As the Crow Flies (36 page)

“Not
the one that hangs in Charlie’s front room?”

“The
same, and when I finally admitted I had seen it he dropped the subject
altogether.”

“The
man must have gone completely out of his senses.”

“He
seemed sane enough to me,” said Daphne.

“Well,
let’s at least be thankful that he’s stuck in India, so there’s a little time
to consider what course of action we should take.”

“Not
that much time, I fear,” said Daphne.

“How
come?”

“Major
Trentham tells me that Guy is expected to return to these shores sometime next
month.”

After
lunch with Daphne the colonel resumed to Tregunter Road. He was turning with
anger when his butler opened the front door to let him in, but he remained
uncertain as to what he could actually do about it. The butler informed his
master that a Mr. Crowther awaited him in the study.

“Crowther?
What can he possibly want?” mumbled the colonel to himself before straightening
a print of the Isle of Skye that hung in the hall and joining him in the study.

“Good
afternoon Chairman,” Crowther said as he rose from the colonel’s chair. “You
asked me to report back as soon as I had any news on the flats.”

“Ah,
yes so I did,” said the colonel. “You’ve closed the deal?”

“No,
sir. I placed a bid of three thousand pounds with Savill’s, as instructed, but
then received a call from them about an hour later to inform me that the other
side had raised their offer to four thousand.”

“Four
thousand,” said the colonel in disbelief. “But who ?”

“I
said we were quite unable to match the sum, and even inquired discreetly who
their client might be. They informed me that it was no secret whom they were
representing. I felt I ought to let you know immediately, Chairman, as the name
of Mrs. Gerald Trentham meant nothing to me.”

A
s I sat alone
on that bench in Chelsea Terrace staring across at a shop with the name “Trumper’s”
painted over the awning, a thousand questions went through my mind. Then I saw
Posh Porky or, to be accurate, I thought it must be her, because if it was,
during my absence she’d changed into a woman. What had happened to that flat
chest, those spindly legs, not to mention the spotty face? If it hadn’t been
for those flashing brown eyes I might have remained in doubt.

She
went straight into the shop and spoke to the man who had been acting as if he
was the manager. I saw him shake his head; she then turned to the two girls
behind the counter who reacted in the same way. She shrugged, before going over
to the till, pulling out the tray and beginning to check the day’s takings.

I
had been watching the manager carry out his duties for over an hour before
Becky arrived, and to be fair he was pretty good, although I had already
spotted several little things that could have been done to help improve sales,
not least among them moving the counter to the far end of the shop and setting
up some of the produce in boxes out on the pavement, so that the customers
could be tempted to buy. “You must advertise your wares, not just hope people
will come across them,” my granpa used to say. However, I remained patiently on
that bench until the staff began to empty the shelves prior to closing up the
premises.

A
few minutes later Becky came back out onto the pavement and looked up and down
the street as if she were waiting for someone. Then the young man, who was now
holding a padlock and key, joined her and nodded in my direction. Becky looked
over towards the bench for the first time.

Once
she had seen me I jumped up and crossed the road to join her. For some time
neither of us spoke. I wanted to hug her, but we ended up just shaking hands
rather formally, before I asked, “So what’s the dealt”

“Couldn’t
find anyone else who would supply me with free cream buns,” she told me, before
going on to explain why she had sold the baker’s shop and how we had come to
own 147 Chelsea Terrace. When the staff had left for the night, she showed me
round the flat. I couldn’t believe my eyes a bathroom with a toilet, a kitchen
with crockery and cutlery, a front room with chairs and a table, and a bedroom
not to mention a bed that didn’t look as if it would collapse when you sat down
on it.

Once
again I wanted to hug her, but I simply asked if she could stay and share
dinner, as I had a hundred other questions that still needed answering.

“Sorry,
not tonight,” she said as I opened my case and began to unpack. “I’m off to a
concert with a gentleman friend.” No sooner had she added some remark about
Tommy’s picture than she smiled and left. Suddenly I was on my own again.

I
took off my coat, rolled up my sleeves, went downstairs to the shop and for
several hours moved things around until everything was exactly where I wanted
it. By the time I had packed away the last box I was so exhausted that I only
just stopped myself collapsing on the bed and grabbing some kip fully dressed.
I didn’t draw the curtains so as to be sure I would wake by four.

I
dressed quickly the following morning, excited by the thought of returning to a
market I hadn’t seen for nearly two years. I arrived at the garden a few
minutes before Bob Makins, who I quickly discovered knew his way around without
actually knowing his way about. I accepted that it would take me a few days
before I could work out which dealers were being supplied by the most reliable
farmers, who had the real contacts at the docks and ports, who struck the most
sensible price day in, day out, and, most important of all, who would take care
of you whenever there was any sort of real shortage. None of these problems seemed
to worry Bob, as he strolled around the market in an uninterrupted, undemanding
circle, collecting his wares.

I
loved the shop from the moment we opened that first morning, my first morning.
It took me a little time to get used to Bob and the girls calling me “sir” but
it also took them almost as long to become used to where I’d put the counter
and to having to place the boxes out on the pavement before the customers were
awake. However, even Becky agreed that it was an inspiration to place our wares
right under the noses of potential buyers, although she wasn’t sure how the
local authorities would react when they found out.

“Hasn’t
Chelsea ever heard of passing traded I asked her.”

Within
a month I knew the name of every regular customer who patronized the shop, and
within two I was aware of their likes, dislikes, passions and even the
occasional fad that each imagined must be unique to them. After the staff had
packed up at the end of each day I would often walk across the road and sit on
the bench opposite and just watch the comings and goings in Chelsea Terrace
SW10. It didn’t take long to realize that an apple was an apple whoever wanted
to take a bite out of it, and Chelsea Terrace was no different from Whitechapel
when it came to understanding a customer’s needs: I suppose that must have been
the moment I thought about owning a second shop. Why not? Trumper’s was the
only establishment in Chelsea Terrace that regularly had a queue out onto the
street.

Becky,
meanwhile, continued her studies at the university and kept attempting to
arrange for me to meet her gentleman friend. If the truth be known, I was
trying to avoid Trentham altogether, as I had no desire to come in contact with
the man I was convinced had killed Tommy.

Eventually
I ran out of excuses and agreed to have dinner with them.

When
Becky entered the restaurant with Daphne and Trentham, I wished that I had
never agreed to spend the evening with them in the first place. The feeling
must have been mutual, for Trentham’s face registered the same loathing I felt
for him, although Becky’s friend, Daphne, tried to be friendly. She was a
pretty girl and it wouldn’t have surprised me to find that a lot of men enjoyed
that hearty laugh. But blue-eyed, curlyheaded blondes never were my type. I
pretended for form’s sake that Trentham and I hadn’t met before.

I
spent one of the most miserable evenings of my life wanting to tell Becky
everything I knew about the bastard, but aware as I watched them together that
nothing I had to reveal could possibly have any influence on her. It didn’t
help when Becky scowled at me for no reason. I just lowered my head and scooped
up some more peas.

Becky’s
roommate, Daphne Harcourt-Browne, continued to do her best, but even Charlie
Chaplin would have failed to raise a smile with the three of us as an audience.

Shortly
after eleven I called for the bill, and a few minutes later we all left the
restaurant. I let Becky and Trentham walk ahead in the hope that it would give
me a chance to slip away, but to my surprise doublebarreled Daphne hung back,
claiming she wanted to find out what changes I’d made to the shop.

From
her opening question as I unlocked the front door I realized she didn’t miss
much.

“You’re
in love with Becky, aren’t you?” she asked quite matter-of-factly.

“Yes,”
I replied without guile, and went on to reveal my feelings in a way I would
never have done to someone I knew well.

Her
second question took me even more by surprise.

“And
just how long have you known Guy Trentham?”

As
we climbed the steps to my little flat I told her that we had served together
on the Western Front, but because of the difference in our rank our paths had
rarely crossed.

“Then
why do you dislike him so much?” Daphne asked, after she had taken the seat
opposite me.

I
hesitated again but then in a sudden rush of uncontrollable anger I described
what had happened to Tommy and me when we were trying to reach the safety of
our own lines, and how I was convinced that Guy Trentham had shot my closest
friend.

When
I’d finished we both sat in silence for some time before I added, “You must
never let Becky know what I’ve just told you as I’ve no real proof.”

She
nodded her agreement and went on to tell me about the only man in her life, as
if swapping one secret for another to bond our friendship. Her love for the man
was so transparent that I couldn’t fail to be touched. And when Daphne left
around midnight she promised that she’d do everything in her power to speed up
the demise of Guy Trentham. I remembered her using the word “demise,” because I
had to ask her what it meant. She told me, and thus I received my first
tutorial with the warning that Becky had a good start on me as she had not
wasted the last ten years.

My
second lesson was to discover why Becky had scowled at me so often during
dinner. I would have protested at her cheek, but realized she was right.

I
saw a lot of Daphne during the next few months, without Becky ever becoming
aware of our true relationship. She taught me so much about the world of my new
customers and even took me on trips to clothes shops, picture houses and to
West End theaters to see plays that didn’t have any dancing girls on the stage
but I still enjoyed them. I only drew the line when she tried to get me to stop
spending my Saturday afternoons watching West Ham in favor of some rugby team
called the Quins. However, it was her introduction to the National Gallery and
its five thousand canvases that was to start a love affair that was to prove as
costly as any woman. It was to be only a few months before I was dragging her
off to the latest exhibitions: Renoir, Manet and even a young Spaniard called
Picasso who was beginning to attract attention among London’s fashionable
society. I began to hope that Becky would appreciate the change in me, but her
eyes never once wavered from Captain Trentham.

On
Daphne’s further insistence I started reading two daily newspapers. She
selected the Daily Express and the News Chronicle, and occasionally when she
invited me round to Lowndes Square I even delved into one of her magazines,
Punch or Strand. I began to discover who was who and who did what, and to whom.
I even went to Sotheby’s for the first time and watched an early Constable come
under the hammer for a record price of nine hundred guineas. It was more money
than Trumper’s and all its fixtures and finings were worth put together. I
confess that neither that magnificent country scene nor any other painting I
came across in a gallery or auction house compared with my pride in Tommy’s
picture of the Virgin Mary and Child, which still hung above my bed.

When
in January 1920 Becky presented the first year’s accounts, I began to realize
my ambition to own a second shop no longer had to be a daydream. Then without
warning two sites became available in the same month. I immediately instructed
Becky that somehow she had to come up with the money to purchase them.

Daphne
later warned me on the QT that Becky was having considerable trouble raising
the necessary cash, and although I said nothing I was quite expecting her to
tell me that it simply wasn’t possible, especially as her mind seemed to be
almost totally preoccupied with Trentham and the fact that he was about to be
posted to India. When Becky announced the day he left that they had become
officially engaged, I could have willingly cut his throat and then mine but
Daphne assured me that there were several young ladies in London who had at one
time or another entertained the illusion that they were about to marry Guy
Trentham. However, Becky herself remained so confident of Trentham’s intentions
that I didn’t know which of the two women to believe.