“On maternity leave, and not expected back for some months. But I know she put an ad in the Grimsby Evening Telegraph for a temp,” he added as a man who looked like a heavyweight boxer stomped into the room.

“Which one of you’s in charge?” he demanded.

Perry pointed to the major.

“We need some help with the unloading, guv.”

“Unloading what?”

“’Undred and forty-eight crates of fish paste jars. Same time every Tuesday. If you haven’t got anyone to unload them, we’ll have to take them back to Doncaster, and that’ll cost you.”

“Perhaps you could give them a hand, Perry.”

“I’m management, major. The unions would down tools if I so much as looked at a crate.”

That was when Fisher realized that every one of them was singing from the same hymn sheet, and he wasn’t the choirmaster.

The major lasted for three days, during which time, not one pot of Bingham’s fish paste left the factory. On balance, he decided that doing battle with the Germans in North Africa was far easier than trying to work with a bunch of bolshie shop stewards on Humberside.

On Friday night, after the workers—all two hundred of them—had collected their wage packets and gone home, the curtain finally came down. The major checked out of the Humber Royal Hotel and took the last train back to London.

*   *   *

“Bingham’s shares have fallen another ten percent,” said Seb.

“What’s the spot price?” asked Bob.

Seb checked the ticker-tape machine in his office. “Seven shillings and sixpence. No, seven shillings and fourpence.”

“But they were a pound only a week ago.”

“I know, but that was before the major beat a hasty retreat back to London.”

“Then it must be time for me to come back and sort the place out,” said Bob.

“Not quite yet. But be sure to have the number of a local travel agent handy.”

“So what am I expected to do in the meantime?” growled Bob.

“Canasta?”

*   *   *

Virginia and Priscilla had barely been on speaking terms for the past week, and a chance remark over breakfast started a row that had been simmering for some time.

“Bofie Bridgwater was telling me last night that—”

“Bofie Bridgwater is a chinless wonder and a prize ass,” snapped Priscilla.

“Who just happens to have a title, and thousands of acres.”

“I’m not interested in his title, and before all this happened I had thousands of acres.”

“And you still would have,” said Virginia, “if you hadn’t made such a fool of yourself in court.”

“How was I to know Robert would be willing to let go of the company? I was simply trying to show how generous I thought he’d been, and now I don’t even have a roof over my head.”