As the Crow Flies

CHARLIE

1919–1926

CHAPTER

19

As I sat alone on that bench in Chelsea Terrace staring across at a shop with the name “Trumper’s” painted over the awning, a thousand questions went through my mind. Then I saw Posh Porky—or, to be accurate, I thought it must be her, because if it was, during my absence she’d changed into a woman. What had happened to that flat chest, those spindly legs, not to mention the spotty face? If it hadn’t been for those flashing brown eyes I might have remained in doubt.

She went straight into the shop and spoke to the man who had been acting as if he was the manager. I saw him shake his head; she then turned to the two girls behind the counter who reacted in the same way. She shrugged, before going over to the till, pulling out the tray and beginning to check the day’s takings.

I had been watching the manager carry out his duties for over an hour before Becky arrived, and to be fair he was pretty good, although I had already spotted several little things that could have been done to help improve sales, not least among them moving the counter to the far end of the shop and setting up some of the produce in boxes out on the pavement, so that the customers could be tempted to buy. “You must advertise your wares, not just hope people will come across them,” my granpa used to say. However, I remained patiently on that bench until the staff began to empty the shelves prior to closing up the premises.

A few minutes later Becky came back out onto the pavement and looked up and down the street as if she were waiting for someone. Then the young man, who was now holding a padlock and key, joined her and nodded in my direction. Becky looked over towards the bench for the first time.

Once she had seen me I jumped up and crossed the road to join her. For some time neither of us spoke. I wanted to hug her, but we ended up just shaking hands rather formally, before I asked, “So what’s the deal?”

“Couldn’t find anyone else who would supply me with free cream buns,” she told me, before going on to explain why she had sold the baker’s shop and how we had come to own 147 Chelsea Terrace. When the staff had left for the night, she showed me round the flat. I couldn’t believe my eyes—a bathroom with a toilet, a kitchen with crockery and cutlery, a front room with chairs and a table, and a bedroom—not to mention a bed that didn’t look as if it would collapse when you sat down on it.

Once again I wanted to hug her, but I simply asked if she could stay and share dinner, as I had a hundred other questions that still needed answering.

“Sorry, not tonight,” she said as I opened my case and began to unpack. “I’m off to a concert with a gentleman friend.” No sooner had she added some remark about Tommy’s picture than she smiled and left. Suddenly I was on my own again.

I took off my coat, rolled up my sleeves, went downstairs to the shop and for several hours moved things around until everything was exactly where I wanted it. By the time I had packed away the last box I was so exhausted that I only just stopped myself collapsing on the bed and grabbing some kip fully dressed. I didn’t draw the curtains so as to be sure I would wake by four.

I dressed quickly the following morning, excited by the thought of returning to a market I hadn’t seen for nearly two years. I arrived at the garden a few minutes before Bob Makins, who I quickly discovered knew his way around—without actually knowing his way about. I accepted that it would take me a few days before I could work out which dealers were being supplied by the most reliable farmers, who had the real contacts at the docks and ports, who struck the most sensible price day in, day out, and, most important of all, who would take care of you whenever there was any sort of real shortage. None of these problems seemed to worry Bob, as he strolled around the market in an uninterrupted, undemanding circle, collecting his wares.

I loved the shop from the moment we opened that first morning, my first morning. It took me a little time to get used to Bob and the girls calling me “sir” but it also took them almost as long to become used to where I’d put the counter and to having to place the boxes out on the pavement before the customers were awake. However, even Becky agreed that it was an inspiration to place our wares right under the noses of potential buyers, although she wasn’t sure how the local authorities would react when they found out.

“Hasn’t Chelsea ever heard of passing trade?” I asked her.

Within a month I knew the name of every regular customer who patronized the shop, and within two I was aware of their likes, dislikes, passions and even the occasional fad that each imagined must be unique to them. After the staff had packed up at the end of each day I would often walk across the road and sit on the bench opposite and just watch the comings and goings in Chelsea Terrace SW10. It didn’t take long to realize that an apple was an apple whoever wanted to take a bite out of it, and Chelsea Terrace was no different from Whitechapel when it came to understanding a customer’s needs: I suppose that must have been the moment I thought about owning a second shop. Why not? Trumper’s was the only establishment in Chelsea Terrace that regularly had a queue out onto the street.

Becky, meanwhile, continued her studies at the university and kept attempting to arrange for me to meet her gentleman friend. If the truth be known, I was trying to avoid Trentham altogether, as I had no desire to come in contact with the man I was convinced had killed Tommy.

Eventually I ran out of excuses and agreed to have dinner with them.

When Becky entered the restaurant with Daphne and Trentham, I wished that I had never agreed to spend the evening with them in the first place. The feeling must have been mutual, for Trentham’s face registered the same loathing I felt for him, although Becky’s friend, Daphne, tried to be friendly. She was a pretty girl and it wouldn’t have surprised me to find that a lot of men enjoyed that hearty laugh. But blue-eyed, curly-headed blondes never were my type. I pretended for form’s sake that Trentham and I hadn’t met before.

I spent one of the most miserable evenings of my life wanting to tell Becky everything I knew about the bastard, but aware as I watched them together that nothing I had to reveal could possibly have any influence on her. It didn’t help when Becky scowled at me for no reason. I just lowered my head and scooped up some more peas.

Becky’s roommate, Daphne Harcourt-Browne, continued to do her best, but even Charlie Chaplin would have failed to raise a smile with the three of us as an audience.

Shortly after eleven I called for the bill, and a few minutes later we all left the restaurant. I let Becky and Trentham walk ahead in the hope that it would give me a chance to slip away, but to my surprise double-barreled Daphne hung back, claiming she wanted to find out what changes I’d made to the shop.

From her opening question as I unlocked the front door I realized she didn’t miss much.

“You’re in love with Becky, aren’t you?” she asked quite matter-of-factly.

“Yes,” I replied without guile, and went on to reveal my feelings in a way I would never have done to someone I knew well.

Her second question took me even more by surprise.

“And just how long have you known Guy Trentham?”

As we climbed the steps to my little flat I told her that we had served together on the Western Front, but because of the difference in our rank our paths had rarely crossed.

“Then why do you dislike him so much?” Daphne asked, after she had taken the seat opposite me.