As the Crow Flies

“Pounds,” I replied as I wrote out my name and address on the back of the particulars and left it on the counter. Mr. Palmer seemed incapable of speech, and his mouth remained wide open as I turned and walked out of the office.

I made my way back to Chelsea only too aware that I had no intention of buying a shop in the Terrace. In any case, I hadn’t got one hundred pounds, or anything like it. I had just over forty pounds in the bank and not much prospect of raising another bean, but the silly man’s attitude had made me so angry. Still, I decided, there wasn’t much fear of Mrs. Chapman accepting so insulting an offer.

Mrs. Chapman accepted my offer the following morning. Blissfully unaware that I had no obligation to sign any agreement, I put down a ten-pound deposit the same afternoon. Mr. Palmer explained that the money was not returnable, should I fail to complete the contract within thirty days.

“That won’t be a problem,” I told him with bravado, though I hadn’t a clue how I would get hold of the balance of the cash.

For the following twenty-seven days I approached everyone I knew, from the Bow Building Society to distant aunts, even fellow students, but none of them showed the slightest interest in backing a young woman undergraduate to the tune of sixty pounds in order that she could buy a fruit and vegetable shop.

“But it’s a wonderful investment,” I tried to explain to anyone who would listen. “What’s more, Charlie Trumper comes with the deal, the finest fruit and vegetable man the East End has ever seen.” I rarely got beyond this point in my sales patter before expressions of incredulity replaced polite disinterest.

After the first week I came to the reluctant conclusion that Charlie Trumper wasn’t going to be pleased that I had sacrificed ten pounds of our money—six of his and four of mine—just to appease my female vanity. I decided I would carry the six-pound loss myself rather than admit to him I’d made such a fool of myself.

“But why didn’t you talk it over with your mother or your aunt before you went ahead with something quite so drastic?” inquired Daphne on the twenty-sixth day. “After all, they both seemed so sensible to me.”

“And be killed for my trouble? No, thank you,” I told her sharply. “In any case, I’m not that sure they have sixty pounds between them. Even if they did, I don’t think they’d be willing to invest a penny in Charlie Trumper.”

r /> At the end of the month I crept back round to John D. Wood to explain that the ninety pounds would not be forthcoming and they should feel free to place the property back on the market. I dreaded the “I knew as much” smirk that would appear on Mr. Palmer’s face once he learned my news.

“But your representative completed the transaction yesterday,” Mr. Palmer assured me, looking as if he would never understand what made me tick.

“My representative?” I said.

The assistant checked the file. “Yes, a Miss Daphne Harcourt-Browne of—”

“But why?” I asked.

“I hardly feel that I’m the person to answer that particular question,” offered Mr. Palmer, “as I’ve never set eyes on the lady before yesterday.”

“Quite simple really,” Daphne replied when I put the same question to her that evening. “If Charlie Trumper is half as good as you claim then I’ll have made a very sound investment.”

“Investment?”

“Yes. You see, I require that my capital plus four percent interest should be returned within three years.”

“Four percent?”

“Correct. After all, that’s the amount I am receiving on my war loan stock. On the other hand, should you fail to return my capital plus interest in full, I will require ten percent of the profits from the fourth year onwards.”

“But there may not be any profits.”

“In which case I will automatically take over sixty percent of the assets. Charlie will then own twenty-four percent and you sixteen. Everything you need to know is in this document.” She handed over several pages of tightly worded copy, the last page of which had a seven on the top. “All it now requires is your signature on the bottom line.”

I read through the papers slowly while Daphne poured herself a sherry. She or her advisers seemed to have considered every eventuality.

“There’s only one difference between you and Charlie Trumper,” I told her, penning my signature between two penciled crosses.

“And what’s that?”

“You were born in a four-poster bed.”

As I was quite unable to organize the shop myself and continue with my studies at the university, I quickly came to the conclusion that I would have to appoint a temporary manager. The fact that the three girls who were already employed at Number 147 just giggled whenever I gave any instructions only made the appointment more pressing.

The following Saturday I began a tour of Chelsea, Fulham and Kensington, staring into shop windows up and down the three boroughs and watching young men going about their business in the hope of eventually finding the right person to run Trumper’s.

After keeping an eye on several possible candidates who were working in local shops, I finally selected a young man who was an assistant at a fruiterer’s in Kensington. One evening in November I waited for him to finish his day’s work. I then followed him as he began his journey home.

The ginger-haired lad was heading towards the nearest bus stop when I managed to catch up with him.