As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  Becky considered the question. “An inch, perhaps two, under six feet, every bit as large as his father, only in his case it’s muscle, not fat. He’s not exactly Douglas Fairbanks, but some might consider him handsome.”

  “He’s beginning to sound my type,” said Daphne as she rummaged around among her clothes to find something suitable.

  “Hardly, my dear,” said Becky. “I can’t see Brigadier Harcourt-Browne welcoming Charlie Trumper to morning sherry before the Cottenham Hunt.”

  “You’re such a snob, Rebecca Salmon,” said Daphne, laughing. “We may share rooms, but don’t forget you and Charlie originate from the same stable. Come to think of it, you only met Guy because of me.”

  “Too true,” Becky said, “but surely I get a little credit for St. Paul’s and London University?”

  “Not where I come from, you don’t,” said Daphne, as she checked her nails. “Can’t stop and chatter with the working class now, darling,” she continued. “Must be off. Henry Bromsgrove is taking me to a flapper dance in Chelsea. And wet as our Henry is, I do enjoy an invitation to stalk at his country home in Scotland every August. Tootle pip!”

  As Becky drew her bath, she thought about Daphne’s words, delivered with humor and affection but still highlighting the problems she faced when trying to cross the established social barriers for more than a few moments.

  Daphne had indeed introduced her to Guy, only a few weeks before, when Daphne had persuaded her to make up a party to see La Bohème at Covent Garden. Becky could still recall that first meeting clearly. She had tried so hard not to like him as they shared a drink at the Crush Bar, especially after Daphne’s warning about his reputation. She had tried not to stare too obviously at the slim young man who stood before her. His thick blond hair, deep blue eyes and effortless charm had probably captivated the hearts of a host of women that evening, but as Becky assumed that every girl received exactly the same treatment, she avoided allowing herself to be flattered by him. She regretted her offhand attitude the moment he had returned to his box, and found that during the second act she spent a considerable amount of her time just staring across at him, then turning her attention quickly back to the stage whenever their eyes met.

  The following evening Daphne asked her what she had thought of the young officer she had met at the opera.

  “Remind me of his name,” said Becky.

  “Oh, I see,” said Daphne. “Affected you that badly, did he?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “But so what? Can you see a young man with a background like his taking any interest in a girl from Whitechapel?”

  “Yes, I can actually, although I suspect he’s only after one thing.”

  “Then you’d better warn him I’m not that sort of girl,” said Becky.

  “I don’t think that’s ever put him off in the past,” replied Daphne. “However, to start with he’s asking if you would care to accompany him to the theater along with some friends from his regiment. How does that strike you?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “I thought you might,” said Daphne. “So I told him ‘yes’ without bothering to consult you.”

  Becky laughed but had to wait another five days before she actually saw the young officer again. After he had come to collect her at the flat they joined a party of junior officers and debutantes at the Haymarket Theatre to see Pygmalion by the fashionable playwright George Bernard Shaw. Becky enjoyed the new play despite a girl called Amanda—giggling all the way through the first act and then refusing to hold a conversation with her during the interval.

  Over dinner at the Cafe Royal, she sat next to Guy and told him everything about herself from her birth in Whitechapel through to winning a place at Bedford College the previous year.

  After Becky had bade her farewells to the rest of the party Guy drove her back to Chelsea and having said, “Good night, Miss Salmon,” shook her by the hand.

  Becky assumed that she would not be seeing the young officer again.

  But Guy dropped her a note the next day, inviting her to a reception at the mess. This was followed a week later by a dinner, then a ball, and after that regular outings took place culminating in an invitation to spend the weekend with his parents in Berkshire.

  Daphne did her best to brief Becky fully on the family. The major, Guy’s father, was a sweetie, she assured her, farmed seven hundred acres of dairy land in Berkshire, and was also master of the Buckhurst Hunt.

  It took Daphne several attempts to explain what “riding to hounds” actually meant, though she had to admit that even Eliza Doolittle would have been hard pushed to understand fully why they bothered with the exercise in the first place.

  “Guy’s mother, however, is not graced with the same generous instincts as the major,” Daphne warned. “She is a snob of the first order.” Becky’s heart sank. “Second daughter of a baronet, who was created by Lloyd George for making things they stick on the end of tanks. Probably gave large donations to the Liberal Party at the same time, I’ll be bound. Second generation, of course. They’re always the worst.” Daphne checked the seams on her stockings. “My family have been around for seventeen generations, don’t you know, so we feel we haven’t an awful lot to prove. We’re quite aware that we don’t possess a modicum of brain between us, but by God we’re rich, and by Harry we’re ancient. However, I fear the same cannot be said for Captain Guy Trentham.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Becky woke the next morning before her alarm went off, and was up, dressed and had left the flat long before Daphne had even stirred. She couldn’t wait to find out how Charlie was coping on his first day. As she walked towards 147 she noticed that the shop was already open, and a lone customer was receiving Charlie’s undivided attention.

  “Good mornin’, partner,” shouted Charlie from behind the counter as Becky stepped into the shop.

  “Good morning,” Becky replied. “I see you’re determined to spend your first day just sitting back and watching how it all works.”

  Charlie, she was to discover, had begun serving customers before Gladys and Patsy had arrived, while poor Bob Makins looked as if he had already completed a full day’s work.

  “’Aven’t the time to chatter to the idle classes at the moment,” said Charlie, his cockney accent seeming broader than ever. “Any ’ope of catching up with you later this evening?”

  “Of course,” said Becky.

  She checked her watch, waved goodbye and departed for her first lecture of the morning. She found it hard to concentrate on the history of the Renaissance era, and even slides of Raphael’s work, reflected from a magic lantern onto a white sheet, couldn’t fully arouse her interest. Her mind kept switching from the anxiety of eventually having to spend a weekend with Guy’s parents to the problems of Charlie making enough of a profit to clear their debt with Daphne. Becky admitted to herself that she felt more confident of the latter. She was relieved to see the black hand of the clock pass four-thirty. Once again she ran to catch the tram on the corner of Portland Place—and continued to run after the trudging vehicle had deposited her in Chelsea Terrace.

  A little queue had formed at Trumper’s and Becky could hear Charlie’s familiar old catchphrases even before she reached the front door.

  “’Alf a pound of your King Edward’s, a juicy grapefruit from South Africa, and why don’t I throw in a nice Cox’s orange pippin, all for a bob, my luv?” Grand dames, ladies-in-waiting and nannies, all who would have turned their noses up had anyone else called them “luv,” seemed to melt when Charlie uttered the word. It was only after the last customer had left that Becky was able to take in properly the changes Charlie had already made to the shop.

  “Up all night, wasn’t I?” he told her. “Removin’ ’alf-empty boxes and unsaleable items. Ended up with all the colorful vegetables, your tomatoes, your greens, your peas, all soft, placed at the back; while all your ’ardy unattractive variety you put up front. Potatoes, swedes, and turnips. It’s a go
lden rule.”

  “Granpa Charlie—” she began with a smile, but stopped herself just in time.

  Becky began to study the rearranged counters and had to agree that it was far more practical the way Charlie had insisted they should be laid out. And she certainly couldn’t argue with the smiles on the faces of the customers.

  Within a month, a queue stretching out onto the pavement became part of Charlie’s daily routine and within two he was already talking to Becky of expanding.

  “Where to?” she asked. “Your bedroom?”

  “No room for vegetables up there,” he replied with a grin. “Not since we’ve ’ad longer queues at Trumper’s than what they ’ave outside Pygmalion. What’s more, we’re goin’ to run forever.”

  After she had checked and rechecked the takings for the quarter, Becky couldn’t believe how much they had turned over; she decided perhaps the time had come for a little celebration.

  “Why don’t we all have dinner at that Italian restaurant?” suggested Daphne, after she had received a far larger check for the past three months than she had anticipated.

  Becky thought it a wonderful idea, but was surprised to find how reluctant Guy was to fall in with her plans, and also how much trouble Daphne took getting herself ready for the occasion.

  “We’re not expecting to spend all the profits in one evening,” Becky assured her.

  “More’s the pity,” said Daphne. “Because it’s beginning to look as if it might be the one chance I’m given to enforce the penalty clause. Not that I’m complaining. After all, Charlie will be quite a change from the usual chinless vicars’ sons and stableboys with no legs that I have to endure most weekends.”

  “Be careful he doesn’t end up eating you for dessert.”

  Becky had warned Charlie that the table had been booked for eight o’clock and made him promise he would wear his best suit. “My only suit,” he reminded her.

  Guy collected the two girls from Number 97 on the dot of eight, but seemed unusually morose as he accompanied them to the restaurant, arriving a few minutes after the appointed hour. They found Charlie sitting alone in the corner fidgeting and looking as if it might be the first time he had ever been to a restaurant.

  Becky introduced first Daphne to Charlie and then Charlie to Guy. The two men just stood and stared at each other like prizefighters.

  “Of course, you were both in the same regiment,” said Daphne. “But I don’t suppose you ever came across each other,” she added, staring at Charlie. Neither man commented on her observation.

  If the evening started badly, it was only to become worse, as the four of them were quite unable to settle on any subject with which they had something in common. Charlie, far from being witty and sharp as he was with the customers in the shop, became surly and uncommunicative. If Becky could have reached his ankle she would have kicked him, and not simply because he kept putting a knife covered with peas in his mouth.

  Guy’s particular brand of sullen silence didn’t help matters either, despite Daphne laughing away, bubbly as ever, whatever anyone said. By the time the bill was finally presented, Becky was only too relieved that the evening was coming to an end. She even had discreetly to leave a tip, because Charlie didn’t seem to realize it was expected of him.

  She left the restaurant at Guy’s side and the two of them lost contact with Daphne and Charlie as they strolled back towards 97. She assumed that her companions were only a few paces behind, but stopped thinking about where they might be when Guy took her in his arms, kissed her gently and said, “Good night, my darling. And don’t forget, we’re going down to Ashurst for the weekend.” How could she forget? Becky watched Guy look back furtively in the direction that Daphne and Charlie had been walking, but then without another word he hailed a hansom and instructed the cabbie to take him to the Fusiliers’ barracks in Hounslow.

  Becky unlocked the front door and sat down on the sofa to consider whether or not she should return to 147 and tell Charlie exactly what she thought of him. A few minutes later Daphne breezed into the room.

  “Sorry about this evening,” said Becky before her friend had had the chance to offer an opinion. “Charlie’s usually a little more communicative than that. I can’t think what came over him.”

  “Not easy for him to have dinner with an officer from his old regiment, I suspect,” said Daphne.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Becky. “But they’ll end up friends. I feel sure of that.”

  Daphne stared at Becky thoughtfully.

  The following Saturday morning, after he had completed guard duty, Guy arrived at 97 Chelsea Terrace to collect Becky and drive her down to Ashurst. The moment he saw her in one of Daphne’s stylish red dresses he remarked on how beautiful she looked, and he was so cheerful and chatty on the journey down to Berkshire that Becky even began to relax. They arrived in the village of Ashurst just before three and Guy turned to wink at her as he swung the car into the mile-long drive that led up to the hall.

  Becky hadn’t expected the house to be quite that large.

  A butler, under butler and two footmen were waiting on the top step to greet them. Guy brought the car to a halt on the graveled drive and the butler stepped forward to remove Becky’s two small cases from the boot, before handing them over to a footman who whisked them away. The butler then led Captain Guy and Becky at a sedate pace up the stone steps, into the front hall and on up the wide wooden staircase to a bedroom on the first floor landing.

  “The Wellington Room, madam,” he intoned as he opened the door for her.

  “He’s meant to have spent the night here once,” explained Guy, as he strolled up the stairs beside her. “By the way, no need for you to feel lonely. I’m only next door, and much more alive than the late general.”

  Becky walked into a large comfortable room where she found a young girl in a long black dress with a white collar and cuffs unpacking her bags. The girl turned, curtsied and announced, “I’m Nellie, your maid. Please let me know if you need anything, ma’am.”

  Becky thanked her, walked over to the bay window and stared out at the green acres that stretched as far as her eye could see. There was a knock on the door and Becky turned to find Guy entering the room even before she had been given the chance to say “Come in.”

  “Room all right, darling?”

  “Just perfect,” said Becky as the maid curtsied once again. Becky thought she detected a slight look of apprehension in the young girl’s eyes as Guy walked across the room.

  “Ready to meet Pa?” he asked.

  “As ready as I’m ever likely to be,” Becky admitted as she accompanied Guy back downstairs to the morning room where a man in his early fifties stood in front of a blazing log fire waiting to greet them.

  “Welcome to Ashurst Hall,” said Major Trentham.

  Becky smiled at her host and said, “Thank you.”

  The major was slightly shorter than his son, but had the same slim build and fair hair, though there were some strands of gray appearing at the sides. But that was where the likeness ended. Whereas Guy’s complexion was fresh and pale, Major Trentham’s skin had the ruddiness of a man who had spent most of his life outdoors, and when Becky shook his hand she felt the roughness of someone who obviously worked on the land.

  “Those fine London shoes won’t be much good for what I have in mind,” declared the major. “You’ll have to borrow a pair of my wife’s riding boots, or perhaps Nigel’s Wellingtons.”

  “Nigel?” Becky inquired.

  “Trentham minor. Hasn’t Guy told you about him? He’s in his last year at Harrow, hoping to go on to Sandhurst—and outshine his brother, I’m told.”

  “I didn’t know you had a—”

  “The little brat isn’t worthy of a mention,” Guy interrupted with a half smile, as his father guided them back through the hall to a cupboard below the stairs. Becky stared at the row of leather riding boots that were even more highly polished than her shoes.

  �
��Take your pick m’dear,” said Major Trentham.

  After a couple of attempts Becky found a pair that fitted perfectly, then followed Guy and his father out into the garden. It took the best part of the afternoon for Major Trentham to show his young guest round the seven-hundred-acre estate, and by the time Becky returned she was more than ready for the hot punch that awaited them in a large silver tureen in the morning room.

  The butler informed them that Mrs. Trentham had phoned to say that she had been held up at the vicarage and would be unable to join them for tea.

  By the time Becky returned to her room in the early evening to take a bath and change for dinner, Mrs. Trentham still hadn’t made an appearance.

  Daphne had loaned Becky two dresses for the occasion, and even an exquisite semicircular diamond brooch about which Becky had felt a little apprehensive. But when she looked at herself in the mirror all her fears were quickly forgotten.

  When Becky heard eight o’clock chiming in chorus from the numerous clocks around the house she returned to the drawing room. The dress and the brooch had a perceptible and immediate effect on both men. There was still no sign of Guy’s mother.

  “What a charming dress, Miss Salmon,” said the major.

  “Thank you, Major Trentham,” said Becky, as she warmed her hands by the fire before glancing around the room.

  “My wife will be joining us in a moment,” the major assured Becky, as the butler proffered a glass of sherry on a silver tray.

  “I did enjoy being shown round the estate.”

  “Hardly warrants that description, my dear,” the major replied with a warm smile. “But I’m glad you enjoyed the walk,” he added as his attention was diverted over her shoulder.

  Becky swung round to see a tall, elegant lady, dressed in black from the nape of her neck to her ankles, enter the room. She walked slowly and sedately towards them.

  “Mother,” said Guy, stepping forward to give her a kiss on the cheek, “I should like you to meet Becky Salmon.”