As the Crow Flies

13

When I opened the letter, I confess I didn’t immediately recall who Becky Salmon was. But then I remembered that there had been an extremely bright, rather plump pupil by that name at St. Paul’s, who always seemed to have an endless supply of cream cakes. If I remember, the only thing I gave her in return was an art book that had been a Christmas present from an aunt in Cumberland.

In fact, by the time I had reached the upper sixth, the precocious little blighter was already in the lower sixth, despite there being a good two years’ difference in our ages.

Having read her letter a second time, I couldn’t imagine why the girl should want to see me, and concluded that the only way I was likely to find out was to invite her round to tea at my little place in Chelsea.

When I first saw Becky again I hardly recognized her. Not only had she lost a couple of stone, but she would have made an ideal model for one of those Pepsodent advertisements that one saw displayed on the front of every tram—you know, a fresh-faced girl showing off a gleaming set of perfect teeth. I had to admit I was quite envious.

Becky explained to me that all she needed was a room in London while she was up at the university. I was only too happy to oblige. After all, the mater had made it clear on several occasions how much she disapproved of my being in the flat on my own, and that she couldn’t for the life of her fathom what was wrong with 26 Lowndes Square, our family’s London residence. I couldn’t wait to tell Ma, and Pa for that matter, the news that I had, as they so often requested, found myself an appropriate companion.

“But who is this girl?” inquired my mother, when I went down to Harcourt Hall for the weekend. “Anyone we know?”

“Don’t think so, Ma,” I replied. “An old school chum from St. Paul’s. Rather the academic type.”

“Bluestockin’, you mean?” my father chipped in.

“Yes, you’ve got the idea, Pa. She’s attending someplace called Bedford College to read the history of the Renaissance, or something like that.”

“Didn’t know girls could get degrees,” my father said. “Must all be part of that damned little Welshman’s ideas for a new Britain.”

“You must stop describing Lloyd George in that way,” my mother reprimanded him. “He is, after all, our prime minister.”

“He may be yours, my dear, but he’s certainly not mine. I blame it all on those suffragettes,” my father added, producing one of his habitual non sequiturs.

“My dear, you blame most things on the suffragettes,” my mother reminded him, “even last year’s harvest. However,” she continued, “coming back to this girl, she sounds to me as if she could have a very beneficial influence on you, Daphne. Where did you say her parents come from?”

“I didn’t,” I replied. “But I think her father was a businessman out East somewhere, and I’m going to take tea with her mother sometime next week.”

“Singapore possibly?” said Pa. “There’s a lot of business goin’ on out there, rubber and all that sort of thing.”

“No, I don’t think he was in rubber, Pa.”

“Well, whatever, do bring the girl round for tea one afternoon,” Ma insisted. “Or even down here for the weekend. Does she hunt?”

“No, I don’t think so, Ma, but I’ll certainly invite her to tea in the near future, so that you can both inspect her.”

I must confess that I was equally amused by the idea of being asked along to tea with Becky’s mother, so that she could be sure that I was the right sort of girl for her daughter. Afte

r all, I was fairly confident that I wasn’t. I had never been east of the Aldwych before, as far as I could recollect, so I found the idea of going to Essex even more exciting than traveling abroad.

Luckily the journey to Romford was without incident, mainly because Hoskins, my father’s chauffeur, knew the road well. It turned out he had originated from somewhere called Dagenham, which he informed me was even deeper inside the Essex jungle.

I had no notion until that day that such people existed. They were neither servants nor from the professional classes nor members of the gentry, and I can’t pretend that I exactly fell in love with Romford. However, Mrs. Salmon and her sister Miss Roach couldn’t have been more hospitable. Becky’s mother turned out to be a practical, sensible, God-fearing woman who could also produce an excellent spread for tea, so it was not an altogether wasted journey.

Becky moved into my flat the following week, and I was horrified when I discovered how hard the girl worked. She seemed to spend all day at that Bedford place, returning home only to nibble a sandwich, sip a glass of milk and then continue her studies until she fell asleep, long after I had gone to bed. I could never quite work out what it was all in aid of.

It was after her foolish visit to John D. Wood that I first learned about Charlie Trumper and his ambitions. All that fuss, simply because she had sold off his barrow without consulting him. I felt it nothing less than my duty to point out that two of my ancestors had been beheaded for trying to steal counties, and one sent to the Tower of London for high treason; well at least, I reflected, I had a kinsman who had spent his final days in the vicinity of the East End.

As always, Becky knew she was right. “But it’s only a hundred pounds,” she kept repeating.

“Which you don’t possess.”

“I’ve got forty and I feel confident it’s such a good investment that I ought to be able to raise the other sixty without much trouble. After all, Charlie could sell blocks of ice to the Eskimos.”

“And how are you planning to run the shop in his absence?” I asked. “Between lectures perhaps?”

“Oh, don’t be so frivolous, Daphne. Charlie will manage the shop just as soon as he gets back from the war. After all, it can’t be long now.”