As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  CHAPTER

  9

  Becky began to notice small changes in Charlie’s manner, at first subtle and then more obvious.

  Daphne made no attempt to hide her involvement in what she described as “the social discovery of the decade, my very own Charlie Doolittle. Why, only this weekend,” she declared, “I took him down to Harcourt Hall, don’t you know, and he was a wow. Even Mother thought he was fantastic.”

  “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 at 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 Bernini on seventeenth-century sculpture. But her mind kept switching from Bernini to Charlie and then back to Guy. Unable to grapple with the modern, Bec
ky 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.

  “What a beautiful dress,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

  “No, it’s the first time I’ve worn it,” said Becky, feeling guilty about not asking Daphne’s permission to borrow it.

  “No one to help you?” asked Guy, looking around.

  “To be honest, Daphne volunteered to act as chaperone, but I didn’t accept as I hadn’t wanted to share you with anyone on our last evening together.”

  Guy smiled. “Can I do anything?”

  “Yes, you could uncork the wine while I put the potatoes on.”

  “Trumper’s potatoes?”

  “Of course,” replied Becky, as she walked back through into the kitchen and dropped the cabbage into a pot of boiling water. She hesitated for a moment before calling back, “You don’t like Charlie, do you?”

  Guy poured out a glass of wine for each of them but either hadn’t heard what she had said or made no attempt to respond.

  “What’s your day been like?” Becky asked when she returned to the drawing room and took the glass of wine he handed her.

  “Packing endless trunks in preparation for tomorrow’s journey,” he replied. “They expect you to have four of everything in that bloody country.”

  “Everything?” Becky sipped the wine. “Um, good.”

  “Everything. And you, what have you been up to?”

  “Talked to Charlie about his plans for taking over London without actually declaring war; dismissed Caravaggio as second-rate; and selected some button mushrooms, not to mention Trumper’s deal of the day.” As she finished speaking, Becky placed half a melon on Guy’s mat and the other half at her place as he refilled their glasses.

  Over a lingering dinner, Becky became more and more conscious that this would probably be their last evening together for the next three years. They talked of the theater, the regiment, the problems in Ireland, Daphne, even the price of melons, but never India.

  “You could always come and visit me,” he said finally, bringing up the taboo subject himself as he poured her another glass of wine, nearly emptying the bottle.

  “A day trip, perhaps?” she suggested, removing the empty dinner plates from the table and taking them back to the kitchen.

  “I suspect even that will be possible at some time in the future.”

  Guy filled his own glass once again, then opened the bottle he had brought with him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “By airplane. After all, Alcock and Brown have crossed the Atlantic nonstop, so India must be any pioneer’s next ambition.”

  “Perhaps I could sit on a wing,” said Becky when she returned from the kitchen.

  Guy laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m sure th
ree years will pass by in a flash, and then we can be married just as soon as I return.” He raised his glass and watched her take another drink. For some time they didn’t speak.

  Becky rose from the table feeling a little giddy. “Must put the kettle on,” she explained.

  When she returned Becky didn’t notice that her glass had been refilled. “Thank you for a wonderful evening,” Guy said, and for a moment Becky was anxious that he might be thinking of leaving.

  “Now I fear the time has come to do the washing up, as you don’t seem to have any staff around tonight and I left my batman back at barracks.”

  “No, don’t let’s bother with that.” Becky hiccupped. “After all, I can spend a year on the washing up, followed by a year on the drying and still put aside a year for stacking.”

  Guy’s own laugh was interrupted by the rising whistle of the kettle.

  “Won’t be a minute. Why don’t you pour yourself some brandy?” Becky added, as she disappeared back into the kitchen and selected two cups that didn’t have chips in them. She returned with them full of strong hot coffee, and thought for a moment that the gaslight might have been turned down a little. She placed the two cups on the table next to the sofa. “The coffee’s so hot that it will be a couple of minutes before we can drink it,” she warned.

  He passed her a brandy balloon that was half full. He raised his glass and waited. She hesitated, then took a sip before sitting down beside him. For some time again neither of them spoke and then suddenly he put down his glass, took her in his arms and this time began kissing her passionately, first on her lips, then on her neck and then on her bare shoulders. Becky only began to resist when she felt a hand move from her back on to one of her breasts.

  Guy broke away and said, “I have a special surprise for you, darling, which I’ve been saving for tonight.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Our engagement is to be announced in The Times tomorrow.”

  For a moment Becky was so stunned she could only stare at Guy. “Oh, darling, how wonderful.” She took him back in her arms and made no effort to resist when his hand returned to her breast. She broke away again. “But how will your mother react?”