As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Life isn’t, to quote my father. I had to grow up some time, Charlie. For you it was the Western Front.”

  “So what are we going to do now?”

  “We?” said Becky.

  “Yes, we. We’re still partners, you know. Or had you forgotten?”

  “To start with I’ll have to find somewhere else to live; it wouldn’t be fair to Daphne—”

  “What a friend she’s turned out to be,” said Charlie.

  “To both of us,” said Becky as Charlie stood up, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to march around the little room. It reminded Becky of when they had been at school together.

  “I don’t suppose…” said Charlie. It was his turn to be unable to look her in the face.

  “Suppose? Suppose what?”

  “I don’t suppose…” he began again.

  “Yes?”

  “You’d consider marrying me?”

  There was a long silence before a shocked Becky felt able to reply. She eventually said, “But what about Daphne?”

  “Daphne? You surely never believed we had that sort of relationship? It’s true she’s been giving me night classes but not the type you think. In any case, there’s only ever been one man in Daphne’s life, and it’s certainly not Charlie Trumper for the simple reason she’s known all along that there’s only been one woman in mine.”

  “But—”

  “And I’ve loved you for such a long time, Becky.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Becky, placing her head in her hands.

  “I’m sorry,” said Charlie. “I thought you knew. Daphne told me women always know these things.”

  “I had no idea, Charlie. I’ve been so blind as well as stupid.”

  “I haven’t looked at another woman since the day I came back from Edinburgh. I suppose I just ’oped you might love me a little,” he said.

  “I’ll always love you a little, Charlie, but I’m afraid it’s Guy I’m in love with.”

  “Lucky blighter. And to think I saw you first. Your father once chased me out of ’is shop, you know, when he ’eard me calling you ‘Posh Porky’ behind your back.” Becky smiled. “You see, I’ve always been able to grab everything I really wanted in life, so ’ow did I let you get away?”

  Becky was unable to look up at him.

  “He’s an officer, of course, and I’m not. That would explain it.” Charlie had stopped pacing round the room and came to halt in front of her.

  “You’re a general, Charlie.”

  “It’s not the same, though, is it?”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Becky stopped, checked carefully over the few sentences she had written, groaned, crumpled up the notepaper and dropped it in the wastepaper basket that rested at her feet. She stood up, stretched and started to pace around the room in the hope that she might be able to dream up some new excuse for not continuing with her task. It was already twelve-thirty so she could now go to bed, claiming that she had been too weary to carry on—only Becky knew that she wouldn’t be able to sleep until the letter had been completed. She returned to her desk and tried to settle herself again before reconsidering the opening line. She picked up her pen.

  Oh no, thought Becky, and tore up her latest effort before once again dropping the scraps of paper into the wastepaper basket. She traipsed off to the kitchen to make herself a pot of tea. After her second cup, she reluctantly returned to her writing desk and settled herself again.

  “And by the way I’m pregnant,” said Becky out loud, and tore up her third attempt. She replaced the top on her pen, deciding the time had come to take a walk round the square. She picked up her coat from its hook in the hall, ran down the stairs and let herself out. She strolled aimlessly up and down the deserted road seemingly unaware of the hour. She was pleased to find that “Sold” signs now appeared in the windows of Numbers 131 and 135. She stopped outside the old antiques shop for a moment, cupped her hands round her eyes and peered in through the window. To her horror she discovered that Mr. Rutherford had removed absolutely everything, even the gas fittings and the mantelpiece that she had assumed were fixed to the wall. That’ll teach me to study an offer document more carefully next time, she thought. She continued to stare at the empty space as a mouse scurried across the floorboards. “Perhaps we should open a pet shop,” she said aloud.

  “Beg pardon, miss.”

  Becky swung round to find a policeman rattling the doorknob of 133, to be certain the premises were locked.

  “Oh, good evening, Constable,” said Becky sheepishly, feeling guilty without any reason.

  “It’s nearly two in the morning, miss. You just said ‘Good evening.’”

  “Oh, is it?” said Becky, looking at her watch. “Oh, yes, so it is. How silly of me. You see, I live at 97.” Feeling some explanation was necessary, she added, “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to take a walk.”

  “Better join the force then. They’ll be happy to keep you walking all night.”

  Becky laughed. “No, thank you, Constable. I think I’ll just go back to my flat and try and get some sleep. Good night.”

  “Good night, miss,” said the policeman, touching his helmet in a half salute before checking that the empty antiques shop was also safely locked up.

  Becky turned and walked determinedly back down Chelsea Terrace, opened the front door of 97, climbed the staircase to the flat, took off her coat and returned immediately to the little writing desk. She paused only for a moment before picking up her pen and starting to write.

  For once the words flowed easily because she now knew exactly what needed to be said.

  She was unable to control her tears as she read her words through a second time. As she folded the notepaper the bedroom door swung open and a sleepy Daphne appeared in front of her.

  “You all right, darling?”

  “Yes. Just felt a little queasy,” explained Becky. “I decided that I needed a breath of fresh air.” She deftly slipped the letter into an unmarked envelope.

  “Now I’m up,” said Daphne, “would you care for a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve already had two cups.”

  “Well, I think I will.” Daphne disappeared into the kitchen. Becky immediately picked up her pen again and wrote on the envelope:

  She had left the flat, posted the letter in the pillar box on the corner of Chelsea Terrace and returned to Number 97 even before the kettle had boiled.

  Although Charlie received the occasional letter from Sal in Canada to tell him of the arrival of his latest nephew or niece, and the odd infrequent call from Grace whenever she could get away from her hospital duties, a visit from Kitty was rare indeed. But when she came to the flat it was always with the same purpose.

  “I only need a couple of quid, Charlie, just to see me through,” explained Kitty as she lowered herself into the one comfortable chair only moments after she had entered the room.

  Charlie stared at his sister. Although she was only eighteen months older than he she already looked like a woman well into her thirties. Under the baggy shapeless cardigan there was no longer any sign of the figure that had attracted every wandering eye in the East End, and without makeup her face was already beginning to look splotchy and lined.

  “It was only a pound last time,” Charlie reminded her. “And that wasn’t so long ago.”

  “But my man’s left me since then, Charlie. I’m on my own again, without even a roof over my head. Come on, do us a favor.”

  He continued to stare at her, thankful that Becky was not yet back from her afternoon lecture, although he suspected Kitty only came when she could be sure the till was full and Becky was safely out of the way.

  “I won’t be a moment,” he said after a long period of silence. He slipped out of the room and headed off downstairs to the shop. Once he was sure the assistants weren’t looking, he removed two pounds ten shillings from the till. He walked resignedly back upstairs to the flat.

  Kitty was alr
eady waiting by the door. Charlie handed over the four notes. She almost snatched the money before tucking the notes in her glove and leaving without another word.

  Charlie followed her down the stairs and watched her remove a peach from the top of a neat pyramid in the corner of the shop before taking a bite, stepping out onto the pavement and hurrying off down the road.

  Charlie would have to take responsibility for checking the till that night; no one must find out the exact amount he had given her.

  “You’ll end up having to buy this bench, Charlie Trumper,” said Becky as she lowered herself down beside him.

  “Not until I own every shop in the block, my lovely,” he said, turning to look at her. “And how about you? When’s the baby due?”

  “About another five weeks, the doctor thinks.”

  “Got the flat all ready for the new arrival, have you?”

  “Yes, thanks to Daphne letting me stay on.”

  “I miss her,” said Charlie.

  “So do I, although I’ve never seen her happier since Percy was discharged from the Scots guards.”

  “Bet it won’t be long before they’re engaged.”

  “Let’s hope not,” said Becky, looking across the road.

  Three Trumper signs, all in gold on blue, shone back at her. The fruit and vegetable shop continued to make an excellent return and Bob Makins seemed to have grown in stature since returning from his spell of National Service. The butchers had lost a little custom after Mr. Kendrick retired, but had picked up again since Charlie had employed Mike Parker to take his place.

  “Let’s hope he’s a better butcher than a dancer,” Becky had remarked when Charlie told her the news of Sergeant Parker’s appointment.

  As for the grocer’s, Charlie’s new pride and joy, it had flourished from the first day, although as far as his staff could tell, their master seemed to be in all three shops at once.

  “Stroke of genius,” said Charlie, “turning that old antiques shop into a grocer’s.”

  “So now you consider yourself to be a grocer, do you?”

  “Certainly not. I’m a plain fruit and vegetable man, and always will be.”

  “I wonder if that’s what you’ll tell the girls when you own the whole block.”

  “That could take some time yet. So how’s the balance sheet shaping up for the new shops?”

  “They’re both in the books to show a loss during their first year.”

  “But they could still make a profit, certainly break even.” Charlie’s voice rose in protest. “And the grocer’s shop is set to—”

  “Not so loud. I want Mr. Hadlow and his colleagues at the bank to discover that we’ve done far better than we originally predicted.”

  “You’re an evil woman, Rebecca Salmon, that’s no mistake.”

  “You won’t be saying that, Charlie Trumper, when you need me to go begging for your next loan.”

  “If you’re so clever, then explain to me why I can’t get hold of the bookshop,” said Charlie, pointing across the road at Number 141, where a single light was the only proof the building was still inhabited. “The place hasn’t seen a customer in weeks from what I can tell, and even when they do it’s only because someone had gone in to find directions back to Brompton Road.”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Becky, laughing. “I’ve already had a long chat with Mr. Sneddles about buying the premises, but he just wasn’t interested. You see, since his wife died, running the shop has become the only reason for him to carry on.”

  “But carry on doing what?” asked Charlie. “Dusting old books and stacking up ancient manuscripts?”

  “He’s happy just to sit around and read William Blake and his beloved war poets. As long as he sells a couple of books every month he’s quite content to keep the shop open. Not everyone wants to be a millionaire, you know—as Daphne never stops reminding me.”

  “Possibly. So why not offer Mr. Sneddles one hundred and fifty guineas for the freehold, then charge him a rent of say ten guineas a year? That way it’ll automatically fall into our hands the moment he dies.”

  “You’re a hard man to please, Charlie Trumper, but if that’s what you want, I’ll give it a try.”

  “That is what I want, Rebecca Salmon, so get on with it.”

  “I’ll do my best, although it may have slipped your notice that I’m about to have a baby while also trying to sit a bachelor’s degree.”

  “That combination doesn’t sound quite right to me. However, I still may need you to pull off another coup.”

  “Another coup?”

  “Fothergill’s.”

  “The corner shop.”

  “No less,” said Charlie. “And you know how I feel about corner shops, Miss Salmon.”

  “I certainly do, Mr. Trumper. I am also aware that you know nothing about the fine art business, let alone being an auctioneer.”

  “Not a lot, I admit,” said Charlie. “But after a couple of visits to Bond Street where I watched how they earn a living at Sotheby’s, followed by a short walk down the road to St. James’s to study their only real rivals, Christie’s, I came to the conclusion that we might eventually be able to put that art degree of yours to some use.”

  Becky raised her eyebrows. “I can’t wait to learn what you have planned for the rest of my life.”

  “Once you’ve finished that degree of yours,” continued Charlie, ignoring the comment, “I want you to apply for a job at Sotheby’s or Christie’s, I don’t mind which, where you can spend three to five years learning everything they’re up to. The moment you consider that you’re good and ready to leave, you could then poach anyone you felt was worth employing and return to run Number 1 Chelsea Terrace and open up a genuine rival to those two establishments.”

  “I’m still listening, Charlie Trumper.”

  “You see, Rebecca Salmon, you’ve got your father’s business acumen. I hope you like that word. Combine that with the one thing you’ve always loved and also have a natural talent for, how can you fail?”

  “Thank you for the compliment, but may I, while we’re on the subject, ask where Mr. Fothergill fits into your master plan?”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been losing money hand over fist for the past three years,” said Charlie. “At the moment the value of the property and sale of his best stock would just about cover his losses, but that state of affairs can’t last too much longer. So now you know what’s expected of you.”

  “I certainly do, Mr. Trumper.”

  When September had come and gone, even Becky began to accept that Guy had no intention of responding to her letter.

  As late as August Daphne reported to them that she had bumped into Mrs. Trentham at Goodwood. Guy’s mother had claimed that her son was not only reveling in his duties in India but had every reason to expect an imminent announcement concerning his promotion to major. Daphne found herself only just able to keep her promise and remain silent about Becky’s condition.

  As the day of the birth drew nearer, Charlie made sure that Becky didn’t waste any time shopping for food and even detailed one of the girls at Number 147 to help her keep the flat clean, so much so that Becky began to accuse them both of pampering her.

  By the ninth month Becky didn’t even bother to check the morning post, as Daphne’s long-held view of Captain Trentham began to gain more credibility. Becky was surprised to find how quickly he faded from her memory, despite the fact that it was his child she was about to give birth to.

  Becky also felt embarrassed that most people assumed Charlie was the father, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that whenever he was asked, he refused to deny it.

  Meanwhile, Charlie had his eye on a couple of shops whose owners he felt might soon be willing to sell, but Daphne wouldn’t hear of any further business transactions until after the child had been born.

  “I don’t want Becky involved in any of your dubious business enterprises before she
’s had the child and completed her degree. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Charlie, clicking his heels. He didn’t mention that only the week before Becky had herself closed the deal with Mr. Sneddles so that the bookshop would be theirs once the old man died. There was only one clause in the agreement that Charlie remained concerned about, because he wasn’t quite sure how he would get rid of that number of books.

  “Miss Becky has just phoned,” whispered Bob into the boss’s ear one afternoon when Charlie was serving in the shop. “Says could you go round immediately. Thinks the baby’s about to arrive.”

  “But it’s not due for another two weeks,” said Charlie as he pulled off his apron.

  “I’m sure I don’t know about that, Mr. Trumper, but all she said was to hurry.”

  “Has she sent for the midwife?” Charlie asked, deserting a half-laden customer before grabbing his coat.

  “I’ve no idea, sir.”

  “Right, take charge of the shop, because I may not be back again today.” Charlie left the smiling queue of customers and ran down the road to 97, flew up the stairs, pushed open the door and marched straight on into Becky’s bedroom.

  He sat down beside her on the bed and held her hand for some time before either of them spoke.

  “Have you sent for the midwife?” he eventually asked.

  “She certainly has,” said a voice from behind them, as a vast woman entered the room. She wore an old brown raincoat that was too small for her and carried a black leather bag. From the heaving of her breasts she had obviously had a struggle climbing the stairs. “I’m Mrs. Westlake, attached to St. Stephen’s Hospital,” she declared. “I do hope I’ve got here in time.” Becky nodded as the midwife turned her attention to Charlie. “Now you go away and boil me some water, and quickly.” Her voice sounded as if she wasn’t in the habit of being questioned. Without another word Charlie jumped off the end of the bed and left the room.

  Mrs. Westlake placed her large Gladstone bag on the floor and started by taking Becky’s pulse.