As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

“Why hasn’t Daddy got a degree?” asked Daniel as he picked up Becky’s program off the floor. “He’s just as clever as you are, Mummy.”

  “True,” said Becky. “But his daddy didn’t make him stay at school as long as mine did.”

  Charlie leaned across. “But his granpa taught him instead how to sell fruit and vegetables, so he could do something useful for the rest of his life.”

  Daniel was silenced for a moment, as he weighed the value of these two contrary opinions.

  “The ceremony’s going to take an awfully long time if it keeps going at this rate,” whispered Becky when after half an hour they had only reached the P’s.

  “We can wait,” whispered Daphne cheerfully. “Percy and I haven’t a lot planned before Goodwood.”

  “Oh, look, Mummy,” said Daniel. “I’ve found another Arnold, another Moore and another Trumper on my list.”

  “They’re all fairly common names,” said Becky, not bothering to check the program as she placed Daniel on the edge of her seat.

  “Wonder what he looks like?” asked Daniel. “Do all Trumpers look the same, Mummy?”

  “No, silly, they come in all shapes and sizes.”

  “But he’s got the same first initial as Dad,” Daniel said, loudly enough for everyone in the three rows in front of them to feel they were now part of the conversation.

  “Shhh,” said Becky, as one or two people turned round and stared in their direction.

  “Bachelor of Arts,” declared the vice-chancellor. “Mathematics second class, Charles George Trumper.”

  “And he even looks like your dad,” said Charlie as he rose from his place and walked up to receive his degree from the vice-chancellor. The applause increased once the assembled gathering became aware of the age of this particular graduate. Becky’s mouth opened wide in disbelief, Percy rubbed his glasses, while Daphne showed no surprise at all.

  “How long have you known?” demanded Becky through clenched teeth.

  “He registered at Birkbeck College the day after you were awarded your degree.”

  “But when has he found the time?”

  “It’s taken him nearly eight years and an awful lot of early mornings while you were sound asleep.”

  By the end of her second year Becky’s financial forecasts for Number 1 had begun to look a little too optimistic. As each month passed by the overdraft seemed to remain constant, and it was not until the twenty-seventh month that she first began to make small inroads on the capital debt.

  She complained to the board that although the managing director was continually helping with the turnover he was not actually contributing to the profits, because he always assumed he could purchase their most sought-after items at the buy-in cost.

  “But we are at the same time building a major art collection, Mrs. Trumper,” he reminded her.

  “And saving a great deal on tax while also making a sound investment,” Hadlow pointed out. “Might even prove useful as collateral at some later date.”

  “Perhaps, but in the meantime it doesn’t help my balance sheet, Chairman, if the managing director is always making off with my most saleable stock—and it certainly doesn’t help that he’s worked out the auctioneer’s code so that he always knows what our reserve price is.”

  “You must look upon yourself as part of the company and not as an individual, Mrs. Trumper,” said Charlie with a grin, adding, “though I confess it might have been a lot cheaper if we had left you at Sotheby’s in the first place.”

  “Not to be minuted,” said the chairman sternly. “By the way, what is this auctioneer’s code?”

  “A series of letters from a chosen word or words that indicate numbers; for example, Charlie would be C-1, H-2, A-3 but if any letter is repeated then it has to be ignored. So once you’ve worked out the two words we are substituting for one to zero and can get your hands on our master catalogue you will always know the reserve price we have set for each painting.”

  “So why don’t you change the words from time to time?”

  “Because once you’ve mastered the code, you can always work out the new words. In any case, it takes hours of practice to glance down at Q, N HH, and know immediately it’s—”

  “One thousand, three hundred pounds,” said Charlie with a smile of satisfaction.

  While Becky tried to build up Number 1, Charlie had captured four more shops, including the barber and the newsagent, without any further interference from Mrs. Trentham. As he told his fellow-directors, “I no longer believe she possesses the finances to challenge us.”

  “Until her father dies,” Becky pointed out. “Once she inherits that fortune she could challenge Mr. Selfridge and then there will be nothing Charlie can do about it.”

  Charlie agreed, but went on to assure the board that he had plans to get his hands on the rest of the block long before that eventuality. “No reason to believe the man hasn’t got a good few years left in him yet.”

  “Which reminds me,” said the colonel, “I’ll be sixty-five next May, and feel that would be an appropriate time for me to step down as chairman.”

  Charlie and Becky were stunned by this sudden announcement, as neither of them had ever given a moment’s thought as to when the colonel might retire.

  “Couldn’t you at least stay on until you’re seventy?” asked Charlie quietly.

  “No, Charlie, though it’s kind of you to suggest it. You see, I’ve promised Elizabeth that we will spend our last few years on her beloved Isle of Skye. In any case, I think it’s time you became chairman.”

  The colonel officially retired the following May. Charlie threw a party for him at the Savoy to which he invited every member of staff along with their husbands or wives. He laid on a five-course dinner with three wines for an evening that he hoped the colonel would never forget.

  When the meal came to an end, Charlie rose from his place to toast the first chairman of Trumper’s before presenting him with a silver barrow which held a bottle of Glenlivet, the colonel’s favorite brand of whisky. The staff all banged on their tables and demanded the outgoing chairman should reply.

  The colonel rose, still straight as a ramrod, and began by thanking everyone for their good wishes for his retirement. He went on to remind those present that when he had first joined Mr. Trumper and Miss Salmon in 1920 they only possessed one shop in Chelsea Terrace, Number 147. It sold fruit and vegetables, and they had acquired it for the princely sum of one hundred pounds. Charlie could see as he glanced around the tables that many of the younger staff—and Daniel, who was wearing long trousers for the first time—just didn’t believe the old soldier.

  “Now,” the colonel continued, “we have twenty-four shops and a staff of one hundred and seventy-two. I told my wife all those years ago that I hoped I would live to see Charlie”—there was a ripple of laughter—“Mr. Trumper, own the whole block, and build the biggest barrow in the world. Now I’m convinced I will.” Turning to Charlie he raised his glass and said, “And I wish you luck, sir.”

  They cheered when he resumed his seat as chairman for the last time.

  Charlie rose to reply. “Chairman,” he began, “let no one in this room be in any doubt that Becky and I could not have built up Trumper’s to the position it enjoys today without your support. In fact, if the truth be known, we wouldn’t even have been able to purchase shops numbers 2 and 3. I am proud to follow you and be the company’s second chairman, and whenever I make a decision of any real importance I shall always imagine you are looking over my shoulder. The last proposal you made as chairman of the company will take effect tomorrow. Tom Arnold will become managing director and Ned Denning and Bob Makins will join the board. Because it will always be Trumper’s policy to promote from within.

  “You are the new generation,” said Charlie as he looked out into the ballroom at his staff, “and this is the first occasion at which we have all been together under the same roof. So let us set a date tonight for when we will all work under one roof, Tru
mper’s of Chelsea Terrace. I give you—1940.”

  The entire staff rose as one and all cried “1940” and cheered their new chairman. As Charlie sat down the conductor raised his baton to indicate that the dancing would begin.

  The colonel rose from his place and invited Becky to join him for the opening waltz. He accompanied her onto an empty dance floor.

  “Do you remember when you first asked me to dance?” said Becky.

  “I certainly do,” said the colonel. “And to quote Mr. Hardy, ‘That’s another fine mess you’ve got us into.’”

  “Blame him,” said Becky as Charlie glided by leading Elizabeth Hamilton around the dance floor.

  The colonel smiled. “What a speech they’ll make when Charlie retires,” he said wistfully to Becky. “And I can’t imagine who will dare follow him.”

  “A woman, perhaps?”

  CHAPTER

  27

  The Silver Jubilee of King George V and Queen Mary in 1935 was celebrated by everyone at Trumper’s. There were colored posters and pictures of the royal couple in every shop window, and Tom Arnold ran a competition to see which shop could come up with the most imaginative display to commemorate the occasion.

  Charlie took charge of Number 147, which he still looked upon as his personal fiefdom, and with the help of Bob Makins’ daughter, who was in her first year at the Chelsea School of Art, they produced a model of the King and Queen made up of every fruit and vegetable that hailed from the British Empire.

  Charlie was livid when the judges—the colonel and the Marquess and Marchioness of Wiltshire, awarded Number 147 second place behind the flower shop, which was doing a roaring trade selling bunches of red, white and blue chrysanthemums; what had put them in first place was a vast map of the world made up entirely of flowers, with the British Empire set in red roses.

  Charlie gave all the staff the day off and he escorted Becky and Daniel up to the mall at four-thirty in the morning so that they could find a good vantage point to watch the King and Queen proceed from Buckingham Palace to St. Paul’s Cathedral, where a service of thanksgiving was to be conducted.

  They arrived at the mall only to discover that thousands of people were already covering every inch of the pavements with sleeping bags, blankets and even tents, some having already begun their breakfast or simply fixed themselves to the spot.

  The hours of waiting passed quickly as Charlie made friends with visitors who had traveled from all over the Empire. When the procession finally began, Daniel was speechless with delight as he watched the different soldiers from India, Africa, Australia, Canada and thirty-six other nations march past him. When the King and Queen drove by in the royal carriage Charlie stood to attention and removed his hat, an action he repeated when the Royal Fusiliers marched past playing their regimental anthem. Once they had all disappeared out of sight, he thought enviously of Daphne and Percy, who had been invited to attend the service at St. Paul’s.

  After the King and Queen had returned to Buckingham Palace—well in time for their lunch, as Daniel explained to those around him—the Trumpers began their journey home. On the way back they passed Chelsea Terrace, where Daniel spotted the big “2nd Place” in the window of Number 147.

  “Why’s that there, Dad?” he immediately demanded. His mother took great delight in explaining to her son how the competition had worked.

  “Where did you come, Mum?”

  “Sixteenth out of twenty-six,” said Charlie. “And then only because all three judges were longstanding friends.”

  Eight months later the King was dead.

  Charlie hoped that with the accession of Edward VIII a new era would begin, and decided that the time was well overdue for him to make a pilgrimage to America.

  He warned the board of his proposed trip at their next meeting.

  “Any real problems for me to worry about while I’m away?” the chairman asked his managing director.

  “I’m still looking for a new manager at jewelry and a couple of assistants for women’s clothes,” replied Arnold. “Otherwise it’s fairly peaceful at the moment.”

  Confident that Tom Arnold and the board could hold the fort for the month they planned to be away, Charlie was finally convinced he should go when he read of the preparation for the launching of the Queen Mary. He booked a cabin for two on her maiden voyage.

  Becky spent five glorious days on the Queen during the journey over, and was delighted to find that even her husband began to relax once he realized he had no way of getting in touch with Tom Arnold, or even Daniel, who was settling into his first boarding school. In fact, once Charlie accepted that he couldn’t bother anyone he seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself as he discovered the various facilities that the liner had to offer a slightly overweight, unfit, middle-aged man.

  The great Queen sailed into the Port of New York on a Monday morning to be greeted by a crowd of thousands; Charlie could only wonder how different it must have been for the Pilgrim Fathers bobbing along in the Mayflower with no welcoming party and unsure of what to expect from the natives. In truth, Charlie wasn’t quite sure what to expect from the natives either.

  Charlie had booked into the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, on the recommendation of Daphne, but once he and Becky had unpacked their suitcases, there was no longer any necessity to sit around and relax. He rose the following morning at four-thirty and, browsing through the New York Times, learned of the name of Mrs. Wallis Simpson for the first time. Once he had devoured the newspapers, Charlie left the Waldorf Astoria and strolled up and down Fifth Avenue studying the different displays in the shop windows. He quickly became absorbed by how inventive and original the Manhattanites were compared with his opposite numbers in Oxford Street.

  As soon as the shops opened at nine, he was able to explore everything in greater detail. This time he walked up and down the aisles of the fashionable stores that made up most street corners. He checked their stock, watched the assistants and even followed certain customers around the store to see what they purchased. After each of those first two days in New York he arrived back at the hotel in the evening exhausted.

  It was not until the third morning that Charlie, having completed Fifth Avenue and Madison, moved on to Lexington, where he discovered Bloomingdale’s, and from that moment Becky realized that she had lost her husband for the rest of their stay in New York.

  Throughout the first two hours Charlie did nothing more than travel up and down the escalators until he had completely mastered the layout of the building. He then began to study each floor, department by department, making copious notes. On the ground floor they sold perfume, leather goods, jewelry; on the first floor, scarves, hats, gloves, stationery; on the second floor were men’s clothes and on the third floor women’s clothes; on the fourth floor, household goods and on up and up until he discovered that the company offices were on the twelfth floor, discreetly hidden behind a “No Entry” sign. Charlie longed to discover how that floor was laid out, but had no means of finding out.

  On the fourth day he made a close study of how each of the counters was positioned, and began to draw their individual layouts. As he proceeded up the escalator to the third floor that morning, he found two athletic young men blocking his way. Charlie had no choice but to stop or try to go back down the escalator the wrong way.

  “Something wrong?”

  “We’re not sure, sir,” said one of the thickset men. “We are store detectives and wondered if you would be kind enough to come along with us.”

  “Delighted,” said Charlie, unable to work out what their problem might be.

  He was whisked up in a lift to the one floor he’d never had a chance to look round and led down a long corridor through an unmarked door and on into a bare room. There were no pictures on the wall, no carpet on the floor, and the only furniture consisted of three wooden chairs and a table. They left him alone. Moments later two older men came in to join him.

  “I wonder if you would mind answering a few questions
for us, sir?” began the taller of the two.

  “Certainly,” said Charlie, puzzled by the strange treatment he was receiving.

  “Where do you come from?” asked the first.

  “England.”

  “And how did you get here?” asked the second.

  “On the maiden voyage of the Queen Mary.” He could see that they both showed signs of nervousness when they learned this piece of information.

  “Then why, sir, have you been walking all over the store for two days, making notes, but not attempted to purchase a single item?”

  Charlie burst out laughing. “Because I own twenty-six shops of my own in London,” he explained. “I was simply comparing the way you do things in America to the way I conduct my business in England.”

  The two men began to whisper to each other nervously.

  “May I ask your name, sir?”

  “Trumper, Charlie Trumper.”

  One of the men rose to his feet and left. Charlie had the distinct feeling that they found his story hard to believe. It brought back memories of when he had told Tommy about his first shop. The man who remained seated opposite him still did not offer an opinion, so the two of them sat silently opposite each other for several minutes before the door burst open and in walked a tall, elegantly dressed gentleman in a dark brown suit, brown shoes and a golden cravat. He almost ran forward, arms outstretched to engulf Charlie.

  “I must apologize, Mr. Trumper,” were his opening words. “We had no idea you were in New York, let alone on the premises. My name is John Bloomingdale, and this is my little store which I hear you’ve been checking out.”

  “I certainly have,” said Charlie.

  Before he could say another word, Mr. Bloomingdale added, “That’s only fair, because I also checked over your famous barrows in Chelsea Terrace, and took one or two great ideas away with me.”

  “From Trumper’s?” said Charlie in disbelief.

  “Oh, certainly. Didn’t you see the flag of America in our front window with all forty-eight states represented by different colored flowers?”