As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  “And what’s that?”

  “You were born in a four-poster bed.”

  As I was quite unable to organize the shop myself and continue with my studies at the university, I quickly came to the conclusion that I would have to appoint a temporary manager. The fact that the three girls who were already employed at Number 147 just giggled whenever I gave any instructions only made the appointment more pressing.

  The following Saturday I began a tour of Chelsea, Fulham and Kensington, staring into shop windows up and down the three boroughs and watching young men going about their business in the hope of eventually finding the right person to run Trumper’s.

  After keeping an eye on several possible candidates who were working in local shops, I finally selected a young man who was an assistant at a fruiterer’s in Kensington. One evening in November I waited for him to finish his day’s work. I then followed him as he began his journey home.

  The ginger-haired lad was heading towards the nearest bus stop when I managed to catch up with him.

  “Good evening, Mr. Makins,” I said.

  “Hello?” He looked round startled and was obviously surprised to discover that an unintroduced young woman knew his name. He carried on walking.

  “I own a greengrocer’s shop in Chelsea Terrace…” I said, keeping up with him stride for stride as he continued on towards the bus stop. He showed even more surprise but didn’t say anything, only quickened his pace. “And I’m looking for a new manager.”

  This piece of information caused Makins to slow down for the first time and look at me more carefully.

  “Chapman’s,” he said. “Was it you who bought Chapman’s?”

  “Yes, but it’s Trumper’s now,” I told him. “And I’m offering you the job as manager at a pound a week more than your present salary.” Not that I had any idea what his present salary was.

  It took several miles on the bus and a lot of questions still to be answered outside his front door before he invited me in to meet his mother. Bob Makins joined us two weeks later as manager of Trumper’s.

  Despite this coup I was disappointed to find at the end of our first month that the shop had made a loss of over three pounds which meant I wasn’t able to return a penny piece to Daphne.

  “Don’t be despondent,” she told me. “Just keep going and there must still be an outside chance the penalty clause will never come into force, especially if on Mr. Trumper’s return he proves half as good as you claim he is.”

  During the previous six months I had been able to keep a more watchful eye on the whereabouts of the elusive Charlie, thanks to the help of a young officer Daphne had introduced me to who worked in the war office. He always seemed to know exactly where Sergeant Charles Trumper of the Royal Fusiliers could be located at any time of the day or night. But I still remained determined to have Trumper’s running smoothly and declaring a profit long before Charlie set foot in the premises.

  However I learned from Daphne’s friend that my errant partner was to be discharged on 20 February 1919, leaving me with little or no time to balance the books. And worse, we had recently found it necessary to replace, two of the three giggling girls who had sadly fallen victim to the Spanish flu epidemic, and sack the third for incompetence.

  I tried to recall all the lessons Tata had taught me when I was a child. If a queue was long then you must serve the customers quickly, but if short you had to take your time: that way the shop would never be empty. People don’t like to go into empty shops, he explained; it makes them feel insecure.

  “On your awning,” he would insist, “should be printed in bold lettering the words ‘Dan Salmon, freshly baked bread, Founded in 1879.’ Repeat name and date at every opportunity; the sort of people who live in the East End like to know you’ve been around for some time. Queues and history: the British have always appreciated the value of both.”

  I tried to implement this philosophy, as I suspected Chelsea was no different from the East End. But in our case the blue awning read, “Charlie Trumper, the honest trader, founded in 1823.” For a few days I had even considered calling the shop “Trumper and Salmon,” but dropped that idea when I realized it would only tie me in with Charlie for life.

  One of the big differences I discovered between the East and the West End was that in Whitechapel the names of debtors were chalked up on a slate, whereas in Chelsea they opened an account. To my surprise, bad debts turned out to be more common in Chelsea than in Whitechapel. By the following month I was still unable to pay anything back to Daphne. It was becoming daily more apparent that my only hope now rested with Charlie.

  On the day he was due back I had lunch in the college dining hall with two friends from my year. I munched away at my apple and toyed with a piece of cheese as I tried to concentrate on their views on Karl Marx. Once I had sucked my third of a pint of milk dry I picked up my books and returned to the lecture theater. Despite being normally mesmerized by the subject of the early Renaissance artists, on this occasion I was grateful to see the professor stacking up his papers a few minutes before the lecture was scheduled to end.

  The tram back to Chelsea seemed to take forever, but at last it came to a halt on the corner of Chelsea Terrace.

  I always enjoyed walking the full length of the street to check how the other shops were faring. First I had to pass the antiques shop where Mr. Rutherford resided. He always raised his hat when he saw me. Then there was the women’s clothes shop at Number 133 with its dresses in the window that I felt I would never be able to afford. Next came Kendrick’s, the butcher’s, where Daphne kept an account; and a few doors on from them was the Italian restaurant with its empty cloth-covered tables. I knew the proprietor must be struggling to make a living, because we could no longer afford to extend him any credit. Finally came the bookshop where dear Mr. Sneddles tried to eke out a living. Although he hadn’t sold a book in weeks he would happily sit at the counter engrossed in his beloved William Blake until it was time to turn the sign on the front door from “Open” to “Closed.” I smiled as I passed by but he didn’t see me.

  I calculated that if Charlie’s train had arrived at King’s Cross on time that morning, he should have already reached Chelsea by now, even if he had had to cover the entire journey on foot.

  I hesitated only for a moment as I approached the shop, then walked straight in. To my chagrin, Charlie was nowhere to be seen. I immediately asked Bob Makins if anyone had called in asking for me.

  “No one, Miss Becky,” Bob confirmed. “Don’t worry, we all remember exactly what was expected of us if Mr. Trumper shows up.” His two new assistants, Patsy and Gladys, nodded their agreement.

  I checked my watch—a few minutes past five—and decided that if Charlie hadn’t turned up by now he was unlikely to appear before the next day. I frowned and told Bob he could start closing up. When six chimed on the clock above the door, I reluctantly asked him to push the blind back in and to lock up while I checked over the day’s takings.

  “Strange that,” said Bob as he arrived by my side at the front door clutching the shop door keys.

  “Strange?”

  “Yes. That man over there. He’s been sitting on the bench for the last hour and has never once taken his eyes off the shop. I only hope there’s nothing wrong with the poor fellow.”

  I glanced across the road. Charlie was sitting, arms folded, staring directly at me. When our eyes met he unfolded his arms, stood up and walked slowly over to join me.

  Neither of us spoke for some time until he said, “So what’s the deal?”

  CHAPTER

  7

  “How do you do, Mr. Trumper? Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” said Bob Makins, rubbing his palm down a green apron before shaking his new master’s outstretched hand.

  Gladys and Patsy both stepped forward and gave Charlie a half curtsy, which brought a smile to Becky’s lips.

  “There’ll be no need for anything like that,” said Charlie. “I’m up from Wh
itechapel and the only bowing and scraping you’ll be doing in future will be for the customers.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the girls in unison, which left Charlie speechless.

  “Bob, will you take Mr. Trumper’s things up to his room?” Becky asked. “While I show him round the shop.”

  “Certainly, miss,” said Bob, looking down at the brown paper parcel and the little box that Charlie had left on the floor by his side. “Is that all there is, Mr. Trumper?” he asked in disbelief.

  Charlie nodded.

  He stared at the two assistants in their smart white blouses and green aprons. They were both standing behind the counter looking as if they weren’t quite sure what to do next. “Off you go, both of you,” said Becky. “But be sure you’re in first thing tomorrow morning. Mr. Trumper’s a stickler when it comes to timekeeping.”

  The two girls collected their little felt bags and scurried away as Charlie sat himself down on a stool next to a box of plums.

  “Now we’re alone,” he said, “you can tell me ’ow all this came about.”

  “Well,” replied Becky, “foolish pride was how it all began but…”

  Long before she had come to the end of her story Charlie was saying, “You’re a wonder, Becky Salmon, a positive wonder.”

  She continued to tell Charlie everything that had taken place during the past year and the only frown to appear on his forehead came when Charlie learned the details of Daphne’s investment.

  “So I’ve got just about two and a half years to pay back the full sixty pounds plus interest?”

  “Plus the first six months’ losses,” said Becky sheepishly.

  “I repeat, Rebecca Salmon, you’re a wonder. If I can’t do something that simple then I’m not worthy to be called your partner.”

  A smile of relief crossed Becky’s face.

  “And do you live ’ere as well?” Charlie asked as he looked up the stairs.

  “Certainly not. I share digs with an old school friend of mine, Daphne Harcourt-Browne. We’re just up the road at 97.”

  “The girl who supplied you with the money?”

  Becky nodded.

  “She must be a good friend,” said Charlie.

  Bob reappeared at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’ve put Mr. Trumper’s things in the bedroom and checked over the flat. Everything seems to be in order.”

  “Thank you, Bob,” said Becky. “As there’s nothing else you can do today, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Will Mr. Trumper be coming to the market, miss?”

  “I doubt it,” said Becky. “So why don’t you do the ordering for tomorrow as usual? I’m sure Mr. Trumper will join you some time later in the week.”

  “Covent Garden?” asked Charlie.

  “Yes, sir,” said Bob.

  “Well, if they ’aven’t moved it I’ll see you there at four-thirty tomorrow morning.”

  Becky watched Bob turn white. “I don’t suppose Mr. Trumper will expect you to be there every morning at four-thirty.” She laughed. “Just until he’s got back in the swing of things. Good night, Bob.”

  “Good night, miss, good night, sir,” said Bob, who left the shop with a perplexed look on his face.

  “What’s all this ‘sir’ and ‘miss’ nonsense?” asked Charlie. “I’m only about a year older than Bob.”

  “So were many of the officers on the Western Front that you called ‘sir.’”

  “But that’s the point. I’m not an officer.”

  “No, but you are the boss. What’s more, you’re no longer in Whitechapel, Charlie. Come on, it’s time you saw your rooms.”

  “Rooms?” said Charlie. “I’ve never had ‘rooms’ in my life. It’s been just trenches, tents and gymnasiums lately.”

  “Well, you have now.” Becky led her partner up the wooden staircase to the first floor and began a guided tour. “Kitchen,” she said. “Small, but ought to serve your purposes. By the way, I’ve seen to it that there are enough knives, forks and crockery for three and I’ve told Gladys that it’s also her responsibility to keep the flat clean and tidy. The front room,” she announced, opening a door, “if one has the nerve to describe something quite this small as a front room.”

  Charlie stared at a sofa and three chairs, all obviously new. “What happened to all my old things?”

  “Most of them were burned on Armistice Day,” admitted Becky. “But I managed to get a shilling for the horsehair chair, with the bed thrown in.”

  “And what about my granpa’s barrow? You didn’t burn that as well?”

  “Certainly not. I tried to sell it, but no one was willing to offer me more than five shillings, so Bob uses it for picking up the produce from the market every morning.”

  “Good,” said Charlie, with a look of relief.

  Becky turned and moved on to the bathroom.

  “Sorry about the stain below the cold water tap,” she said. “None of us could find anything that would shift it however much elbow grease we used. And I must warn you, the lavatory doesn’t always flush.”

  “I’ve never ’ad a toilet inside the ’ouse before,” said Charlie. “Very posh.”

  Becky continued on into the bedroom.

  Charlie tried to take in everything at once, but his eyes settled on a colored picture that had hung above his bed in Whitechapel Road and had once belonged to his mother. He felt there was something familiar about it. His eyes moved on to a chest of drawers, two chairs and a bed he had never seen before. He desperately wanted to show Becky how much he appreciated all she had done, and he settled for bouncing up and down on the corner of the bed.

  “Another first,” said Charlie.

  “Another first?”

  “Yes, curtains. Granpa wouldn’t allow them, you know. He used to say—”

  “Yes, I remember,” said Becky. “Kept you asleep in the morning and prevented you from doing a proper day’s work.”

  “Well, somethin’ like that, except I’m not sure my granpa would ’ave known what the word ‘prevented’ meant,” said Charlie as he began to unpack Tommy’s little box. Becky’s eyes fell on the picture of the Virgin Mary and Child the moment Charlie placed the little painting on the bed. She picked up the oil and began to study it more closely.

  “Where did you get this, Charlie? It’s exquisite.”

  “A friend of mine who died at the front left it to me,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  “Your friend had taste.” Becky kept holding on to the picture. “Any idea who painted it?”

  “No, I ’aven’t.” Charlie stared up at his mother’s framed photo that Becky had hung on the wall. “Blimey,” he said, “it’s exactly the same picture.”

  “Not quite,” said Becky, studying the magazine picture above his bed. “You see, your mother’s is a photograph of a masterpiece by Bronzino, while your friend’s painting, although it looks similar, is actually a damned good copy of the original.” She checked her watch. “I must be off,” she said without warning. “I’ve promised I’d be at the Queen’s Hall by eight o’clock. Mozart.”

  “Mozart. Do I know ’im?”

  “I’ll arrange an introduction in the near future.”

  “So you won’t be ’anging around to cook my first dinner then?” asked Charlie. “You see, I’ve still got so many questions I need to ’ave answered. So many things I want to find out about. To start with—”

  “Sorry, Charlie. I mustn’t be late. See you in the morning though—when I promise I’ll answer all your questions.”

  “First thing?”

  “Yes, but not by your standards,” laughed Becky. “Some time round eight would be my guess.”

  “Do you like this fellow Mozart?” Charlie asked, as Becky felt his eyes studying her more closely.

  “Well, to be honest I don’t know a lot about him myself, but Guy likes him.”

  “Guy?” said Charlie.

  “Yes, Guy. He’s the young man who’s taking me to the concert and I haven�
��t known him long enough to be late. I’ll tell you more about both of them tomorrow. Bye, Charlie.”

  On the walk back to Daphne’s flat Becky couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about deserting Charlie on his first night home and began to think perhaps it had been selfish of her to accept an invitation to go to a concert with Guy that night. But the battalion didn’t give him that many evenings off during the week, and if she didn’t see him when he was free it often turned out to be several days before they could spend another evening together.

  As she opened the front door of 97, Becky could hear Daphne splashing around in the bath.

  “Has he changed?” her friend shouted on hearing the door close.

  “Who?” asked Becky, walking through to the bedroom.

  “Charlie, of course,” said Daphne, pushing open the bathroom door. She stood leaning against the tiled wall with a towel wrapped around her body. She was almost enveloped in a cloud of steam.

  Becky considered the question for a moment. “He’s changed, yes; a lot, in fact, except for his clothes and voice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the voice is the same—I’d recognize it anywhere. The clothes are the same—I’d recognize them anywhere. But he’s not the same.”

  “Am I meant to understand all that?” asked Daphne, as she began to rub her hair vigorously.

  “Well, as he pointed out to me, Bob Makins is only a year younger than he is, but Charlie seems about ten years older than either of us. It must be something that happens to men once they’ve served on the Western Front.”

  “You shouldn’t be surprised by that, but what I want to know is: did the shop come as a surprise to him?”

  “Yes, I think I can honestly say it did.” Becky slipped out of her dress. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a pair of stockings I could borrow, have you?”

  “Third drawer down,” said Daphne. “But in exchange I’d like to borrow your legs.”

  Becky laughed.

  “What’s he like to look at?” Daphne continued as she threw her wet towel on the bathroom floor.