“But I’d have come across the relevant books and papers all over the house.”
“You already have, but they were only the books and papers he intended you to see. Don’t let’s forget how cunning he was when he took his BA. He fooled you for eight years.”
“Perhaps he’s taken a job with one of our rivals.”
“Not his style,” said Cathy. “He’s far too loyal for that. In any case, we’d know which store it was within days, the staff and management alike would be only too happy to keep reminding us. No, it has to be simpler than that.” The private phone rang on Cathy’s desk. She grabbed the receiver and listened carefully before saying, “Thank you, Jessica. We’re on our way.”
“Let’s go,” she said, replacing the phone and jumping up from behind her desk. “Stan’s just finishing his lunch.” She headed towards the door. Becky quickly followed and without another word they took the lift to the ground floor where Joe, the senior doorman, was surprised to see the chairman and Lady Trumper hail a taxi when both their drivers were patiently waiting for them on meters.
A few minutes later Stan appeared through the same door and climbed behind the wheel of Charlie’s Rolls before proceeding at a gentle pace towards Hyde Park Corner, oblivious of the taxi that was following him. The Rolls continued down Piccadilly and on through Trafalgar Square before taking a left in the direction of the Strand.
“He’s going to King’s College,” said Cathy. “I knew I was right—it has to be his master’s degree.”
“But Stan’s not stopping,” said Becky, as the Rolls passed the college entrance and weaved its way into Fleet Street.
“I can’t believe he’s bought a newspaper,” said Cathy.
“Or taken a job in the City,” Becky added as the Rolls drove on down towards the Mansion House.
“I’ve got it,” said Becky triumphantly, as the Rolls left the City behind them and nosed its way into the East End. “He’s been working on some project at his boys’ club in Whitechapel.”
Stan continued east until he finally brought the car to a halt outside the Dan Salmon Center.
“But it doesn’t make any sense,” said Cathy. “If that’s all he wanted to do with his spare time why didn’t he tell you the truth in the first place? Why go through such an elaborate charade?”
“I can’t work that one out either,” said Becky. “In fact, I confess I’m even more baffled.”
“Well, let’s at least go in and find out what he’s up to.”
“No,” said Becky, placing a hand on Cathy’s arm. “I need to sit and think for a few moments before I decide what to do next. If Charlie is planning something he doesn’t want us to know about, I’d hate to be the one who spoils his bit of fun, especially when it was me who banned him from going into Trumper’s in the first place.”
“All right,” said Cathy. “So why don’t we just go back to my office and say nothing of our little discovery? After all, we can always phone Mr. Anson at the Lords, who as we know will make sure Charlie returns your call within the hour. That will give me easily enough time to sort out David Field and the problem of his cigars.”
Becky nodded her agreement and instructed the bemused cabbie to return to Chelsea Terrace. As the taxi swung round in a circle to begin its journey back towards the West End, Becky glanced out of the rear window at the center named after her father. “Stop,” she said without warning. The cabbie threw on the brakes and brought the taxi to a sudden halt.
“What’s the matter?” asked Cathy.
Becky pointed out of the back window, her eyes now fixed on a figure who was walking down the steps of the Dan Salmon Center dressed in a grubby old suit and flat cap.
“I don’t believe it,” said Cathy.
Becky quickly paid off the cabdriver while Cathy jumped out and began to follow Stan as he headed off down the Whitechapel Road.
“Where can he be going?” asked Cathy, as they kept Stan well within their sights. The shabbily dressed chauffeur continued to march along the pavement, leaving any old soldier who saw him in no doubt of his former profession while causing the two ladies who were pursuing him to have occasionally to break into a run.
“It ought to be Cohen’s the tailor’s,” said Becky. “Because heaven knows the man looks as if he could do with a new suit.”
But Stan came to a halt some yards before the tailor’s shop. Then, for the first time, they both saw another man, also dressed in an old suit and flat cap, standing beside a brand-new barrow on which was printed the words: “Charlie Salmon, the honest trader. Founded in 1969.”
“I don’t offer you these at two pounds, ladies,” declared a voice as loud as that of any of the youngsters on the pitches nearby, “not one pound, not even fifty pence. No, I’m going to give ’em away for twenty pence.”
Cathy and Becky watched in amazement as Stan Russell touched his cap to Charlie, then began to fill a woman’s basket, so that his master could deal with the next customer.
“So what’ll it be today, Mrs. Bates? I’ve got some lovely bananas just flown in from the West Indies. Ought to be selling ’em at ninety pence the bunch, but to you, my old duck, fifty pence, but be sure you don’t tell the neighbors.”
“What about those tatoes, Charlie?” said a heavily made-up, middle-aged woman who pointed suspiciously at a box on the front of the barrow.
“As I stand ’ere, Mrs. Bates, new in from Jersey today and I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll sell ’em at the same price as my so-called rivals are still peddling their old ones for. Could I be fairer, I ask?”
“I’ll take four pounds, Mr. Salmon.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bates. Serve the lady, Stan, while I deal with the next customer.” Charlie stepped across to the other side of barrow.
“And ’ow nice to see you this fine afternoon, Mrs. Singh. Two pounds of figs, nuts and raisins, if my memory serves me right. And how is Dr. Singh keeping?”
“Very busy, Mr. Salmon, very busy.”
“Then we must see that ’e’s well fed, mustn’t we?” said Charlie. “Because if this weather takes a turn for the worse, I may need to come and seek ’is advice about my sinus trouble. And ’ow’s little Suzika?”
“She’s just passed three A-levels, Mr. Salmon, and will be going to London University in September to read engineering.”
“Can’t see the point of it myself,” said Charlie as he selected some figs. “Engineerin’, you say. What will they think of next? Knew a girl once from these parts who took ’erself off to university and a fat lot of good it did ’er. Spent the rest of ’er life living off ’er ’usband, didn’t she? My old granpa always used to say—”
Becky burst out laughing. “So what do we do now?” she asked.
“Go back to Eaton Square, then you can look up Mr. Anson’s number at the Lords and give him a call. That way at least we can be sure that Charlie will contact you within the hour.”
Cathy nodded her agreement but both of them remained transfixed as they watched the oldest dealer in the market ply his trade.
“I don’t offer you these for two pounds,” he declared, holding up a cabbage in both hands. “I don’t offer ’em for one pound, not even fifty pence.”
“No, I’ll give ’em away for twenty pence,” whispered Becky under her breath.
“No, I’ll give ’em away for twenty pence,” shouted Charlie at the top of his voice.
“You do realize,” said Becky as they crept back out of the market, “that Charlie’s grandfather carried on to the ripe old age of eighty-three and died only a few feet from where his lordship is standing now.”
“He’s come a long way since then,” said Cathy, as she raised her hand to hail a taxi.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Becky replied. “Only about a couple of miles—as the crow flies.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemb
lance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AS THE CROW FLIES
Copyright © 1991 by Jeffrey Archer.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 978-0-312-99711-3
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
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ONLY TIME WILL TELL
JEFFREY ARCHER
Available September 2011 From St. Martin’s Press
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ONLY TIME WILL TELL. Copyright © 2011 by Jeffrey Archer. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (TK)
ISBN: 978-1-4299-6720-4
First published in the United Kingdom by Macmillan, an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd.
The Barringtons
The Cliftons
Maisie Clifton
1919
Prelude
This story would never have been written if I hadn’t become pregnant. Mind you, I had always planned to lose my virginity on the works outing to Weston-super-Mare, just not to that particular man.
Arthur Clifton was born in Still House Lane, just like me; even went to the same school, Merrywood Elementary, but as I was two years younger than him he didn’t know I existed. All the girls in my class had a crush on him, and not just because he captained the school football team.
Although Arthur had never shown any interest in me while I was at school, that changed soon after he’d returned from the Western Front. I’m not even sure he realized who I was when he asked me for a dance that Saturday night at the Palais but, to be fair, I had to look twice before I recognized him because he’d grown a pencil mustache and had his hair slicked back like Ronald Colman. He didn’t look at another girl that night, and after we’d danced the last waltz I knew it would only be a matter of time before he asked me to marry him.
Arthur held my hand as we walked back home, and when we reached my front door he tried to kiss me. I turned away. After all, the Reverend Watts had told me often enough that I had to stay pure until the day I was married, and Miss Monday, our choir mistress, warned me that men only wanted one thing, and once they’d got it, they quickly lost interest. I often wondered if Miss Monday spoke from experience.
The following Saturday, Arthur invited me to the flicks to see Lillian Gish in Broken Blossoms, and although I allowed him to put an arm around my shoulder, I still didn’t let him kiss me. He didn’t make a fuss. Truth is, Arthur was rather shy.
The next Saturday I did allow him to kiss me, but when he tried to put a hand inside my blouse, I pushed him away. In fact I didn’t let him do that until he’d proposed, bought a ring and the Reverend Watts had read the banns a second time.
My brother Stan told me that I was the last known virgin on our side of the River Avon, though I suspect most of his conquests were in his mind. Still, I decided the time had come, and when better than the works outing to Weston-super-Mare with the man I was going to marry in a few weeks’ time?
However, as soon as Arthur and Stan got off the charabanc, they headed straight for the nearest pub. But I’d spent the past month planning for this moment, so when I got off the coach, like a good girl guide, I was prepared.
I was walking toward the pier feeling pretty fed up when I became aware someone was following me. I looked around and was surprised when I saw who it was. He caught up with me and asked if I was on my own.
“Yes,” I said, aware that by now Arthur would be on his third pint.
When he put a hand on my bum, I should have slapped his face, but for several reasons I didn’t. To start with, I thought about the advantages of having sex with someone I wasn’t likely to come across again. And I have to admit I was flattered by his advances.
By the time Arthur and Stan would have been downing their eighth pints, he’d booked us into a guest house just off the seafront. They seemed to have a special rate for visitors who had no plans to spend the night. He started kissing me even before we’d reached the first landing, and once the bedroom door was closed he quickly undid the buttons of my blouse. It obviously wasn’t his first time. In fact, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the first girl he’d had on a works outing. Otherwise, how did he know about the special rates?
I must confess I hadn’t expected it to be all over quite so quickly. Once he’d climbed off me, I disappeared into the bathroom, while he sat on the end of the bed and lit up a fag. Perhaps it would be better the second time, I thought. But when I came back out, he was nowhere to be seen. I have to admit I was disappointed.
I might have felt more guilty about being unfaithful to Arthur if he hadn’t been sick all over me on the journey back to Bristol.
The next day I told my mum what had happened, without letting on who the bloke was. After all, she hadn’t met him, and was never likely to. Mum told me to keep my mouth shut as she didn’t want to have to cancel the wedding, and even if I did turn out to be pregnant, no one would be any the wiser, as Arthur and I would be married by the time anyone noticed.
Harry Clifton
1920–1933
1
I was told my father was killed in the war.
Whenever I questioned my mother about his death, she didn’t say any more than that he’d served with the Royal Gloucestershire Regiment and had been killed fighting on the Western Front only days before the Armistice was signed. Grandma said my dad had been a brave man, and once when we were alone in the house she showed me his medals. My grandpa rarely offered an opinion on anything, but then he was deaf as a post so he might not have heard the question in the first place.
The only other man I can remember was my uncle Stan, who used to sit at the top of the table at breakfast time. When he left of a morning I would often follow him to the city docks, where he worked. Every day I spent at the dockyard was an adventure. Cargo ships coming from distant lands and unloading their wares: rice, sugar, bananas, jute and many other things I’d never heard of. Once the holds had been emptied, the dockers would load them with salt, apples, tin, even coal (my least favorite, because it was an obvious clue to what I’d been doing all day and annoyed my mother), before they set off again to I knew not where. I always wanted to help my uncle Stan unload whatever ship had docked that morning, but he just laughed, saying, “All in good time, my lad.” It couldn’t be soon enough for me, but, without any warning, school got in the way.
I was sent to Merrywood Elementary when I was six and I thought it was a complete waste of time. What was the point of school when I could learn all I needed to at the docks? I wouldn’t have bothered to go back the following day if my mother hadn’t dragged me to the front gates, deposited me and returned at four o’clock that afternoon to take me home.
I didn’t realize Mum had other plans for my future, which didn’t include joining Uncle Stan in the shipyard.
Once Mum had dropped me off each morning, I would hang around in the yard until she was out of sight, then slope off to the docks. I made sure I was always back at the school gates when she returned to pick me up in the afternoon. On the way home, I would tell her everything I’d done at school that day. I was good at making up stories, but it wasn’t long before she discovered that was all they were: stories.
One or two other boys from my school also used to hang around the docks, but I kept my distance from them. They were older and bigger, and used to thump me if I got in their way. I also had
to keep an eye out for Mr. Haskins, the chief ganger, because if he ever found me loitering, to use his favorite word, he would send me off with a kick up the backside and the threat: “If I see you loiterin’ round here again, my lad, I’ll report you to the headmaster.”
Occasionally Haskins decided he’d seen me once too often and I’d be reported to the headmaster, who would leather me before sending me back to my classroom. My form master, Mr. Holcombe, never let on if I didn’t show up for his class, but then he was a bit soft. Whenever my mum found out I’d been playing truant, she couldn’t hide her anger and would stop my halfpenny-a-week pocket money. But despite the occasional punch from an older boy, regular leatherings from the headmaster and the loss of my pocket money, I still couldn’t resist the draw of the docks.
I made only one real friend while I “loitered” around the dockyard. His name was Old Jack Tar. Mr. Tar lived in an abandoned railway carriage at the end of the sheds. Uncle Stan told me to keep away from Old Jack because he was a stupid, dirty old tramp. He didn’t look that dirty to me, certainly not as dirty as Stan, and it wasn’t long before I discovered he wasn’t stupid either.
After lunch with my uncle Stan, one bite of his Marmite sandwich, his discarded apple core and a swig of beer, I would be back at school in time for a game of football; the only activity I considered it worth turning up for. After all, when I left school I was going to captain Bristol City, or build a ship that would sail around the world. If Mr. Holcombe kept his mouth shut and the ganger didn’t report me to the headmaster, I could go for days without being found out, and as long as I avoided the coal barges and was standing by the school gate at four o’clock every afternoon, my mother would never be any the wiser.
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