As the Crow Flies

“Has the time not come, Charlie,” I suggested, “for you to purchase a morning coat of your own? After all, there are likely to be considerably more of these occasions in the future.”

“Certainly not,” he replied. “That would only be a waste of good money.”

“May I inquire why?” I asked. “Surely the cost of a—”

“Because it is my intention to purchase a tailor’s shop of my own,” he interjected. “I’ve had my eye on Number 143 for some considerable time, and I hear from Mr. Crowther that it might come on the market at any moment.”

I couldn’t argue with this piece of logic, although his next question baffled me completely.

“Have you ever heard of Marshall Field, Colonel?”

“Was he in the regiment?” I asked, racking my brain.

“No, he was not,” replied Charlie with a grin. “Marshall Field is a department store in Chicago, where you can purchase anything you could ever want for the rest of your life. What’s more they have two million square feet of selling space all under one roof.”

I couldn’t think of a more ghastly concept, but I didn’t attempt to stop the boy’s enthusiastic flow. “The building takes up an entire block,” he informed me. “Can you imagine a store that has twenty-eight entrances? According to the advertisements there’s nothing you can’t buy, from an automobile to an apple, and they have twenty-four varieties of both. They’ve revolutionized retailing in the States by being the first store to give full credit facilities. They also claim that if they don’t have it they’ll get it for you within a week. Field’s motto is: ‘Give the lady what she wants.’”

“Are you suggesting that we should purchase Marshall Field in exchange for 147 Chelsea Terrace?” I asked ingenuously.

“Not immediately, Colonel. But if in time I was able to get my hands on every shop in Chelsea Terrace we could then carry out the same operation in London, and perhaps even remove the first line from their current cheeky advertisement.”

I knew I was being set up so I duly asked what the line proclaimed.

“The biggest store in the world,” Charlie replied.

“And how do you feel about all this?” I asked, turning my attention to Becky.

“In Charlie’s case,” she replied, “it would have to be the biggest barrow in the world.”

CHAPTER

17

The first annual general meeting of Trumper’s was held above the fruit and vegetable shop in the front room of 147 Chelsea Terrace. The colonel, Charlie and Becky sat round a small trestle table, not quite sure how to get things started until the colonel opened the proceedings.

“I know there are only three of us, but I still consider all our future meetings should be conducted in a professional manner.” Charlie raised his eyebrows but made no attempt to stop the colonel’s flow. “I have therefore taken the liberty,” he began, “of setting out an agenda. Otherwise I find one can so easily forget to raise quite important issues.” The colonel proceeded to pass both his colleagues a sheet of paper with five items neatly written in his own hand. “To that end the first item to come under discussion is headed ‘financial report’ and I’ll begin by asking Becky to let us know how she sees the current fiscal position.”

Becky had carefully written out her report word for word, having the previous month purchased two large leather-bound books, one red, one blue, from the stationer’s at 137 and for the past fortnight having risen only minutes after Charlie had left for Covent Garden in order to be sure she could answer any questions that might arise at their first meeting. She opened up the cover of the red book and began to read slowly, occasionally referring to the blue book, which was just as large and authoritative-looking. This had the single word “Accounts” stamped in gold on the outside.

“In the year ending 31 December 1921 we showed a turnover on the seven shops of one thousand three hundred and twelve pounds and four shillings, on which we declared a profit of two hundred and nineteen pounds eleven shillings, showing seventeen percent profit on turnover. Our debt at the bank currently stands at seven hundred and seventy-one pounds, which includes our tax liability for the year, but the value of the seven shops remains in the books at one thousand two hundred and ninety pounds, which is the exact price we paid for them. This therefore does not reflect their current market value.

“I have made a breakdown of the figures on each of the shops for your consideration,” said Becky, handing copies of her efforts to Charlie and the colonel, both of whom studied them carefully for several minutes before either spoke.

“Grocery is still our number one earner, I see,” said the colonel, as he ran his monocle down the profit and loss column. “Hardware is only just breaking even, and the tailor’s is actually eating into our profits.”

“Yes,” said Charlie. “I met up with a right holy friar when I bought that one.”

“Holy friar?” said the colonel, perplexed.

“Liar,” said Becky, not looking up from her book.

“Afraid so,” said Charlie. “You see, I paid through the nose for the freehold, too much for the stock, then got myself landed with poor staff who weren’t properly trained. But things have taken a turn for the better since Major Arnold took over.”

The colonel smiled at the knowledge that the appointment of one of his former staff officers had been such an immediate success. Tom Arnold had returned to Savile Row soon after the war only to find that his old job as under-manager at Hawkes had been taken up by someone who had been demobbed a few months earlier than himself, and he was therefore expected to be satisfied with the status of senior assistant. He wasn’t. When the colonel told him there just might be an opening for him at Trumper’s, Arnold had jumped at the opportunity.

“I’m bound to say,” said Becky, studying the figures, “that people seem

to have a totally different moral attitude to paying their tailor than they would ever consider applying to any other tradesman. Just look at the debtors’ column.”