As the Crow Flies (19 page)

“Your
mother approves of Charlie Trumper?” said Becky in disbelief.

“Oh,
yes, darling, but then you see Mummy realizes that I have no intention of
marrying Charlie.”

“Be
careful, I had no intention of marrying Guy.”

“My
darling, never forget you spring from the romantic classes, whereas I come from
a more practical background, which is exactly why the aristocracy have survived
for so long. No, I shall end up marrying a certain Percy Wiltshire and it’s got
nothing to do with destiny or the stars, it’s just good old-fashioned common
sense.”

“But
is Mr. Wiltshire aware of your plans for his future?”

“Of
course the marquise of Wiltshire isn’t. Even his mother hasn’t told him yet.”

“But
what if Charlie were to fall in love with you?”

“That’s
not possible. You see, there’s another woman in his life.”

“Good
heavens,” said Becky. “And to think I’ve never met her.”

The
shop’s six-month and nine-month figures showed a considerable improvement on
the first quarter’s, as Daphne discovered to her cost when she received her
next dividends. She told Becky that at this rate she couldn’t hope to make any
long-term profit from her loan. As for Becky herself, she spent less and less
of her time thinking about Daphne, Charlie or the shop as the hour drew nearer
for Guy’s departure to India.

India...
Becky hadn’t slept the night she had learned of Guy’s three-year posting and
she certainly might have wished to discover something that would so disrupt
their future from his lips and not Daphne’s. In the past Becky had accepted, without
question, that because of Guy’s duties with the regiment it would not be
possible for them to see each other on a regular basis, but as the time of his
departure drew nearer she began to resent guard duty, night exercises and most
of all, any weekend operations in which the Fusiliers were expected to take
part.

Becky
had feared that Guy’s attentions would cool after her distressing visit to
Ashurst Hall, but if anything he became even more ardent and kept repeating how
different it would all be once they were married.

But
then, as if without warning, the months became weeks, the weeks days, until the
dreaded circle Becky had penciled around 3 February 1920 on the calendar by the
side of her bed was suddenly upon them.

“Let’s
have dinner at the Cafe Royal, where we spent our first evening together,” Guy
suggested, the Monday before he was due to leave.

“No,”
said Becky. “I don’t want to share you with a hundred strangers on our last
evening.” She hesitated before adding, “If you can face the thought of my
cooking, I’d rather give you dinner at the flat. At least that way we can be on
our own.”

Guy
smiled.

Once
the shop seemed to be running smoothly Becky didn’t drop in every day, but she
couldn’t resist a glance through the window whenever she passed Number 147. She
was surprised to find at eight o’clock that particular Monday morning that
Charlie wasn’t to be seen behind the counter.

“Over
here,” she heard a voice cry and turned to find Charlie sitting on the same
bench opposite the shop where she had first spotted him the day he returned to
London. She crossed the road to join him.

“What’s
this, taking early retirement before we’ve repaid the loan?”

“Certainly
not. I’m working.”

“Working?
Please explain, Mr. Trumper, how lounging about on a park bench on a Monday
morning can be described as work?”

“It
was Henry Ford who taught us that ‘For every minute of action, there should be
an hour of thought,”‘ said Charlie, with only a slight trace of his old Cockney
accent; Becky also couldn’t help noticing how he had pronounced “Henry.”

“And
where are those Fordian-like thoughts taking you at this particular moment?”
she asked.

“To
that row of shops opposite.”

“All
of them?” Becky looked over at the block.

“And
what conclusion would Mr. Ford have come to had he been sitting on this bench,
pray?”

“That
they represent thirty-six different ways of making money.”

“I’ve
never counted them, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“But
what else do you see when you look across the road?”

Becky’s
eyes returned to Chelsea Terrace. “Lots of people walking up and down the
pavement, mainly ladies with parasols, nannies pushing prams, and the odd child
with a skipping rope or hoop.” She paused. “Why, what do you see?”

“Two
‘For Sale’ signs.”

“I
confess I hadn’t noticed them.” Once again she looked across the road.

“That’s
because you’re looking with a different pair of eyes,” Charlie explained.

“First
there’s Kendrick’s the butcher. Well, we all know about him, don’t we? Heart
attack, been advised by his doctor to retire early or he can’t hope to live
much longer.”

“And
then there’s Mr. Rutherford,” said Becky, spotting the second “For Sale” sign.

“The
antiques dealer. Oh, yes, dear Julian wants to sell up and join his friend in
New York, where society is a little more sympathetic when it comes to his
particular proclivities like that word?”

“How
did you find ?”

“Information,”
said Charlie, touching his nose. “The life blood of any business.”

“Another
Fordian principle?”

“No,
much nearer home than that,” admitted Charlie. “Daphne Harcourt-Browne.”

Becky
smiled. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“I’m
going to get hold of them both, aren’t I?”

“And
how do you intend to do that?”

“With
my cunning and your diligence.”

“Are
you being serious, Charlie Trumper?”

“Never
more.” Charlie turned to face her once again. “After all, why should Chelsea
Terrace be any different from Whitechapel?”

“Just
the odd decimal point, perhaps,” suggested Becky.

“Then
let’s move that decimal point, Miss Salmon. Because the time has come for you
to stop being a sleeping partner and start fulfilling your end of the bargain.”

“But
what about my exams?”

“Use
the extra time you’ll have now that your boyfriend has departed for India.”

“He
goes tomorrow, actually.”

“Then
I’ll grant you a further day’s leave. Isn’t that how officers describe a day
off? Because tomorrow I want you to return to John D. Wood and make an
appointment to see that pimply young assistant what was his name?”

“Palmer,”
said Becky.

“Yes,
Palmer,” said Charlie. “Instruct him to negotiate a price on our behalf for
both those shops, and warn him that we’re also interested in anything else that
might come up in Chelsea Terrace.”

“Anything
else in Chelsea Terrace?” said Becky, who had begun making notes on the back of
her textbook.

“Yes,
and we’ll also need to raise nearly all the money it’s going to cost to
purchase the freeholds, so visit several banks and see that you get good terms.
Don’t consider anything above four percent.”

“Nothing
above four percent,” repeated Becky. Looking up, she added, “But thirty-six
shops, Charlie?”

“I
know, it could take an awful long time.”

*
* *

In
the Bedford College library, Becky tried to push Charlie’s dreams of being the
next Mr. Selfridge to one side as she attempted to complete an essay on the
influence of Bemini on seventeenth-century sculpture. But her mind kept
switching from Bemini to Charlie and then back to Guy. Unable to grapple with
the modern, Becky felt she was having even less success with the ancient so she
came to the conclusion that her essay would have to be postponed until she
could find more time to concentrate on the past.

During
her lunch break she sat on the red brick wall outside the library, munching a
Cox’s orange pippin while continuing to think. She took one last bite before
tossing the core into a nearby wastepaper basket and everything else back into
her satchel before beginning her journey westward to Chelsea.

Once
she had reached the Terrace her first stop was the butcher’s shop, where she
picked up a leg of lamb and told Mrs. Kendrick how sorry she was to hear about
her husband. When she paid the bill she noted that the assistants, though well
trained, didn’t show a great deal of initiative. Customers escaped with only
what they had come in for, which Charlie would never have allowed them to do.
She then joined the queue at Trumper’s and drew Charlie to serve her.

“Something
special, madam?”

“Two
pounds of potatoes, one pound of button mushrooms, a cabbage and a cantaloupe
melon.”

“It’s
your lucky day, madam. The melon should be eaten this very evening,” he said,
just pressing the top – lightly. “Can I interest madam in anything else? A few
oranges, a grapefruit perhaps?”

“No,
thank you, my good man.”

“Then
that’ll be three shillings and fourpence, madam.”

“But
don’t I get a Cox’s orange pippin thrown in like all the other girls?”

“No,
sorry, madam, such privileges are reserved only for our regular customers. Mind
you, I could be persuaded, if I was asked to share that melon with you tonight.
Which would give me the chance to explain in detail my master plan for Chelsea
Terrace, London, the world... “

“Can’t
tonight, Charlie. Guy’s leaving for India in the morning.”

“Of
course, ‘ow silly of me, sorry. I forgot.” He sounded uncharacteristically
flustered. “Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Yes,
why not?”

“Then
as a special treat I’ll take you out to dinner. Pick you up at eight.”

“It’s
a deal, partner,” said Becky, hoping she sounded like Mae West.

Charlie
was suddenly distracted by a large lady who had taken her place at the front of
the queue.

“Ah,
Lady Nourse,” said Charlie, returning to his cockney accent, “your usual swedes
and turnips, or are we going to be a little more adventurous today, m’lady?”

Becky
looked back to watch Lady Nourse, who wasn’t a day under sixty, blush as her
ample breast swelled with satisfaction.

Once
she had returned to her flat, Becky quickly checked the drawing room over to be
sure that it was clean and tidy. The maid had done a thorough job and as Daphne
hadn’t yet returned from one of her long weekends at Harcourt Hall there was
little for her to do other than plumping up the odd cushion and drawing the
curtains.

Becky
decided to prepare as much of the evening meal as possible before having a
bath. She was already regretting turning down Daphne’s offer of the use of a
cook and a couple of maids from Lowndes Square to help her out, but she was
determined to have Guy to herself for a change, although she knew her mother
wouldn’t approve of having dinner with a male friend without Daphne or a
chaperone to keep an eye on them.

Melon,
followed by leg of lamb with potatoes, cabbage and some button mushrooms:
surely that would have met with her mother’s approval. But she suspected that
approval would not have been extended to wasting hard-earned money on the
bottle of Nuits St. George that she had purchased from Mr. Cuthbert at Number
101. Becky peeled the potatoes, basted the lamb and checked she had some mint
before removing the stalk on the cabbage.

As
she uncorked the wine she decided that in future she would have to purchase all
her goods locally, to be sure that her information on what was taking place in
the Terrace was as up to date as Charlie’s. Before going to undress she also
checked there was still some brandy left over in the bottle she had been given
the previous Christmas.

She
lay soaking in a hot bath for some time as she thought through which banks she
would approach and, more important, how she would present her case. The
detailed figures both of Trumper’s income and a time schedule required for the
repayment of any loan... her mind drifted back from Charlie to Guy, and why it
was that neither of them would ever talk about the other.

When
Becky heard the bedroom clock chime the half hour she leaped out of the bath in
a panic, suddenly realizing how much time her thoughts must have occupied and
only too aware that Guy was certain to appear on the doorstep as the clock
struck eight. The one thing you could guarantee with a soldier, Daphne had
warned her, was that he always turned up on time.

Clothes
were strewn all over both their bedroom floors as Becky emptied half Daphne’s
wardrobe and most of her own in a desperate attempt to find something to wear.
In the end she chose the dress Daphne had worn at the Fusiliers Ball, and never
worn since. Once she had managed to do up the top button she checked herself in
the mirror. Becky felt confident she would “pass muster.” The clock on the
mantelpiece struck eight and the doorbell rang.

Guy,
wearing a double-breasted regimental blazer and cavalry twills, entered the
room carrying another bottle of red wine as well as a dozen red roses. Once he
had placed both offerings on the table, he took Becky in his arms.