As the Crow Flies (21 page)

“Our
first year’s results. Or have you forgotten that Daphne’s already been paid
back more than half her loan?”

Becky
managed a smile, realizing that while she had been worrying about Guy’s
departure for India, Charlie had been concentrating on solving her other
problem. But despite this news the evening continued in silence, occasionally
punctuated with comments from Charlie that didn’t always receive a reply. She
occasionally sipped the champagne, toyed with her fish, ordered no dessert and
could barely hide her relief when the bill was eventually presented.

Charlie
paid the waiter and left a handsome tip. Daphne would have been proud of him,
Becky thought.

As
she rose from her chair, she felt the room starting to go round in circles.

“Are
you all right?” asked Charlie, placing an arm around her shoulder.

“I’m
fine, just fine,” said Becky. “I’m not used to drinking so much wine two nights
in a row.”

“And
you didn’t eat much dinner either,” said Charlie, guiding her out of the
restaurant and into the cold night air.

They
proceeded arm in arm along Chelsea Terrace and Becky couldn’t help thinking any
casual passerby might have taken them for lovers. When they arrived at the
entrance to Daphne’s flat Charlie had to dig deep into Becky’s bag to find her
keys. Somehow he managed to get the door open, while at the same time still
keeping her propped up against the wall. But then Becky’s legs gave way and he
had to cling to her to stop her from falling. He gathered her up and carried
her in his arms to the first floor. When he reached her flat, he had to perform
a contortion to open the door without actually dropping her. At last he
staggered into the drawing room and lowered her onto the sofa. He stood up and
took his bearings, not sure whether to leave her on the sofa or to investigate
where her bedroom might be.

Charlie
was about to leave when she slipped off onto the floor, muttering something
incoherent, the only word of which he caught was “engaged.”

He
returned to Becky’s side, but this time lifted her firmly up over his shoulder.
He carried her towards a door which, when he opened it, he discovered led to a
bedroom. He placed her gently on top of the bed. As he began to tiptoe back to
the door, she turned and Charlie had to rush back and pull her onto the middle
of the bed to prevent her falling off. He hesitated, then bent over to lift up
her shoulders before undoing the buttons down the back of her dress with his
free hand. Once he had reached the bottom button he lowered her onto the bed,
then lifted her legs high in the air with one hand before he pulled with the
other, inch by inch, until her dress was off. He left her only for a moment
while he placed the dress neatly over a chair.

“Charlie
Trumper,” he said in a whisper, looking down at her, “you’re a blind man, and
you’ve been blind for an awfully lone time.”

He
pulled back the blanket and placed Becky between the sheets, the way he had
seen nurses on the Western Front carry out the same operation with wounded men.

He
tucked her in securely, making sure that the whole process could not repeat
itself. His final action was to lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

You’re
not only blind, Charlie Trumper, you’re a fool, he told himself as he closed
the front door behind him.

“Be
with you in a moment,” said Charlie as he threw some potatoes onto the weighing
machine, while Becky waited patiently in the corner of the shop.

“Anythin’
else, madam?” he asked the customer at the front of the queue. “A few
tangerines, per’aps? Some apples? And I’ve got some lovely grapefruit straight
from South Africa, only arrived in the market this mornin’.”

“No,
thank you, Mr. Trumper, that will be all for today.”

“Then
that’ll be two shillings and five pence, Mrs. Symonds. Bob, could you carry on
serving the next customer while I ‘ave a word with Miss Salmon?”

“Sergeant
Trumper.”

“Sir,”
was Charlie’s instant reaction when he heard the resonant voice. He turnd to
face the tall man who stood in front of him, straight as a ramrod, dressed in a
Harris tweed jacket and cavalry twill trousers and carrying a brown felt hat.

“I
never forget a face,” the man said, although Charlie would have remained
perplexed if it hadn’t been for the monocle.

“Good
God,” said Charlie, standing to attention.

“No,
‘colonel’ will do,” the other man said, laughing. “And no need for any of that
bull. Those days have long gone. Although it’s been some time since we last
met, Trumper.”

“Nearly
two years, sir.”

“Seems
longer than that to me,” the colonel said wistfully. “You certainly turnd out
to be right about Prescott, didn’t you? And you were a good friend to him.”

“‘E
was a good friend to me.”

“And
a first-class soldier. Deserved his MM.”

“Couldn’t
agree with you more, sir.”

“Would
have got one yourself, Trumper, but the rations were up after Prescott. Afraid
it was only ‘mentioned in dispatches’ for you.”

“The
right man got the medal.”

“Terrible
way to die, though. The thought of it still haunts me, you know,” said the
colonel. “Only yards from the tape.”

“Not
your fault, sir. If anyone’s, it was mine.”

“If
it was anyone’s fault, it was certainly not yours,” said the colonel. “And best
forgotten, I suspect,” he added without explanation.

“So
‘ow’s the regiment comin’ along?” asked Charlie. “Survivin’ without me?”

“And
without me, I’m afraid,” said the colonel, placing some apples into the
shopping bag he was carrying. “They’ve departed for India, but not before they
put this old horse out to grass.”

“I’m
sorry to ‘ear that, sir. Your ‘ale life was the regiment.”

“True,
though even Fusiliers have to succumb to the Geddes axe. To be honest with you,
I’m an infantryman myself, always have been, and I never did get the hang of
those newfangled tanks.”

“If
we’d only ‘ad ‘em a couple of years earlier, sir, they might ‘ave saved a few
lives.”

“Played
their part, I’m bound to admit.” The colonel nodded. “Like to think I played my
part as well.” He touched the knot of his striped tie. “Will we be seeing you
at the regimental dinner, Trumper?”

“I
didn’t even know there was one, sir.”

“Twice
annually. First one in January, men only, second one in May with the memsahibs,
which is also a ball. Gives the comrades a chance to get together and have a
chinwag about old times. Would be nice if you could be on parade, Trumper. You
see, I’m the president of the ball committee this year and rather hoping for a
respectable turnout.”

“Then
count me in, sir.”

“Good
man. I’ll see that the office gets in touch with you pronto, ten shillings a
ticket, and all you can drink thrown in, which I’m sure will be no hardship for
you,” added the colonel, looking round the busy shop.

“And
can I get you anythin’ while you’re ‘ere, sir?” Charlie asked, suddenly aware a
long queue was forming behind the colonel.

“No,
no, your able assistant has already taken excellent care of me, and as you can
see I have completed the memsahib’s written instructions.” He held up a thin
slip of paper bearing a list with a row of ticks down one side.

“Then
I’ll look forward to seeing you on the night of the ball, sir,” said Charlie.

The
colonel nodded and then stepped out onto the pavement without another word.

Becky
strolled over to join her partner, only too aware that he had quite forgotten
that she had been waiting to have a word with him. “You’re still standing to
attention, Charlie,” she teased.

“That
was my commanding officer, Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton,” said Charlie a little
pompously. “Led us at the front, ‘e did, a gentleman, and ‘e remembered my
name.”

“Charlie,
if you could only hear yourself. A gentle man he may be, but he’s the one who’s
out of work, while you’re running a thriving business. I know which I’d rather
be.”

“But
‘e’s the commanding officer. Don’t you understand?”

“Was,”
said Becky. “And he was also quick to point out the regiment has gone to India
without him.”

“That
doesn’t change anythin’.”

“Mark
my words, Charlie Trumper, that man will end up calling you ‘sir.’”

Guy
had been away almost a week, and sometimes Becky could now go a whole hour
without thinking about him.

She
had sat up most of the previous night composing a letter to him although when
she left for her morning lecture the following day she walked straight past the
pillar box. She had managed to convince herself that the blame for failing to
complete the letter should be placed firmly on the shoulders of Mr. Palmer.

Becky
had been disappointed to find their engagement had not been announced in The
Times the next day, and became quite desperate when it failed to appear on any
other day during that week. When in desperation she phoned Garrard’s on the
following Monday they claimed they knew nothing of a ring ordered in the name
of a Captain Trentham of the Royal Fusiliers. Becky decided she would wait a
further week before she wrote to Guy. She felt there must be some simple
explanation.

Guy
was still very much on her mind when she entered the offices of John D. Wood in
Mount Street. She palmed the flat bell on the counter and asked an inquiring
assistant if she could speak to Mr. Palmer.

“Mr.
Palmer? We don’t have a Mr. Palmer any longer,” she was told. “He was called up
nearly a year ago, miss. Can I be of any assistance?”

Becky
gripped the counter. “All right then, I’d like to speak to one of the partners,”
she said fimmly.

“May
I know the nature of your inquiry?” asked the assistant.

“Yes,”
said Becky. “I’ve come to discuss the instructions for the sale of 131 and 135
Chelsea Terrace.”

“Ah
yes, and may I ask who it is inquiring?”

“Miss
Rebecca Salmon.”

“I
won’t be a moment,” the young man promised her, but didn’t return for several
minutes. When he did he was accompanied by a much older man, who wore a long
black coat and hoary-rimmed spectacles. A silver chain dangled from his
waistcoat pocket.

“Good
morning, Miss Salmon,” the older man said. “My name is Crowther. Perhaps you’d
be good enough to join me.” He raised the counter lid and ushered her through.
Becky duly followed in his wake.

“Good
weather for this time of the year, wouldn’t you say, madam?”

Becky
stared out of the window and watched the umbrellas bobbing up and down along
the pavement, but decided not to comment on Mr. Crowther’s meteorological
judgment.

Once
they had reached a poky little room at the back of the building he announced
with obvious pride, “This is my office. Won’t you please be seated, Miss
Salmon?” He gestured towards an uncomfortably low chair placed opposite his
desk. He then sat down in his own high-backed chair. “I’m a partner of the
firm,” he explained, “but I must confess a very junior partner.” He laughed at
his own joke. “Now, how can I help you?

“My
colleague and I want to acquire Numbers 131 and 135 Chelsea Terrace,” she said.

“Quite
so,” said Mr. Crowther, looking down at his file. “And on this occasion will
Miss Daphne HarcourtBrowne... “

“Miss
Harcourt-Browne will not be involved in this transaction and if, because of
that, you feel unable to deal with Mr. Trumper or myself, we shall be happy to
approach the vendors direct.” Becky held her breath.

“Oh,
please don’t misunderstand me, madam. I’m sure we will have no trouble in
continuing to do business with you.”

“Thank
you.”

“Now,
let us start with Number 135,” said Mr. Crowther, pushing his spectacles back
un his nose before he leafed through the file in front of him. “Ah yes, dear
Mr. Kendrick, a first-class butcher, you know. Sadly he is now considering an
early retirement.”

Becky
sighed, and Mr. Crowther looked up at her over his spectacles.

“His
doctor has told him that he has no choice if he hopes to live more than a few
more months,” she said.

“Quite
so,” said Mr. Crowther, resuming to his file. “Well, it seems that his asking
price is one hundred and fifty pounds for the freehold, plus one hundred pounds
for the goodwill of the business.”

“And
how much will he take?”

“I’m
not quite sure I catch your drift, madam.” The junior partner raised his
eyebrows.

“Mr.
Crowther, before we waste another minute of each other’s time I feel I should
let you know in confidence that it is our intention to purchase, if the price
is right, every shop that becomes available in Chelsea Terrace, with the
long-term aim of owning the entire block, even if it takes us a lifetime to
achieve. It is not my intention to visit your office regularly for the next
twenty years for the sole purpose of shadowboxing with you. By then I suspect
you will be a senior partner, and both of us will have better things to do. Do
I make myself clear?”