As the Crow Flies

“Good evening, Mr. Makins,” I said.

“Hello?” He looked round startled and was obviously surprised to discover that an unintroduced young woman knew his name. He carried on walking.

“I own a greengrocer’s shop in Chelsea Terrace…” I said, keeping up with him stride for stride as he continued on towards the bus stop. He showed even more surprise but didn’t say anything, only quickened his pace. “And I’m looking for a new manager.”

This piece of information caused Makins to slow down for the first time and look at me more carefully.

“Chapman’s,” he said. “Was it you who bought Chapman’s?”

“Yes, but it’s Trumper’s now,” I told him. “And I’m offering you the job as manager at a pound a week more than your present salary.” Not that I had any idea what his present salary was.

It took several miles on the bus and a lot of questions still to be answered outside his front door before he invited me in to meet his mother. Bob Makins joined us two weeks later as manager of Trumper’s.

Despite this coup I was disappointed to find at the end of our first month that the shop had made a loss of over three pounds which meant I wasn’t able to return a penny piece to Daphne.

“Don’t be despondent,” she told me. “Just keep going and there must still be an outside chance the penalty clause will never come into force, especially if on Mr. Trumper’s return he proves half as good as you claim he is.”

During the previous six months I had been able to keep a more watchful eye on the whereabouts of the elusive Charlie, thanks to the help of a young officer Daphne had introduced me to who worked in the war office. He always seemed to know exactly where Sergeant Charles Trumper of the Royal Fusiliers could be located at any time of the day or night. But I still remained determined to have Trumper’s running smoothly and declaring a profit long before Charlie set foot in the premises.

However I learned from Daphne’s friend that my errant partner was to be discharged on 20 February 1919, leaving me with little or no time to balance the books. And worse, we had recently found it necessary to replace, two of the three giggling girls who had sadly fallen victim to the Spanish flu epidemic, and sack the third for incompetence.

I tried to recall all the lessons Tata had taught me when I was a child. If a queue was long then you must serve the customers quickly, but if short you had to take your time: that way the shop would never be empty. People don’t like to go into empty shops, he explained; it makes them feel insecure.

“On your awning,” he would insist, “should be printed in bold lettering the words ‘Dan Salmon, freshly baked bread, Founded in 1879.’ Repeat name and date at every opportunity; the sort of people who live in the East End like to know you’ve been around for some time. Queues and history: the British have always appreciated the value of both.”

I tried to implement this philosophy, as I suspected Chelsea was no different from the East End. But in our case the blue awning read, “Charlie Trumper, the honest trader, founded in 1823.” For a few days I had even considered calling the shop “Trumper and Salmon,” but dropped that idea when I realized it would only tie me in with Charlie for life.

One of the big differences I discovered between the East and the West End was that in Whitechapel the names of debtors were chalked up on a slate, whereas in Chelsea they opened an account. To my surprise, bad debts turned out to be more common in Chelsea than in Whitechapel. By the following month I was still unable to pay anything back to Daphne. It was becoming daily more apparent that my only hope now rested with Charlie.

On the day he was due back I had lunch in the college dining hall with two friends from my year. I munched away at my apple and toyed with a piece of cheese as I tried to concentrate on their views on Karl Marx. Once I had sucked my third of a pint of milk dry I picked up my books and returned to the lecture theater. Despite being normally mesmerized by the subject of the early Renaissance artists, on this occasion I was grateful to see the professor stacking up his papers a few minutes before the lecture was scheduled to end.

The tram back to Chelsea seemed to take forever, but at last it came to a halt on the corner of Chelsea Terrace.

I always enjoyed walking the full length of the street to check how the other shops were faring. First I had to pass the antiques shop where Mr. Rutherford resided. He always raised his hat when he saw me. Then there was the women’s clothes shop at Number 133 with its dresses in the window that I felt I would never be able to afford. Next came Kendrick’s, the butcher’s, where Daphne kept an account; and a few doors on from them was the Italian restaurant with its empty cloth-covered tables. I knew the proprietor must be struggling to make a living, because we could no longer afford to extend him any credit. Finally came the bookshop where dear Mr. Sneddles tried to eke out a living. Although he hadn’t sold a book in weeks he would happily sit at the counter engrossed in his beloved William Blake until it was time to turn the sign on the front door from “Open” to “Closed.” I smiled as I passed by but he didn’t see me.

I calculated that if Charlie’s train had arrived at King’s Cross on time that morning, he should have already reached Chelsea by now, even if he had had to cover the entire journey on foot.

I hesitated only for a moment as I approached the shop, then walked straight in. To my chagrin, Charlie was nowhere to be seen. I immediately asked Bob Makins if anyone had called in asking for me.

“No one, Miss Becky,” Bob confirmed. “Don’t worry, we all remember exactly what was expected of us if Mr. Trumper shows up.” His two new assistants, Patsy and Gladys, nodded their agreement.

I checked my watch—a few minutes past five—and decided that if Charlie hadn’t turned up by now he was unlikely to appear before the next day. I frowned and told Bob he could start closing up. When six chimed on the clock above the door, I reluctantly asked him to push the blind back in and to lock up while I checked over the day’s takings.

“Strange that,” said Bob as he arrived by my side at the front door clutching the shop door keys.

“Strange?”

“Yes. That man over there. He’s been sitting on the bench for the last hour and has never once taken his eyes off the shop. I only hope there’s nothing wrong with the poor fellow.”

I glanced across the road. Charlie was sitting, arms folded, staring directly at me. When our eyes met he unfolded his arms, stood up and walked slowly over to join me.

Neither of us spoke for some time until he said, “So what’s the deal?”

CHAPTER

7

“How do you do, Mr. Trumper? Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” said Bob Makins, rubbing his palm down a green apron before shaking his new master’s outstretched hand.