As the Crow Flies (13 page)

Jacob
Cohen had promised to send Charlie over to Chelsea the moment he reappeared in
the Whitechapel Road. It couldn’t be too soon for me.

I
picked up my books and stuffed them away in my old school satchel, the one my
father Tata had given me when I won my open scholarship to St. Paul’s. The “RS”
he had had so proudly stamped on the front was fading now, and the leather
strap had almost worn through, so lately I had been carrying the satchel under
my arm: Tata would never have considered buying me a new one while the old one
still had a day’s life left in it.

How
strict Tata had always been with me; even taken the strap to me on a couple of
occasions, once for pinching “fress,” or buns as Mother called them, behind his
back he didn’t mind how much I took from the shop as long as I asked and once
for saying “damn” when I cut my finger peeling an apple. Although I wasn’t
brought up in the Jewish faith my mother wouldn’t hear of it he still passed on
to me all those standards that were part of his own upbringing and would never
tolerate what he from time to time described as my “unacceptable behavior.”

It
was to be many years later that I learned of the strictures Tata had accepted
once he had proposed marriage to my mother, a Roman Catholic. He adored her and
never once complained in my presence of the fact that he always had to attend
shul on his own. “Mixed marriages seems such an outdated expression nowadays
but at the turn of the century it must have been quite a sacrifice for both of
them to make.

I
loved St. Paul’s from the first day I walked through the gates, I suppose
partly because no one told me off for working too hard. The only thing I didn’t
like was being called “Porky.” It was a girl from the class above me, Daphne
Harcourt-Browne, who later explained its double connotation. Daphne was a
curlyheaded blonde known as “Snooty” and although we were not natural friends,
our predilection for cream buns brought us together especially when she
discovered that I had a never-ending source of supply. Daphne would happily
have paid for them but I wouldn’t consider it as I wanted my classmates to
think we were pals. On one occasion she even invited me to her home in Chelsea,
but I didn’t accept as I knew if I did I would only have to ask her back to my
place in Whitechapel.

It
was Daphne who gave me my first art book, The Treasures of Italy, in exchange
for several cream wafers, and from that day on I knew I had stumbled across a
subject I wanted to study for the rest of my life. I never asked Daphne but it
always puzzled me why one of the pages at the front of the book had been torn
out.

Daphne
came from one of the best families in London, certainly from what I understood
to be the upper classes, so once I left St. Paul’s I assumed we would never
come across each other again. After all, Lowndes Square was hardly a natural
habitat for me. Although to be fair neither was the East End while it remained
full of such people as the Trumpers and the Shorrocks.

And
when it came to those Trumpers I could only agree with my father’s judgment.
Mary Trumper, by all accounts, must have been a saint. George Trumper was a man
whose behavior was unacceptable, not in the same class as his father, whom Tata
used to describe as a “mensch.” Young Charlie who was always up to no good as
far as I could see nevertheless had what Tata called “a future.” The magic must
have skipped a generation, he suggested.

“The
boy’s not bad for a gay,” he would tell me. “He’ll run his own shop one day,
maybe even more than one, believe me.” I didn’t give this observation a lot of
thought until my father’s death left me with no one else to whom I could turn.

Tata
had complained often enough that he couldn’t leave his two assistants at the
shop for more than an hour before something was certain to go wrong. “No
saychel,” he would complain of those unwilling to take responsibility. “Can’t
think what would happen to the shop if I take one day off.”

As
Rabbi Glikstein read out the last rites at his levoyah, those words rang in my
ears. My mother was still unconscious in hospital and they couldn’t tell me
when or if she might recover. Meanwhile I was to be foisted on my reluctant
Aunt Harriet, whom I had only previously met at family gatherings. It turned
out that she lived in someplace called Romford and as she was due to take me
back there the day after the funeral I had only been left with a few hours to
make a decision. I tried to work out what my father would have done in the same
circumstances and came to the conclusion that he would have taken what he so often
called “a bold step.”

By
the time I got up the next morning, I had determined to sell the baker’s shop
to the highest bidder unless Charlie Trumper was willing to take on the
responsibility himself. Looking back, I certainly had my doubts about whether
Charlie was capable of doing the job but in the end they were outweighed by
Tata’s high opinion of him.

During
my lessons that morning I prepared a plan of action. As soon as school was over
I took the train from Hammersmith to Whitechapel, then continued the rest of
the journey on foot to Charlie’s home.

Once
at Number 112 I banged on the door with the palm of my hand and waited I
remember being surprised that the Trumpers didn’t have a knocker. My call was
eventually answered by one of those awful sisters, but I wasn’t quite sure
which one it was. I told her I needed to speak to Charlie, and wasn’t surprised
to be left standing on the doorstep while she disappeared back into the house.
She returned a few minutes later and somewhat grudgingly led me into a little
room at the back.

When
I left twenty minutes later I felt I had come off with rather the worst of the
bargain but another of my father’s aphorisms came to mind: “shnorrers no
choosers.”

The
following day I signed up for an accountancy course as an “extra option.” The
lessons took place during the evening and then only after I had finished my
regular schoolwork for the day. To begin with I found the subject somewhat
tedious, but as the weeks passed I became fascinated by how meticulously
recording each transaction could prove to be so beneficial even to our little
business. I had no idea so much money could be saved by simply understanding a
balance sheet, debt repayments and how to make claims against tax. My only
worry was that I suspected Charlie had never bothered to pay any tax in the
first place.

I
even began to enjoy my weekly visits to Whitechapel, where I would be given the
chance to show off my newfound skills. Although I remained resolute that my
partnership with Charlie would come to an end the moment I was offered a place
at university, I still believed that with his energy and drive, combined with
my levelheaded approach in all matters financial, we would surely have
impressed my father and perhaps even Granpa Charlie.

As
the time approached for me to concentrate on my matriculation, I decided to
offer Charlie the opportunity to buy out my share of the partnership and even
arranged for a qualified accountant to replace me in order that they could take
over the bookkeeping. Then, yet again, those Germans upset my best laid plans.

This
time they killed Charlie’s father, which was a silly mistake because it only
made the young fool sign up to fight the lot of them on his own. Typically he
didn’t even bother to consult anyone. Off he went to Great Scotland Yard, in
that frightful double-breasted suit, silly flat cap and flashy green tie,
carrying ail the worries of the Empire on his shoulders, leaving me to pick up
the pieces. It was little wonder I lost so much weight over the next year,
which my mother considered a small compensation for having to associate with
the likes of Charlie Trumper.

To
make matters worse, a few weeks after Charlie had boarded the train for
Edinburgh I was offered a place at London University.

Charlie
had left me with only two choices: I could try to run the baker’s shop myself
and give up any thought of taking a degree, or I could sell out to the highest
bidder. He had dropped me a note the day he left advising me to sell, so sell I
did, but despite many hours spent traipsing round the East End I could only
find one interested party: Mr. Cohen, who had for some years conducted his
tailor’s business from above my father’s shop and wanted to expand. He made me
a fair offer in the circumstances and I even picked up another two pounds from
one of the street traders for Charlie’s huge barrow; but hard though I tried I
couldn’t find a buyer for Granpa Charlie’s dreadful old nineteenth-century
relic.

I
immediately placed all the money I had collected on deposit in the Bow Building
Society at 102 Cheapside for a period of one year at a rate of four percent. I
had had no intention of touching it while Charlie Trumper was still away at
war, until some five months later Kitty Trumper visited me in Romford. She
burst into tears and told me that Charlie had been killed on the Western Front.
She added that she didn’t know what would become of the family now that her
brother was no longer around to take care of them. I immediately explained to
her what my arrangement with Charlie had been, and that at least brought a
smile to her face. She agreed to accompany me to the building society the next
day so that we could withdraw Charlie’s share of the money.

It
was my intention to carry out Charlie’s wishes and see that his share of the
money was distributed equally between his three sisters. However, the manager
of the society pointed out to us both in the politest possible terms that I was
unable to withdraw one penny of the deposit until the first full year had been
completed. He even produced the document I had signed to that effect, bringing
to my attention the relevant clause. On learning this Kitty immediately leaped
up, let out a stream of obscenities that caused the under-manager to turn
scarlet, and then flounced out.

Later,
I had cause to be grateful for that clause. I could so easily have divided
Charlie’s sixty percent between Sal, Grace, and that awful Kitty, who had so
obviously lied about her brother’s death. I only became aware of the truth when
in July Grace wrote from the front to let me know that Charlie was being sent
to Edinburgh following the second battle of the Marne. I vowed there and then
to give him his share of the money the day he set foot in England; I wanted to
be rid of all those Trumpers and their distracting problems once and for all.

I
only wish Tata had lived to see me take up my place at Bedford College. His
daughter at London University Whitechapel would never have heard the end of it.
But a German zeppelin had put paid to that and crippled my mother into the
bargain. As it turned out, Mother was still delighted to remind all her friends
that I had been among the first women from the East End to sign the register.

After
I had written my letter of acceptance to Bedford I began to look for digs
nearer the university: I was determined to show some independence. My mother,
whose heart had never fully recovered from the shock of losing Tata, retired to
the suburbs to live with Aunt Harriet in Romford. She couldn’t understand why I
needed to lodge in London at all, but insisted that any accommodation I settled
on had to be approved by the university authorities. She emphasized that I
could only share rooms with someone Tata would have considered “acceptable.”
Mother never stopped telling me she didn’t care for the lax morals that had
become so fashionable since the outbreak of the war.

Although
I had kept in contact with several school friends from St. Paul’s, I knew only
one who was likely to have surplus accommodation in London, and I considered
she might well turn out to be my one hope of not having to spend the rest of my
life on a train somewhere between Romford and Regent’s Park. I wrote to Daphne
Harcourt-Browne the following day.

She
replied inviting me round to tea at her little flat in Chelsea. When I first
saw her again I was surprised to find that I was now a little taller than
Daphne but that she had lost almost as much weight as I had. Daphne not only
welcomed me with open arms but to my surprise expressed delight at the thought
of my occupying one of her spare rooms. I insisted that I should pay her rent
of five shillings a week and also asked her, somewhat tentatively, if she felt
able to come and have tea with my mother in Romford. Daphne seemed amused by the
thought and traveled down to Essex with me on the following Tuesday.

My
mother and aunt hardly uttered a word the entire afternoon. A monologue that
centered on hunt balls, riding to hounds, polo and the disgraceful decline of
the manners of guards officers were hardly subjects about which they were often
invited to give an opinion. By the time Aunt Harriet had served a second round
of muffins I wasn’t at all surprised to see my mother happily nodding her
approval.

In
fact, the only embarrassing moment the entire afternoon came when Daphne
carried the tray out into the kitchen something I suspected she had not done
often before and spotted my final school report pinned to the pantry door.
Mother smiled and added to my humiliation by reading its contents out loud: “Miss
Salmon displays an uncommon capacity for hard work which, combined with an
inquiring and intuitive mind, should augur well for her future at Bedford
College. Signed Miss Potter, Headmistress.”

“Ma
certainly didn’t bother to display my final report anywhere” was all Daphne had
to say on the subject.