One evening, it must have been about a month later, I returned home from the office to find Cathy pacing up and down the hall. My immediate thoughts were that she must be agonizing over the past. I could not have been more wrong.
"You've got your staffing policy all wrong," she said as I closed the door behind me.
"I beg your pardon, young lady?" I had not even been given enough time to shed my topcoat.
"It's all wrong," she repeated. "The Americans are saving thousands of dollars in their stores with time and motion studies while Trumper's is behaving as if they're still roaming around on the ark."
"Captive audience on the ark," I reminded her.
"Until it stopped raining," she replied. "Charlie, you must realize that the company could be saving at least eighty thousand a year on wages alone. I haven't been idle these last few weeks. In fact, I've put together a report to prove my point." She thrust a cardboard box into my arms and marched out of the room.
For over an hour after dinner I rummaged into the box and read through Cathy's preliminary findings. She had spotted an overmanning situation that we had all missed and characteristically explained in great detail how the situation could be dealt with without offending the unions.
Over breakfast the following morning Cathy continued to explain her findings to me as if I had never been to bed. "Are you still listening, Chairman?" she demanded. She always called me "Chairman" when she was wanted to make a point. A ploy I felt sure she had picked up from Daphne.
"You're all talk," I told her, which caused even Becky to glance over the top of her paper.
"Do you want me to prove I'm right?" Cathy asked.
"Be my guest."
From that day on, whenever I carried out my morning rounds, I would invariably come across Cathy working on a different floor, questioning, watching or simply taking copious notes, often with a stopwatch in her other hand. I never asked her what she was up to and if she ever caught my eye all she would say was, "Good day, Chairman."
At weekends I could hear Cathy typing away in her room for hour after hour. Then, without warning, one morning at breakfast I discovered a thick file waiting for me in the place where I had hoped to find an egg, two rashers of bacon and The Sunday Times.
That afternoon I began reading through what Cathy had prepared for me. By the early evening I had come to the conclusion that the board must implement most of her recommendations without further delay.
I knew exactly what I wanted to do next but felt it needed Dr. Atkins' blessing. I phoned Addenbrooke's that evening and the ward sister kindly entrusted me with his home number. We spent over an hour on the phone. He had no fears for Cathy's future, he assured me, especially since she'd begun to remember little incidents from her past and was now even willing to talk about Daniel.
When I came down to breakfast the following morning I found Cathy sitting at the table waiting for me. She didn't say a word as I munched through my toast and marmalade pretending to be engrossed in the Financial Times.
"All right, I give in," she said.
"Better not," I warned her, without looking up from my paper. "Because you're item number seven on the agenda for next month's board meeting."
"But who's going to present my case?" asked Cathy, sounding anxious.
"Not me, that's for sure," I replied. "And I can't think of anyone else who'd be willing to do so."
For the next fortnight whenever I retired to bed I became aware when passing Cathy's room that the typing had stopped. I was so filled with curiosity that once I even peered through the half-open bedroom door. Cathy stood facing a mirror, by her side was a large white board resting on an easel. The board was covered in a mass of colored pins and dotted arrows.
"Go away," she said, without even turning round. I realized there was nothing for it but to wait until the board was due to meet.
Dr. Atkins had warned me that the ordeal of having to present her case in public might turn out to be too much for the girl and I was to get her home if she began to show any signs of stress. "Be sure you don't push her too far," were his final words.
"I won't let that happen," I promised him.
That Thursday morning the board members were all seated in their places round the table by three minutes to ten. The meeting began on a quiet note, with apologies for absence, followed by the acceptance of the minutes of the last meeting. We somehow still managed to keep Cathy waiting for over an hour, because when we came to item number three on the agenda—a rubber stamp decision to renew the company's insurance policy with the Prudential—Nigel Trentham used the opportunity simply as an excuse to irritate me—hoping, I suspected, that I would eventually lose my temper. I might have done, if he hadn't so obviously wanted me to.
"I think the time has come for a change, Mr. Chairman," he said. "I suggest we transfer our business to Legal and General."
I stared down the left-hand side of the table to focus on the man whose very presence always brought back memories of Guy Trentham and what he might have looked like in late middle age. The younger brother wore a smart well-tailored double-breasted suit that successfully disguised his weight problem. However, there was nothing that could disguise the double chin or balding pate.
"I must point out to the board," I began, "that Trumper's has been with the Prudential for over thirty years. And what is more, they have never let the company down in the past. Just as important, Legal and General are highly unlikely to be able to offer more favorable terms."
"But they're in possession of two percent of the company's stock," Trentham pointed out.
"The Pru still have five percent," I reminded my fellow directors, aware that once again Trentham hadn't done his homework. The argument might have been lobbed backwards and forwards for hours like a Drobny-Fraser tennis match had Daphne not intervened and called for a vote.
Although Trentham lost by seven to three, the altercation served to remind everyone round that table what his long-term purpose must be. For the past eighteen months Trentham had, with the help of his mother's money, been building up his shareholding in the company to a position I estimated to be around fourteen percent. This would have been controllable had I not been painfully aware that the Hardcastle Trust also held a further seventeen percent of our stock—stock which had originally been intended for Daniel but which would on the death of Mrs. Trentham pass automatically to Sir Raymond's next of kin. Although Nigel Trentham lost the vote, he showed no sign of distress as he rearranged his papers, casting an aside to Paul Merrick who was seated on his left. He obviously felt confident that time was on his side.
"Item seven," I said, and leaning over to Jessica I asked if she would invite Miss Ross to join us. When Cathy entered the room every man around that table stood. Even Trentham half rose from his place.
Cathy placed two boards on the easel that had already been set up for her, one full of charts, the other covered in statistics. She turned to face us. I greeted her with a warm smile.
"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.