As the Crow Flies
Page 10
By the time I got up the next morning, I had determined to sell the baker’s shop to the highest bidder—unless Charlie Trumper was willing to take on the responsibility himself. Looking back, I certainly had my doubts about whether Charlie was capable of doing the job but in the end they were outweighed by Tata’s high opinion of him.
During my lessons that morning I prepared a plan of action. As soon as school was over I took the train from Hammersmith to Whitechapel, then continued the rest of the journey on foot to Charlie’s home.
Once at Number 112 I banged on the door with the palm of my hand and waited—I remember being surprised that the Trumpers didn’t have a knocker. My call was eventually answered by one of those awful sisters, but I wasn’t quite sure which one it was. I told her I needed to speak to Charlie, and wasn’t surprised to be left standing on the doorstep while she disappeared back into the house. She returned a few minutes later and somewhat grudgingly led me into a little room at the back.
When I left twenty minutes later I felt I had come off with rather the worst of the bargain but another of my father’s aphorisms came to mind: “shnorrers no choosers.”
The following day I signed up for an accountancy course as an “extra option.” The lessons took place during the evening and then only after I had finished my regular schoolwork for the day. To begin with I found the subject somewhat tedious, but as the weeks passed I became fascinated by how meticulously recording each transaction could prove to be so beneficial even to our little business. I had no idea so much money could be saved by simply understanding a balance sheet, debt repayments and how to make claims against tax. My only worry was that I suspected Charlie had never bothered to pay any tax in the first place.
I even began to enjoy my weekly visits to Whitechapel, where I would be given the chance to show off my newfound skills. Although I remained resolute that my partnership with Charlie would come to an end the moment I was offered a place at university, I still believed that with his energy and drive, combined with my levelheaded approach in all matters financial, we would surely have impressed my father and perhaps even Granpa Charlie.
As the time approached for me to concentrate on my matriculation, I decided to offer Charlie the opportunity to buy out my share of the partnership and even arranged for a qualified accountant to replace me in order that they could take over the bookkeeping. Then, yet again, those Germans upset my best laid plans.
This time they killed Charlie’s father, which was a silly mistake because it only made the young fool sign up to fight the lot of them on his own. Typically he didn’t even bother to consult anyone. Off he went to Great Scotland Yard, in that frightful double-breasted suit, silly flat cap and flashy green tie, carrying all the worries of the Empire on his shoulders, leaving me to pick up the pieces. It was little wonder I lost so much weight over the next year, which my mother considered a small compensation for having to associate with the likes of Charlie Trumper.
To make matters worse, a few weeks after Charlie had boarded the train for Edinburgh I was offered a place at London University.
Charlie had left me with only two choices: I could try to run the baker’s shop myself and give up any thought of taking a degree, or I could sell out to the highest bidder. He had dropped me a note the day he left advising me to sell, so sell I did, but despite many hours spent traipsing round the East End I could only find one interested party: Mr. Cohen, who had for some years conducted his tailor’s business from above my father’s shop and wanted to expand. He made me a fair offer in the circumstances and I even picked up another two pounds from one of the street traders for Charlie’s huge barrow; but hard though I tried I couldn’t find a buyer for Granpa Charlie’s dreadful old nineteenth-century relic.
I immediately placed all the money I had collected on deposit in the Bow Building Society at 102 Cheapside for a period of one year at a rate of four percent. I had had no intention of touching it while Charlie Trumper was still away at war, until some five months later Kitty Trumper visited me in Romford. She burst into tears and told me that Charlie had been killed on the Western Front. She added that she didn’t know what would become of the family now that her brother was no longer around to take care of them. I immediately explained to her what my arrangement with Charlie had been, and that at least brought a smile to her face. She agreed to accompany me to the building society the next day so that we could withdraw Charlie’s share of the money.
It was my intention to carry out Charlie’s wishes and see that his share of the money was distributed equally between his three sisters. However, the manager of the society pointed out to us both in the politest possible terms that I was unable to withdraw one penny of the deposit until the first full year had been completed. He even produced the document I had signed to that effect, bringing to my attention the relevant clause. On learning this Kitty immediately leaped up, let out a stream of obscenities that caused the under-manager to turn scarlet, and then flounced out.
Later, I had cause to be grateful for that clause. I could so easily have divided Charlie’s sixty percent between Sal, Grace, and that awful Kitty, who had so obviously lied about her brother’s death. I only became aware of the truth when in July Grace wrote from the front to let me know that Charlie was being sent to Edinburgh following the second battle of the Marne. I vowed there and then to give him his share of the money the day he set foot in England; I wanted to be rid of all those Trumpers and their distracting problems once and for all.
I only wish Tata had lived to see me take up my place at Bedford College. His daughter at London University Whitechapel would never have heard the end of it. But a German zeppelin had put paid to that and crippled my mother into the bargain. As it turned out, Mother was still delighted to remind all her friends that I had been among the first women from the East End to sign the register.
After I had written my letter of acceptance to Bedford I began to look for digs nearer the university: I was determined to show some independence. My mother, whose heart had never fully recovered from the shock of losing Tata, retired to the suburbs to live with Aunt Harriet in Romford. She couldn’t understand why I needed to lodge in London at all, but insisted that any accommodation I settled on had to be approved by the university authorities. She emphasized that I could only share rooms with someone Tata would have considered “acceptable.” Mother never stopped telling me she didn’t care for the lax morals that had become so fashionable since the outbreak of the war.
Although I had kept in contact with several school friends from St. Paul’s, I knew only one who was likely to have surplus accommodation in London, and I considered she might well turn out to be my one hope of not having to spend the rest of my life on a train somewhere between Romford and Regent’s Park. I wrote to Daphne Harcourt-Browne the following day.
She replied inviting me round to tea at her little flat in Chelsea. When I first saw her again I was surprised to find that I was now a little taller than Daphne but that she had lost almost as much weight as I had. Daphne not only welcomed me with open arms but to my surprise expressed delight at the thought of my occupying one of her spare rooms. I insisted that I should pay her rent of five shillings a week and also asked her, somewhat tentatively, if she felt able to come and have tea with my mother in Romford. Daphne seemed amused by the thought and traveled down to Essex with me on the following Tuesday.
My mother and aunt hardly uttered a word the entire afternoon. A monologue that centered on hunt balls, riding to hounds, polo and the disgraceful decline of the manners of guards officers were hardly subjects about which they were often invited to give an opinion. By the time Aunt Harriet had served a second round of muffins I wasn’t at all surprised to see my mother happily nodding her approval.
In fact, the only embarrassing moment the entire afternoon came when Daphne carried the tray out into the kitchen—something I suspected she had not done often before—and spotted my final school report pinned to the pantry door. Mother sm
iled and added to my humiliation by reading its contents out loud: “Miss Salmon displays an uncommon capacity for hard work which, combined with an inquiring and intuitive mind, should augur well for her future at Bedford College. Signed Miss Potter, Headmistress.”
“Ma certainly didn’t bother to display my final report anywhere” was all Daphne had to say on the subject.
After I had moved into Chelsea Terrace, life for both of us quickly settled into a routine. Daphne flitted from party to party while I walked at a slightly faster pace from lecture hall to lecture hall, our two paths rarely crossing.
Despite my apprehension, Daphne turned out to be a wonderful companion to share digs with. Although she showed little interest in my academic life—her energies were spent in the pursuit of foxes and guards officers—she was always brimful of common sense on every subject under the sun, not to mention having constant contact with a string of eligible young men who seemed to arrive in a never-ending convoy at the front door of 97 Chelsea Terrace.
Daphne treated them all with the same disdain, confiding in me that her one true love was still serving on the Western Front—not that she once mentioned his name in my presence.
Whenever I found time to break away from my books, she could always manage to supply a spare young officer to escort me to a concert, a play, even the occasional regimental dance. Although she never showed any interest in what I was up to at university, she often asked questions about the East End and seemed fascinated by my stories of Charlie Trumper and his barrow.
It might have continued like this indefinitely if I hadn’t picked up a copy of the Kensington News, a paper Daphne took so she could find out what was showing at the local picture house.
As I flicked through the pages one Friday evening an advertisement caught my eye. I studied the wording closely to be sure the shop was exactly where I thought it was, folded up the paper and left the flat to check for myself. I strolled down Chelsea Terrace to find the sign in the window of the local greengrocer’s. I must have walked past it for days without noticing: “For sale. Apply John D. Wood, 6 Mount Street, London W1.”
I remembered that Charlie had always wanted to know how prices in Chelsea compared with those in Whitechapel so I decided to find out for him.
The following morning, having asked some leading questions of our local news agent—Mr. Bales always seemed to know exactly what was going on in the Terrace and was only too happy to share his knowledge with anyone who wanted to pass the time of day—I presented myself at the offices of John D. Wood in Mount Street. For some time I was left standing at the counter but eventually one of four assistants came over, introduced himself to me as Mr. Palmer and asked how he could help.
After a closer inspection of the young man, I doubted that he could help anyone. He must have been about seventeen and was so pale and thin he looked as if a gust of wind might blow him away.
“I’d like to know some more details concerning Number 147 Chelsea Terrace,” I said.
He managed to look both surprised and baffled at the same time.
“Number 147 Chelsea Terrace?”
“Number 147 Chelsea Terrace.”
“Would madam please excuse me?” he said and walked over to a filing cabinet, shrugging exaggeratedly as he passed one of his colleagues. I could see him thumb through several papers before returning to the counter with a single sheet; he made no attempt to invite me in or even to offer me a chair.
He placed the single sheet on the countertop and studied it closely.
“A greengrocer’s shop,” he said.
“Yes.”
“The shop frontage,” the young man went on to explain in a tired voice, “is twenty-two feet. The shop itself is a little under one thousand square feet, which includes a small flat on the first floor overlooking the park.”
“What park?” I asked, not certain we were discussing the same property.
“Princess Gardens, madam,” he said.
“That’s a patch of grass a few feet by a few feet,” I informed him, suddenly aware that Mr. Palmer had never visited Chelsea Terrace in his life.
“The premises are freehold,” he continued, not responding to my comment, but at least no longer leaning on the counter. “And the owner would allow vacant possession within thirty days of contracts being signed.”
“What price is the owner asking for the property?” I asked. I was becoming more and more annoyed by being so obviously patronized.
“Our client, a Mrs. Chapman—” continued the assistant.
“Wife of Able Seaman Chapman, late of HMS Boxer,” I informed him. “Killed in action on 8 February 1918, leaving a daughter aged seven and a son aged five.”
Mr. Palmer had the grace to turn white.
“I also know that Mrs. Chapman has arthritis which makes it almost impossible for her to climb those stairs to the little flat,” I added for good measure.
He now looked considerably perplexed. “Yes,” he said. “Well, yes.”
“So how much is Mrs. Chapman hoping the property will fetch?” I insisted. By now Mr. Palmer’s three colleagues had stopped what they were doing in order to follow our conversation.
“One hundred and fifty guineas is being asked for the freehold,” stated the assistant, his eyes fixed on the bottom line of the schedule.
“One hundred and fifty guineas,” I repeated in mock disbelief, without a clue as to what the property was really worth. “She must be living in cloud cuckoo land. Has she forgotten there’s a war on? Offer her one hundred, Mr. Palmer, and don’t bother me again if she expects a penny more.”
“Guineas?” he said hopefully.
“Pounds,” I replied as I wrote out my name and address on the back of the particulars and left it on the counter. Mr. Palmer seemed incapable of speech, and his mouth remained wide open as I turned and walked out of the office.
I made my way back to Chelsea only too aware that I had no intention of buying a shop in the Terrace. In any case, I hadn’t got one hundred pounds, or anything like it. I had just over forty pounds in the bank and not much prospect of raising another bean, but the silly man’s attitude had made me so angry. Still, I decided, there wasn’t much fear of Mrs. Chapman accepting so insulting an offer.
Mrs. Chapman accepted my offer the following morning. Blissfully unaware that I had no obligation to sign any agreement, I put down a ten-pound deposit the same afternoon. Mr. Palmer explained that the money was not returnable, should I fail to complete the contract within thirty days.
“That won’t be a problem,” I told him with bravado, though I hadn’t a clue how I would get hold of the balance of the cash.
For the following twenty-seven days I approached everyone I knew, from the Bow Building Society to distant aunts, even fellow students, but none of them showed the slightest interest in backing a young woman undergraduate to the tune of sixty pounds in order that she could buy a fruit and vegetable shop.
“But it’s a wonderful investment,” I tried to explain to anyone who would listen. “What’s more, Charlie Trumper comes with the deal, the finest fruit and vegetable man the East End has ever seen.” I rarely got beyond this point in my sales patter before expressions of incredulity replaced polite disinterest.
After the first week I came to the reluctant conclusion that Charlie Trumper wasn’t going to be pleased that I had sacrificed ten pounds of our money—six of his and four of mine—just to appease my female vanity. I decided I would carry the six-pound loss myself rather than admit to him I’d made such a fool of myself.
“But why didn’t you talk it over with your mother or your aunt before you went ahead with something quite so drastic?” inquired Daphne on the twenty-sixth day. “After all, they both seemed so sensible to me.”
“And be killed for my trouble? No, thank you,” I told her sharply. “In any case, I’m not that sure they have sixty pounds between them. Even if they did, I don’t think they’d be willing to invest a penny in Charlie Trumper.”
“But your representative completed the transaction yesterday,” Mr. Palmer assured me, looking as if he would never understand what made me tick.
“My representative?” I said.
The assistant checked the file. “Yes, a Miss Daphne Harcourt-Browne of—”
“But why?” I asked.
“I hardly feel that I’m the person to answer that particular question,” offered Mr. Palmer, “as I’ve never set eyes on the lady before yesterday.”
“Quite simple really,” Daphne replied when I put the same question to her that evening. “If Charlie Trumper is half as good as you claim then I’ll have made a very sound investment.”
“Investment?”
“Yes. You see, I require that my capital plus four percent interest should be returned within three years.”
“Four percent?”
“Correct. After all, that’s the amount I am receiving on my war loan stock. On the other hand, should you fail to return my capital plus interest in full, I will require ten percent of the profits from the fourth year onwards.”
“But there may not be any profits.”
“In which case I will automatically take over sixty percent of the assets. Charlie will then own twenty-four percent and you sixteen. Everything you need to know is in this document.” She handed over several pages of tightly worded copy, the last page of which had a seven on the top. “All it now requires is your signature on the bottom line.”
I read through the papers slowly while Daphne poured herself a sherry. She or her advisers seemed to have considered every eventuality.
“There’s only one difference between you and Charlie Trumper,” I told her, penning my signature between two penciled crosses.