On the eve of the World Toy Fair, Henry carefully packed the newly manufactured boxes of Lawyer, Lawyer into the back of his rented Rascal van. Dorothy was already settled in the passenger seat. The entire workforce gathered in the car park to wave them off.
Old Reg leaned in and put his hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘Good luck, Mr Henry. Your father would be proud of you.’
Henry put the car in gear and drove carefully out of the factory car park, Dorothy waving from the window while he tooted the horn until they were all out of sight.
The World Toy Fair at Olympia was very familiar to Henry. He’d worked a stand there with his father from the time he was a boy. Only when his father fell ill did they stop attending. His death had left Henry without the cash or wherewithal to organise a stand. Now, he found himself looking forward to it. But at the same time he was consumed with nerves.
He glanced at Dorothy and said, ‘What if this doesn’t work?’
She smiled back at him. ‘It’ll work.’
‘We could lose every—’
‘We could, but we won’t.’
Most exhibitors had booked a year in advance. When Dorothy had called to make a reservation four months previously, there were few slots remaining. They were allocated a stand on an outside corner.
‘You wouldn’t put a hen in a space as small as this,’ complained Henry when he saw it.
Dorothy, who was staggering under several boxes of order forms and fliers, ignored his pessimism. ‘Help me with these, will you?’ she said, thrusting the surprisingly heavy boxes towards him. Then she looked around, hands resting on her slender hips. ‘Small but perfect. We’re handy for the loo and the café – think of the footfall we’ll have. Couldn’t be better.’
He grudgingly nodded. ‘Suppose so.’
‘Come on, Prince Charming – two more trips and the van will be unloaded.’
Dorothy was a good organiser. By midnight, their little stall looked inviting and ready for the official opening in the morning. Several other exhibitors broke off setting up their own stands and dropped by to chat and reminisce about Henry’s father. One or two were desperate to get a look inside the Lawyer, Lawyer boxes, but Dorothy was having none of it. ‘The premiere is tomorrow, boys! No peeking till then.’
The four days that followed were the busiest they’d ever known. The opening morning was slow, but that afternoon the buyer for Hamleys came by. After Henry talked him through the rules, he couldn’t resist playing a round. Henry let him win, obviously, and the buyer put an order in for such a large amount that Dorothy thought she’d misheard and left a zero off the end. When the buyer leaned over and corrected her, she couldn’t stop herself from kissing him. After that, word of mouth spread quickly. Every toyshop chain and department store was clamouring to place an order for the exciting new game.
As soon as they returned to the factory, the production line got into gear. For the first time in the history of the company, the machines were rolling twenty-four hours a day, five days a week. Extra night-shift staff were taken on to meet the orders, which were coming in from as far afield as Australia and Japan.
Within months Lawyer, Lawyer was the game on every family’s Christmas list. The fat bank manager invited Henry out for lunch. Henry accepted the invitation and was delighted when he heard the name of the restaurant: very expensive and excellent reviews. Henry selected the most extravagantly priced dishes and wine, enjoying the wincing expression of the slug sitting opposite.
Over coffee, and the finest brandy, the bank manager offered Henry as much money as he needed to expand the business. Henry thanked him, but declined to commit himself immediately.
On his return to the office, Henry immediately set about transferring all his company and personal accounts to a rival bank. Then he dictated a fax to his former bank manager, telling him to get stuffed.
A few days later, an order came through from Buckingham Palace. Henry made sure his Press Office (Dorothy) leaked the news to the Nigel Dempster column in the Daily Mail.
The company was now safer than it had been for twenty years, but there was no sitting back on their laurels. It was Old Reg who came up with the next idea. Tapping on Henry’s office door, he came in and explained that his son, who had a degree in electronics and computer science, wanted to devise an electronic version of Lawyer, Lawyer. After discussing the proposal with Dorothy and his new bank manager, Henry began investing in the technology that would produce the first hand-held Carew Family game.
The resulting worldwide sales paid off the mortgage of every Carew employee.
And that was how Henry and his beloved Dorothy came to be sitting in an open-topped Aston Martin on their way to buy Atlantic House, the Cornish holiday home of their dreams.
On the other side of Bodmin, past the wildness of the moor, the scenery grew gentler. Now they were travelling through a verdant countryside of fields and farms.
The Aston got stuck behind a tractor dripping slurry from its huge wheels. The smell of ammonia made Dorothy’s eyes water. Henry started to get frustrated. He accelerated and braked and weaved in and out of his side of the road, banging the steering wheel with his string-gloved hand. ‘Pull over, you village idiot!’ he snarled.
Dorothy saw the time had come to have words. ‘Henry! Do you want me to be sick on the cream leather? Besides, shouldn’t you be trying to make friends with the locals?’
Grumbling, he attempted patience. By the time the old farmer pulled into a small lay-by, waving them through, Henry was almost amiable.
He had barely finished waving a gracious acknowledgement when he found himself stuck behind a bus.
‘What do they want to bring bloody buses down these lanes for?’ he growled.
Dorothy laid a hand on his knee. ‘If we’re going to live here, we have to accept this pace of life.’
Eventually the bus stopped and Henry throttled past.
The roads narrowed into lanes the closer they got to the coast. The hedges, studded with primroses, rose high above them. Signposts boldly announced TREVAY 5 MILES. But as anyone knows, five Cornish miles can mean anything between two and ten.
Dorothy consulted her map and raised her voice to be heard above the wind. ‘We don’t want to get into Trevay itself. There’ll be a turning on the left to Lower Barton first.’
The Aston, stroking the vegetation between the narrow hedgerows, navigated the route to Lower Barton with its beautiful church and pub, then on to Higher Barton with its small supermarket, post office, pasty shop and garage, and finally down the unmade stony road to Treviscum Bay. And there, gleaming in the afternoon sun, stood the most wonderful house Dorothy and Henry had ever set eyes on.
Its large sash windows and porticoed front door seduced them immediately. Yes, the roofline was sagging, several slates were missing and the garden was badly overgrown, but they knew even before setting foot inside the door that they had to have it.
The front door opened and a young man stepped out to greet them.
‘Mr and Mrs Carew? Hello, I’m Trevor from Hawkes Property Agents. Come in, and welcome.’
Inside, the house was cool. There was a faint smell of damp, but the rooms were spacious and filled with sunlight. Henry and Dorothy took in the grandeur of the panelled hall, then followed Trevor into the high-ceilinged drawing room. If they weren’t hopelessly in love with Atlantic House already, the breathtaking view of the ocean from the French windows sealed the deal.
Careful not to sound too enthusiastic,