my shop? I’ve got a living to make.’
‘C’mon, Morgan, where’s your sense of adventure? It’s me that’s taking the risk. I’ve left Rory in charge. They’ll probably dig up the Queen Mary today, and drop it under a bus.’
It didn’t take long. Ross and Makepeace were in one of those dreadfully boring new factories off the A4, near Slough. We parked in a yard full of containers, Portakabins and dumps of crushed white polystyrene. The entrance was chic, huge red pipes and black Formica, but the other three sides were duller than a cardboard box outside a supermarket. I just knew we weren’t going to find anything. We were led through a long workshop full of women in spotless white overalls doing things to lines of matt-black metal boxes. Rows of pale green or red futuristic numbers glowed at us from LCD displays, like the eyes of mad electronic rats.
Mr Makepeace went with his works. He switched on his smile like an LCD display, and shook our hands, ladies first. He must have been over sixty, but you could just tell he played squash three times a week, and had his cholesterol level checked once a month.
Once we had sat down, he announced, ‘I know nothing about this model ship business at all,’ and beamed at us through his outsize metal-rimmed spectacles. I mean, what do you say to that?
But the next moment, with another electronic beam, he relented and said, ‘It’s my father you want. I’m afraid Father and I don’t see eye to eye about anything. But since he’s still the principal shareholder in the firm, he has his little way. Or at least, he goes his way and the firm goes mine.’ He nodded across his large office, to where there was a door. A door like nothing else in that stainless steel and glass place. It was a very large door, a Georgian door, in dark-red highly-polished mahogany.
And I was pleased also to see a slight tinge of nervousness in that superior stainless smile.
We rose, and knocked on that door gently, and a voice boomed, ‘Come,’ and we went into what seemed at first total darkness.
Except there was a coal fire burning, in a glorious heavy oak fireplace; and a couple of old brass and green glass desk-lights switched on, on a huge leathertopped desk. There were modern windows, but they were so heavily curtained with red velvet drapes, and the room was so full of cigarette-smoke that the light they gave was dim. The heat in the room was horrific.
A very old man rose slowly to his feet and held out a huge hand. For he was a huge old man, made even bulkier by a Harris-tweed suit. His newly-washed silver hair fell across a tall forehead in a glorious wave. His features were craggy; only the deep setting of his eyes spoke of age.
‘Mr Morgan and Ms Studdart? I suppose you like being called Ms? All this modern stuff and nonsense! Sit ye down, sit ye down!’
We settled in comfortably upholstered 1920s deskchairs.
‘Now, what can I do for you?’ He lit another cigarette from the stub of the last, with vigorous puffs.
Very carefully, Hermione explained about our find.
‘Olympic? Serial number 10167? Never thought to hear of her again. We only made one, you know. Heard she went to the bottom with all hands, on the Wheatstone Pond! Run down by some young fool in a rowing-boat . . . Wasn’t looking where he was going, eh?’ He went into a paroxysm of coughing, ending up by disposing of something into a huge white handkerchief in a very business-like way.
Then he said, ‘You want to sell her, of course? We’ll give you a fair market price for her. Just glad to get her back, after all these years.’ He gave a gesture with a huge hand, and suddenly I saw what was on the walls.
Huge glass cases. Huge model ships inside.
‘Thirteen thousand models we made in all. In nearly a hundred years. Not bad going, eh? The First War half killed us, and the Second War finished us off. No money to pay for quality after that – the Americans bled this country dry, you know. Bled us dry. Didn’t start Lease-Lend till we were flat stoney broke. Now all we make is damned black boxes. Thirteen thousand models, and in a lifetime I’ve got back twenty-seven of them. Where’s the rest, eh, eh? Tell me that. One comes up at Christie’s, from time to