As the Crow Flies

Daphne treated them all with the same disdain, confiding in me that her one true love was still serving on the Western Front—not that she once mentioned his name in my presence.

Whenever I found time to break away from my books, she could always manage to supply a spare young officer to escort me to a concert, a play, even the occasional regimental dance. Although she never showed any interest in what I was up to at university, she often asked questions about the East End and seemed fascinated by my stories of Charlie Trumper and his barrow.

It might have continued like this indefinitely if I hadn’t picked up a copy of the Kensington News, a paper Daphne took so she could find out what was showing at the local picture house.

As I flicked through the pages one Friday evening an advertisement caught my eye. I studied the wording closely to be sure the shop was exactly where I thought it was, folded up the paper and left the flat to check for myself. I strolled down Chelsea Terrace to find the sign in the window of the local greengrocer’s. I must have walked past it for days without noticing: “For sale. Apply John D. Wood, 6 Mount Street, London W1.”

I remembered that Charlie had always wanted to know how prices in Chelsea compared with those in Whitechapel so I decided to find out for him.

The following morning, having asked some leading questions of our local news agent—Mr. Bales always seemed to know exactly what was going on in the Terrace and was only too happy to share his knowledge with anyone who wanted to pass the time of day—I presented myself at the offices of John D. Wood in Mount Street. For some time I was left standing at the counter but eventually one of four assistants came over, introduced himself to me as Mr. Palmer and asked how he could help.

After a closer inspection of the young man, I doubted that he could help anyone. He must have been about seventeen and was so pale and thin he looked as if a gust of wind might blow him away.

“I’d like to know some more details concerning Number 147 Chelsea Terrace,” I said.

He managed to look both surprised and baffled at the same time.

“Number 147 Chelsea Terrace?”

“Number 147 Chelsea Terrace.”

“Would madam please excuse me?” he said and walked over to a filing cabinet, shrugging exaggeratedly as he passed one of his colleagues. I could see him thumb through several papers before returning to the counter with a single sheet; he made no attempt to invite me in or even to offer me a chair.

He placed the single sheet on the countertop and studied it closely.

“A greengrocer’s shop,” he said.

“Yes.”

“The shop frontage,” the young man went on to explain in a tired voice, “is twenty-two feet. The shop itself is a little under one thousand square feet, which includes a small flat on the first floor overlooking the park.”

“What park?” I asked, not certain we were discussing the same property.

“Princess Gardens, madam,” he said.

“That’s a patch of grass a few feet by a few feet,” I informed him, suddenly aware that Mr. Palmer had never visited Chelsea Terrace in his life.

“The premises are freehold,” he continued, not responding to my comment, but at least no longer leaning on the counter. “And the owner would allow vacant possession within thirty days of contracts being signed.”

“What price is the owner asking for the property?” I asked. I was becoming more and more annoyed by being so obviously patronized.

“Our client, a Mrs. Chapman—” continued the assistant.

“Wife of Able Seaman Chapman, late of HMS Boxer,” I informed him. “Killed in action on 8 February 1918, leaving a daughter aged seven and a son aged five.”

Mr. Palmer had the grace to turn white.

“I also know that Mrs. Chapman has arthritis which makes it almost impossible for her to climb those stairs to the little flat,” I added for good measure.

He now looked considerably perplexed. “Yes,” he said. “Well, yes.”

“So how much is Mrs. Chapman hoping the property will fetch?” I insisted. By now Mr. Palmer’s three colleagues had stopped what they were doing in order to follow our conversation.

“One hundred and fifty guineas is being asked for the freehold,” stated the assistant, his eyes fixed on the bottom line of the schedule.

“One hundred and fifty guineas,” I repeated in mock disbelief, without a clue as to what the property was really worth. “She must be living in cloud cuckoo land. Has she forgotten there’s a war on? Offer her one hundred, Mr. Palmer, and don’t bother me again if she expects a penny more.”

“Guineas?” he said hopefully.