As the Crow Flies (12 page)

Charlie
turned his back on the parade ground and began his journey to London. He was
nineteen years of age and had only just qualified to receive the King’s
shilling; but now he was a couple of inches taller, shaved and had even come
near to losing his virginity.

He’d
done his bit, and at least felt able to agree with the Prime Minister on one
matter. He had surely taken part in the war to end all wars.

The
night sleeper from Edinburgh was full of men in uniform who eyed the
civilian-clad Charlie with suspicion, as a man who hadn’t yet served his
country or, worse, was a conscientious objector.

“They’ll
be calling him up soon enough,” said a corporal to his mate in a loud whisper
from the far side of the carriage. Charlie smiled but didn’t comment.

He
slept intermittently, amused by the thought that he might have found it easier
to rest in a damp muddy trench with rats and cockroaches for companions. By the
time the train pulled into King’s Cross Station at seven the following morning,
he had a stiff neck and an aching back. He stretched himself before he picked
up his large paper parcel along with Tommy’s life possessions.

At
the station he bought a sandwich and a cup of tea. He was surprised when the
girl asked him for three pence. “Tuppence for those what are in uniform,” he
was told with undisguised disdain. Charlie downed the tea and left the station
without another word.

The
roads were busier and more hectic than he remembered, but he still jumped
confidently on a tram that had “City” printed across the front. He sat alone on
a trestled wooden bench, wondering what changes he would find on his return to
the East End. Did his shop flounsh, was it simply ticking over, had it been
sold or even gone bankrupt? And what of the biggest barrow in the world?

He
jumped off the tram at Poultry, deciding to walk the final mile. His pace
quickened as the accents changed, City gents in long black coats and bowlers
gave way to professional men in dark suits and trilbies, to be taken over by
rough lads in ill-fitting clothes and caps, until Charlie finally arrived in
the East End, where even the boaters had been abandoned by those under thirty.

As
Charlie approached the Whitechapel Road, he stopped and stared at the frantic
bustle taking place all around him. Hooks of meat, barrows of vegetables, trays
of pies, urns of tea passed him in every direction.

But
what of the baker’s shop, and his grandfather’s pitch? Would they be “all
present and correct”? He pulled his cap down over his forehead and slipped
quietly into the market.

When
he reached the corner of the Whitechapel Road he wasn’t sure he had come to the
right place. The baker’s shop was no longer there but had been replaced by a
bespoke tailor who traded under the name of Jacob Cohen. Charlie pressed his
nose against the window but couldn’t recognize anyone who was working inside.
He swung round to stare at the spot where the barrow of “Charlie Trumper, the
honest trader” had stood for nearly a century, only to find a gaggle of youths
warming themselves round a charcoal fire where a man was selling chestnuts at a
penny a bag.

Charlie
parted with a penny and was handed a bagful, but no one even gave him a second
glance. Perhaps Becky had sold everything as he instructed, he thought, as he
left the market to carry on down Whitechapel Road where at least he would have
a chance to catch up with one of his sisters, rest and gather his thoughts.

When
he arrived outside Number 112, he was pleased to find that the front door had
been repainted. God bless Sal. He pushed the door open and walked straight into
the parlor, where he came face to face with an overweight, half-shaven man
dressed in a vest and trousers who was brandishing an open razor.

“What’s
your game then?” asked the man, holding up the razor hmmly.

“I
live ‘ere,” said Charlie.

“Like
‘elf you do. I took over this dump six months ago.”

“But...
“

“No
buts,” said the man and without warning gave Charlie a shove in the chest which
propelled him back into the street. The door slammed behind him, and Charlie
heard a key turn in the lock. Not certain what to do next, he was beginning to
wish he had never come home.

“‘Ella,
Charlie. It is Charlie, isn’t it?” said a voice from behind him. “So you’re not
dead after all.”

He
swung round to see Mrs. Shorrocks standing by her front door.

“Dead?”
said Charlie.

“Yes,”
replied Mrs. Shorrocks. “Kitty told us you’d been killed on the Western Front
and that was why she ‘ad to sell 112. That was months ago ‘aven’t seen ‘er
since. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“No,
no one told me,” said Charlie, at least glad to find someone who recognized
him. He stared at his old neighbor trying to puzzle out why she looked so
different.

“‘Ow
about some lunch, lov? You look starved.”

“Thanks,
Mrs. Shorrocks.”

“I’ve
just got myself a packet of fish and chips from Dunkley’s. You won’t ‘ave
forgotten how good they are. A threepenny lot, a nice piece of cod soaked in
vinegar and a bag full of chips.”

Charlie
followed Mrs. Shorrocks into Number 110 joined her in the tiny kitchen and
collapsed onto a wooden chair.

“Don’t
suppose you know what ‘appened to my barrow or even Dan Salmon’s shop?”

“Young
Miss Rebecca sold ‘em both. Must ‘ave been a good nine months back, not that
long after you left for the front, come to think of it.” Mrs. Shorrocks placed
the bag of chips and the fish on a piece of paper in the middle of the table. “To
be fair, Kitty told us you were listed as killed on the Marne and by the time
anyone found out the truth it was too late.”

“May
as well ‘ave been,” said Charlie, “for all there is to come ‘ome to.”

“Oh,
I don’t know,” said Mrs. Shorrocks as she flicked the top off a bottle of ale,
took a swig and then pushed it over to Charlie. “I ‘ear there’s a lot of
barrows up for sale nowadays and some still gain’ for bargain prices.”

“Glad
to ‘ear it,” said Charlie. “But first I must catch up with Posh Porky as I don’t
‘ave much capital left of my own.” He paused to take his first mouthful of
fish. “Any idea where she’s got to?”

“Never
see her round these parts nowadays Charlie. She always was a bit ‘igh and
mighty for the likes of us, but I did ‘ear mention that Kitty had been to see
her at London University.”

“London
University, eh? Well, she’s about to discover Charlie Trumper’s very much
alive, however ‘igh and mighty she’s become. And she’d better ‘ave a pretty
convincing story as to what ‘appened to my share of our money.” He rose from
the table and gathered up his belongings, leaving the last two chips for Mrs.
Shorrocks.

“Shall
I open another bottle, Charlie?”

“Can’t
stop now, Mrs. Shorrocks. But thanks for the beer and grub and give my best to
Mr. Shorrocks.”

“Bert?”
she said. “‘Aven’t you ‘card? ‘E died of an ‘eart attack over six months ago,
poor man. I do miss ‘im.” It was then that Charlie realized what was different
about his old neighbor: no black eye and no bruises.

He
left the house and set out to find London University, and see if he could track
down Rebecca Salmon. Had she, as he’d instructed if he were listed as dead,
divided the proceeds of the sale between his three sisters Sal, now in Canada;
Grace, still somewhere in France; and Kitty, God knows where? In which case
there would be no capital for him to start up again other than Tommy’s back pay
and a few pounds he’d managed to save himself. He asked the first policeman he
saw the way to London University and was pointed in the direction of the
Strand. He walked another half mile until he reached an archway that had
chiseled in the stone above it: “King’s College.” He strolled through the
opening and knocked on a door marked “Inquiries,” walked in and asked the man
behind the counter if they had a Rebecca Salmon registered at the college. The
man checked a list and shook his head. “Not ‘ere,” he said “But you could try
the university registry in Malet Street.”

After
another penny tram ride Charlie was beginning to wonder where he would end up
spending the night.

“Rebecca
Salmon?” said a man who stood behind the desk of the university registry
dressed in a corporal’s uniform. “Doesn’t ring no bells with me.” He checked
her name in a large directory he pulled out from under the desk. “Oh, yes, ‘ere
she is. Bedford College, ‘istory of art.” He was unable to hide the scorn in
his voice.

“Don’t
have an address for ‘er, do you, Corp?” asked Charlie.

“Get
some service in, lad, before you call me ‘carp,’” said the older man. “In fact
the sooner you join up the better.”

Charlie
felt he had suffered enough insults for one day and suddenly let rip, “Sergeant
Trumper, 7312087. I’ll call you ‘corp’ and you’ll call me ‘sergeant’. Do I make
myself clear?”

“Yes,
Sergeant,” said the corporal, springing to attention.

“Now,
what’s that address?”

“She’s
in digs at 97 Chelsea Terrace, Sergeant.”

“Thank
you,” said Charlie, and left the startled exserviceman staring after him as he
began yet another journey across London.

A
weary Charlie finally stepped off a tram on the corner of Chelsea Terrace a
little after four o’clock. Had Becky got there before him, he wondered, even if
she were only living in digs?

He
walked slowly up the familiar road admiring the shops he had once dreamed of
owning. Number 131 antiques, full of mahogany furniture, tables and chairs all beautifully
polished. Number 133, women’s clothes and hosiery from Paris, with garments
displayed in the window that Charlie didn’t consider it was right for a man to
be looking at. On to Number 135 meat and poultry hanging from the rods at the
back of the shop that looked so delicious Charlie almost forgot there was a
food shortage. His eyes settled on a restaurant called “Mr. Scallini” which had
opened at 139. Charlie wondered if Italian food would ever catch on in London.

Number
141 an old bookshop, musty, cobwebbed and with not a single customer to be
seen. Then 143 a bespoke tailor. Suits, waistcoats, shirts and collars could,
the message painted on the window assured him, be purchased by the discerning
gentleman. Number 145 freshly baked bread, the smell of which was almost enough
to draw one inside. He stared up and down the street in incredulity as he
watched the finely dressed women going about their daily tasks, as if a World
War had never taken place. No one seemed to have told them about ration books.

Charlie
came to a halt outside 147 Chelsea Terrace. He gasped with delight at the sight
that met his tired eyes rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables that he
would have been proud to sell. Two well-turnd-out girls in green aprons and an
even smarter-looking youth waited to serve a customer who was picking up a
bunch of grapes.

Charlie
took a pace backwards and stared up at the name above the shop. He was greeted
by a sign printed in gold and blue which read: “Charlie Trumper, the honest trader,
founded in 1823.”

“
From 1480 to
1532,” he said. I checked through my notes to make sure I had the correct
dates, aware I had been finding it hard to concentrate. It was the last lecture
of the day, and all I could think about was getting back to Chelsea Terrace.

The
artist under discussion that afternoon was Bernardino Luini. I had already
decided that my degree thesis would be on the life of this underrated painter
from Milan. Milan... just another reason to be thankful that the war was
finally over. Now I could plan excursions to Rome, Florence, Venice and yes,
Milan, and study Luini’s work at first hand. Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci,
Bellini, Caravaggio, Bernini half the world’s art treasures in one country, and
I hadn’t been able to travel beyond the walls of the Victoria and Albert.

At
four-thirty a bell rang to mark the end of lectures for the day. I closed my
books and watched Professor Tilsey as he pattered towards the door. I felt a
little sorry for the old fellow. He had only been dragged out of retirement
because so many young dons had left to fight on the Western Front. The death of
Matthew Makepeace, the man who should have been lecturing that afternoon “Hone
of the most promising scholars of his generation,” the old Professor used to
tell us was “an inestimable loss to the department and the university as a
whole.” I had to agree with him: Makepeace was one of the few men in England
acknowledged as an authority on Luini. I had only attended three of his
lectures before he had signed up to go to France.... The irony of such a man
being riddled with German bullets while stretched over a barbed-wire fence
somewhere in the middle of France was not lost on me.

I
was in my first year at Bedford. It seemed there was never enough time to catch
up, and I badly needed Charlie to return and take the shop off my hands. I had
written to him in Edinburgh when he was in Belgium, to Belgium when he was in
France and to France the very moment he arrived back in Edinburgh. The King’s
mail never seemed to catch up with him, and now I didn’t want Charlie to find
out what I had been up to until I had the chance to witness his reaction for
myself.