the meal and the comfortable ride.”

“Is that the Coach and Horses you are booked into for lunch?” she smiled at me, a definite improvement in her attitude I noted.

“Indeed it is,” I smiled in return.

“I cannot promise anything, but I’ll see if Mrs Tremblett is free, Sir,” she said, picking up the phone.

“Mrs Tremblett?” I asked.

“Mrs Tremblett oversees all our purchasing requirements, she oversees all things at King’s in fact, Sir.”

“Interesting.”

‘Damn,’ I thought, ‘no backing down now but, when the head bookkeeper is the one who looks after the purchasing, she’s usually a sour-faced old woman who sticks to the old, tried and trusted suppliers who she has stuck with for year on year and who have probably hiked up their prices way above the average over the course of time without her bothering to compare with competitors. Still, “she oversees ... all things”? That’s very interesting.’

The Receptionist pressed the button on her little switchboard, while considering the man in front of her and she couldn’t help herself smiling in my company. I was old to her, I knew from her look she was thinking, perhaps forty, even fifty, I imagine she guessed, but I am tall, broad shouldered, and had a distinguished bearing that I had cultivated over the years. I still had a full head of brown hair, with an open, reasonably handsome face, my eyes sparkling with health, humour and intelligence, with a nice smile which was reflected in the crinkled lines around my eyes. I’ve been often told that I have a trustworthy face, which accurately reflects what I am. I hoped that what she was thinking was, that if she ever fancied going out for a spin with an older man with a Rolls-Royce motor car, she might be tempted to accompany me to lunch rather than face the boiled egg sandwich her mother had probably packed for her at dawn this morning. No, I recognised that second, softer look that she gave me, so not ‘might’, more like ‘would’.

Idly, she turned my business card over in her hand as she waited for the call to be answered, and I could tell from her raised eyebrows that she had already admitted to herself that it was a beautifully crafted card, and knocked spots off every other of the dozen cards she’d been presented with each day over the last few years since she started working in Reception.

I smiled back at her. I always handed the cards over so they read correctly from my perspective, so the recipient has to twist the card around in order to read it. This required more concentration and manipulating, so the handler would realise that this card was no ordinary business card, but much thicker than normal and the card’s surface had a really smooth quality to the touch. Technically, the twice normal thickness card was hot plate-sunk to make it dense and smooth, and the printed lettering was produced by the intaglio process, thus pressed between male and female dies, the images engraved by hand in mild steel that had to be hardened by heat and rapid cooling in a forge by a specialist craftsman before printing from, so the crisp carbon black writing was embossed at the front and indented into the back of the card. By keeping them in a silver case designed to fit them, each card handed out to potential customers was absolutely pristine, with sharp corners and no pocket lint. A very impressive card, one you might expect to receive from a Queen’s Counsellor or a Lord of the Realm, not a common travelling salesman trading in nuts and bolts.

I am a man who cultivates friendships. I knew a reliable man in the printing trade, one who worked a double day shift, 6 in the morning until 2 one week, 2 in the afternoon until 10 the next, and when the 9 to 5 office staff were out of the building, my man would run off the odd private printing job for his personal customers just for a bit of extra beer money. All right, not strictly honest, but the cards were paid for and they were absolutely top quality.

“Mrs Tremblett, I have a Mr Harry Crabtree from SWE & Co Ltd in Reception to take you to lunch in his Rolls-Royce motor car ... yes ... the Coach...” she nodded, then looked up at me, before continuing, “nuts and bolts ... screw fittings ... yes, a gentleman ... quite ... oh yes, like a shot ... OK.” She hung up the phone and looked up at me again with a much friendlier smile than before.

“She’ll be down shortly, Sir,” she smiled a smile that went all the way up to the eyes, a reflection of enjoying the result of tempting one of her co-workers (or was it the boss?) to do what they usually actively avoided doing.

“Thank you my Dear,” I beamed, “so,” I leaned in over the counter, and dropped my voice conspiratorially low, “should I be afraid of Mrs Tremblett? Does she ... does she bite?”

“Oh, she definitely bites,” the girl giggled, now acting as though she was a co-conspirator with me, “but I don’t think a gentleman like you should be afraid of her. Besides, she told me she’s just going into the bathroom to freshen up her make-up, and that’s got to be a good sign, right?”

“Ahh, so Mrs Tremblett wears make up, does she?” whispering, I leaned over even further and almost choked on the Receptionist’s less than subtle cheap perfume.

“Well, not so’s you’d notice,” the girl divested, equally conspiratorially, “she’s old school, well, not old, er, I mean she’s worn well ... she can be bossy and expects everyone to jump. But...” her face noticeably softened, “when I asked for time off when my Gran was ill ... and then shortly after, when I lost my Gran, well, Mrs Tremblett was ... she was really lovely to me and gave me all the time I needed when I had to go off and cry, even giving me a comforting cuddle once, too.”

“And she’s in charge here? How?” It was extremely rare for a woman to be trusted to be in charge anywhere, out in the Cotswolds sticks, even in the modern 1970s.

“She’s Mr King’s daughter, the Mr King, who is the Managing Director. He normally parks where you’re parked, but he’s bin workin’ in the London office for the past few months.”

“And Mr King’s son or sons?”

“They never worked here, Sir. The company was named after a grandfather of Mr King who only had one son, and they never changed the company name. Mrs Tremblett’s brothers never come in here. They was public schoolboys, an’ moved onto other activities, I hear. They’re probably off spendin’ Mr King’s money in Biarritz or Lanzarote, I shouldn’t wonder. Ahh, here she is now. You won’t tell her I’ve been a bit indiscreet, Sir—”

“Don’t give it a second thought, my Dear,” I smiled my trusty smile, which the Receptionist took as good a promise as she would a blessed bishop’s.

She moved her lips soundlessly, “Thank you, good luck.”

By then we could both hear the click clack of high heels rat-tatting down the metal steps leading from the first floor offices, the first set of stairs down to the landing out of view. We both turned to see a neat pair of black shiny stilettos hoving into view, slim ankles, shapely calves encased in sheer black nylon, leading up to a dark blue skirt, the hem hovering around the knees. As she stepped down, she placed one foot immediately in front of the other; this had the effect of swivelling her hips, swishing the cotton skirt fabric this way, then the other, as her voluptuous hips sashayed into my appreciative eye-line. Her buttoned A-line jacket, which matched her skirt exactly, disguised quite how slim her waist was while barely contained her generous uplifted bust. She had a small handbag slung over her left shoulder, her left hand holding the strap around chest high, clearly showing a prominent and expensive wedding and engagement ring set, her right arm swinging along with the extravagant motions to match her swaying hips. When her long neck and oval face came into view, I was instantly captivated.

Her face was on the long side, but that perfectly matched her long body. I estimated she was about five-ten, possibly five-eleven, even more so in those three-inch heels, her hair long and thick dark brunette with hints of red highlights. Over a delicate chin her lips were full and glossed in a light coral pink, her nose long and thin, her eyebrows thick and unplucked but the fine brown hairs had been kept neatly cut short. Her eyes were a deep dark brown set in blinding white scleras, her dark lashes naturally defined and fortuitously nowhere near as artificially accentuated as the Receptionist’s false mascara-daubed lashes. Mrs Tremblett was an outstandingly attractive early- to middle-thirties woman, I guessed.

For a moment, I regretted not asking the Receptionist anything about Mister Tremblett. But then, when it comes to business, I really am all business, I was here to do the deed and go, the deed being selling regular supplies of my company’s consumables. I would have to sell myself in the process, of course, my honesty in achieving the discounts I could offer, my promises to secure a good deal, my assurances to monitor the delivery schedules and quality of product, to be immediately contactable and responsive to clear up any issues arising from the supply or invoicing. But that was the extent of my selling myself, I was un-bribable and completely incorruptible when it came to serving my customers.

“Mr Crabtree,” the newcomer said with a welcoming, beaming smile, her voice well spoken and slightly husky, one that instantly sent tingles up and down my spine but without grating. “It’s an unexpected pleasure to meet you, and a welcome opportunity to dine at my favourite local restaurant.” She held out her right hand for me to take.

I took it with a smile and we exchanged a gentle handshake. It was a small, warm, long-fingered hand, her nails well-manicured, and polished either with a clear lacquer or a polish with maybe a hint of pink. I held her hand a few seconds longer than I would normally and, for just a moment, considered raising it to my lips for a light kiss, all the while looking into her warm dark brown eyes, with the slightest of Mona Lisa smiles playing upon her mouth. In her heels she was quite as tall as I was, around 6-1, so clearly she was a tall woman at 5-10 in her stockinged feet. “The pleasure is all mine, Ma’am, and I would appreciate your advice on what would be the most satisfactory luncheon dish on offer at the restaurant as this will be my first visit.”

“Certainly, and then we can talk about what surprises you have to offer in the area of small metal fixings.”

“Of course, but no real surprises, just good honest opportunities of benefit to both sides of the arrangement, I assure you. But I would hate for business to spoil a good lunch in pleasant company.”

“Of course not, lunch first, business later.” She turned her head to the girl on Reception, “I’ll be late back Polly, and will no doubt have some catching up to do, so no more appointments today.”

“Certainly, Mrs Tremblett, enjoy your lunch. Goodbye, Mr Crabtree.”

“Goodbye, Miss, I hope to see you again, sometime soon.” I collected my trilby hat in my left hand but did not put it on.

I was definitely old school, and I regarded myself proudly as such. Having served my engineering apprenticeship over seven years on various lathes and bench drills, in a factory full of hundreds of such machines all turning out a variety of fixing widgets, required by engineers all over the world, I found that after serving my required two years in the Army, as a Sapper in the Royal Engineers, I was obliged to return to finish the last two years of my apprenticeship, compressed into a single year. On my return I found that the younger apprentices were no longer obliged to do their Army time, so their training wasn’t interrupted like mine. As a consequence, in those early months since my return, I was rusty but they were better and quicker than I was on the job, and probably better than I would ever be. Now I had experienced the freedom of being outside the all-enveloping factory floor and had wider horizons on my mind. I had my pride, too, knowing my interrupted and curtailed training would always reflect in my work, so I decided to try a move into sales.

The trouble with the sales department back then was that it was almost fully staffed with ex-military officer-types, who had never got their hands on the machinery, never had calloused fingers, dirt under their fingernails or contaminated oil on their faces because they’d scratched their noses during work. They dressed better than I did, with their suits and Regimental ties, still sporting their military titles on their calling cards, such as Captain this and Major that. I had to learn how to dress to impress and suppress my natural broad Brummie accent in favour of the Queen’s English, and I did so.

I knew I had one big advantage over the rest of the sales staff. I had the work experience they lacked. I knew how long it took to produce a million widgets, how long it took to make new patterns, test and harden the pressing dies before going into production. I could give answers to such pertinent questions, while the officers and gentlemen had to refer back to the office, or else embarrass themselves by wildly guessing and getting it equally wildly wrong. Through hard work and dedication, I was able to establish himself in the middle ranking of salesmen, never quite achieving any dramatic sales records, but avoiding the lows where my job was ever in jeopardy.

However, it was love at first sight when introduced to my three-year-old Rolls-Royce motor car and, as soon as I bought her and used it as my business car, it did wonders for my confidence and made it easier to break and melt the ice when cold calling for new business. I found sales flooded in more easily and I soon outstripped all my competitors, and remained to the forefront as top salesman in my firm.

“Would you care to take my arm as I guide you down the steps and direct you to my car, Ma’am?” as we passed through the entrance doors to the outside.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile as she placed a hand on my offered forearm, “Please call me Gina, Harry, otherwise we sound far too stiff and stuffy to be able to relax and enjoy our meal together.”

“Yes, it does sound much more friendly. Is Gina short for anything?”

“Yes, Virginia,” she laughed, changing her overarm grip of my arm to tuck under my arm and hold my upper arm against her breast, “my older brother was three and couldn’t say the whole name when I was newly arrived from the maternity hospital, so I became Gina to him and it stuck.”

“It suits you, it has a more cheerful, even exotic, Continental ring to it.”

“And you’re a Harold?”

“No. My father’s best friend was a Harry, so I’m just plain Harry. Here we are.”

The car was only a short way from the entrance, a gleaming two-tone paint job, silver on navy blue, parked in the Managing Director’s designated spot, as I had admitted earlier, and it looked like it truly belonged there.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed in admiration.

“Yes, she is,” I smiled proudly as I unlocked the passenger door and waved her inside.

“Very nice, Harry, very nice indeed. It has that freshly polished leather smell.”

I closed the door on her with a soft click, before scooting around to the other side.

“I’m glad you like it. I always feel special every time I get into her and effortlessly drive anywhere.”

“I know what you mean, it turns a simple journey to a restaurant into more of an occasion.”

“Exactly.” I beamed, “No matter where I go, the drive getting there is never a chore, always an indulgent pleasure.”

“So, for you, Harry, this is mixing business with pleasure?”

“Oh, I’m all business, Gina, but I do have to eat, so why not take pleasure in the little interludes in between work?”

“So no ulterior motives, Harry?”

“None of course, Ma’am ... Gina.”

Now single, I had once been married for nineteen years, to Mavis Rowbottom, my childhood sweetheart. We were engaged shortly before I started my National Service and, after I resumed work on the factory floor, we married after a two-year engagement, which was usual in the 1950s. We had two children, Gerald, who appeared on the scene just eight months into the marriage, and Sophia Elizabeth following twenty-one months after that. Gerald had gone onto university, studying history and was now teaching mathematics in a grammar school, engaged to be married in a year or so. Daughter Sophia Elizabeth had married a stockbroker and lived in Solihull in a nice suburban house and had just announced that she was pregnant with my first grandchild. My marriage to Mavis ended seven years earlier but took a whole year to go through the divorce court.

Working hard on my sales, and travelling the road from early Monday morning, and sometimes departing Sunday night for those weeks I visited the West Country, and not getting home until very late Friday evening or sometimes Saturday lunchtime, had proved a strain on our relationship. After our two children became teenagers and more independent, Mavis felt my absences even more and so she decided to take a lover. After a two-year affair she felt she was more in love with her lover than she was with me so, under the new divorce laws which made divorces so much easier to obtain, she petitioned for a divorce.

As Mavis had never worked, I had to allow her to live in the family home while the children were still in school or further education, and pay her a monthly allowance for housekeeping and generous personal use, for two years after the divorce. I must confess that I resented the payments, especially as Mavis’s boyfriend moved into my old home with her immediately and, as they never married during that time, the alimony continued until it had fully run its two-year course.

Being such a stranger to my family over the years, the price I paid for being absent for so much of the children’s lives, was that they both sympathised with their mother and told me directly to my shocked face that I was the one at fault for having a career that they believed contributed to the failure of our marriage. So I immediately cut himself off from my family. I never heard again from Gerald for years, except for twice briefly, but Sophia Elizabeth still sent occasional letters addressed to my works office as I no longer had a fixed address that I could call “home”. Sophia Elizabeth had persuaded me to give her away at her wedding four years earlier, but seeing that Mavis was there with her boyfriend on her arm, I only walked her down the aisle and briefly attended the reception after the ceremony, even though I paid every single penny spent on it. Mavis still wasn’t working a full time job, so she didn’t feel she should contribute a penny towards the costs of the wedding. I left before the wedding breakfast was served and missed the meaningless cycle of speeches which promised the couple a long and fruitful marriage.

After two years, I was able to stop paying the alimony and insisted that the family home be sold, as both the children had moved out and lived elsewhere, so it was no longer a family home with my children. There was resentment and tears from Mavis and tearful pleas from Sophia Elizabeth to stay the auctioneer’s hammer, but to no avail. And the only other time I had spoken with my son Gerald since his sister’s wedding, was him pleading with me to not sell the house until their mother reached retirement age. I exploded his stance, I was still more than twenty years away from retirement and pointed out that I needed somewhere to live too. Gerald retorted that as I was away from “home” five or six nights a week anyway, what was the point of having a “home” lying empty most of the time, after all, hadn’t I lived in boarding houses or hotels for the past three years since the divorce proceedings started?

I insisted on the sale, Mavis had no right to hold onto it without children in education. But I noted what Gerald had said about not needing a home base. As a single man I really didn’t need a house that stood empty four or five nights out of seven. From the five thousand pounds I got as my share for selling the family house in a nice area of Brum, I would find it difficult to get much more than a two-bedroom flat with a small mortgage and that would be left empty most of the time. No, I had to admit that I spent more of my time on the road, so it would make sense spending the money on a better quality and more comfortable car. If I could’ve got away with parking a large motor home outside my customers, I might have considered that option!

“You really can only hear the clock ticking,” Gina marvelled, as the car joined the ring road and motored smoothly up to 60. “I thought that was just the tongue-in-cheek advertising campaign.”

“No, it is a lovely smooth ride, with a powerful six-and-three-quarter litre V8 engine, it automatically glides through the gears.”

“Not economical, though, surely?”

“Twelve miles to the gallon, compared to thirty in a smaller economical car, but, hey, where’s the fun in those uncomfortable thirty miles to the gallon?”

“So does your firm pay all your expenses?”

“Not really, I’ve negotiated a weekly average which pays my board and lodgings and contributes towards my fuel and servicing costs closer to what an underpowered and rather tinny Ford or Vauxhall would cost them.”

“And does that include wining and dining customers and potential customers?”

“Again, not totally, but I do have a basic allowance for that purpose which has grown more generous over the years as my sales figures have improved, thanks to the tempting influence of the Roller.”

“How long have you had ... her?” she smiled and I knew she was remembering me referring to the Silver Shadow as a ‘her’.

“Oh, she’s definitely a ‘she’, a perfect female, demanding looking after, expensive even, but in return she purrs like a kitten. I’ve had her for four years, she is seven years young.”

“So you didn’t have any qualms about taking on a ... used model?” she smiled, and I imagined if that question had mixed meanings.

“Salesmen always steer clear of that word ‘used’, Gina. The young daughter of a friend I once gave a lift to told me that this car had always been loved, that we love her now and she was clearly loved before I had her, so she described her as having been ‘preloved’.”

“‘Preloved’, that’s sweet.”

“I agree, ‘used’ sounds like it has been all used up, that its present status is lower than it once was. No, this car was already a classic when it was new, will always be a classic and will always be cared for and loved by its passengers and drivers no matter how old she is. She was loved, she is loved, she will always be loved. Don’t you agree?” I took a moment to glance at my passenger.

Gina smiled as she returned my sidelong glance, “Totally. Sitting here I feel like a duchess.”

“I think they only serve meat and two veg at the pub restaurant, Gina, not duchesses, deeply fried or otherwise. We’re here.”

I checked all my mirrors and signalled a right turn, turned into and parked up in the pub car park. We were early, the normal lunch trade from the industrial estate nearby had not arrived yet, so I was able to park quite close to the entrance to the bars and restaurant.

“Wait there,” I instructed, “I’ll open the door for you.” I strode quickly but unhurriedly around the car on my long legs and helped her step down. I closed the car door with a soft click and locked it with the key, before turning to face my lunch guest with my offered arm and engaging smile. She returned my smile with a brilliant one all of her own before tucking her arm comfortably into the right angle of mine.

Inside the pub, which had a bar off to the right and the restaurant area to the left, I said, “Just wait here a moment, Gina, I need to speak to the waitress about upgrading my original single booking.”

I could feel Gina watching me as I stooped to speak with the young waitress who was almost a foot shorter than I was. The girl made an alteration in her reservation list and confirmed the request back at me with a nod and a sweet smile. I spun on my heels and returned to Gina.