As the Crow Flies

“Wonder what it’s worth?” he asked Fothergill casually as he passed over a ten-shilling note.

“A few pounds at the most,” the expert declared as he touched his bow tie. “After all, you can find countless examples of the subject by unknown artists right across the continent of Europe.”

“I wonder,” said Charlie as he checked his watch and stuffed the receipt into his pocket. He had allowed himself sufficient time for a relaxed walk across Princess Gardens and on to the colonel’s residence, expecting to arrive a couple of minutes before ten. He bade Mr. Fothergill “Good morning,” and left.

Although it was still quite early, the pavements in Chelsea were already bustling with people and Charlie raised his hat to several customers he recognized.

“Good morning, Mr. Trumper.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Symonds,” said Charlie as he crossed the road to take a shortcut through the garden.

He began to try and compose in his mind what he would say to the colonel once he’d discovered why the chairman felt it had been necessary to offer his resignation. Whatever the reason, Charlie was determined not to lose the old soldier. He closed the park gate behind him and started to walk along the man-made path.

He stood aside to allow a lady pushing a pram to pass him and gave a mock salute to an old soldier sitting on a park bench rolling a Woodbine. Once he had crossed the tiny patch of grass, he stepped into the Gilston Road, closing the gate behind him.

Charlie continued his walk towards Tregunter Road and began to quicken his pace. He smiled as he passed his little home, quite forgetting he still had the picture under his arm, his mind still preoccupied with the reason for the colonel’s resignation.

Charlie turned immediately when he heard the scream and a door slam somewhere behind him, more as a reflex than from any genuine desire to see what was going on. He stopped in his tracks as he watched a disheveled figure dash out onto the road and then start running towards him.

Charlie stood mesmerized as the tramplike figure drew closer and closer until the man came to a sudden halt only a few feet in front of him. For a matter of seconds the two men stood and stared at each other without uttering a word. Neither ruffian nor gentleman showed on a face half obscured by rough stubble. And then recognition was quickly followed by disbelief.

Charlie couldn’t accept that the unshaven, slovenly figure who stood before him wearing an old army greatcoat and a battered felt hat was the same man he had first seen on a station in Edinburgh almost five years before.

Charlie’s abiding memory of that moment was to be the three clean circles on both epaulettes of Trentham’s greatcoat, from which the three pips of a captain must recently have been removed.

Trentham’s eyes dropped as he stared at the painting for a second and then suddenly, without warning, he lunged at Charlie, taking him by surprise, and wrested the picture from his grasp. He turned and started running back down the road in the direction he had come. Charlie immediately set o

ff in pursuit and quickly began to make up ground on his assailant, who was impeded by his heavy greatcoat, while having also to cling to the picture.

Charlie was within a yard of his quarry and about to make a dive for Trentham’s waist when he heard the second scream. He hesitated for a moment as he realized the desperate cry must be coming from his own home. He knew he had been left with no choice but to allow Trentham to escape with the picture as he changed direction and dashed up the steps of Number 17. He charged on into the drawing room to find the cook and nanny standing over Becky. She was lying flat out on the sofa screaming with pain.

Becky’s eyes lit up when she saw Charlie. “The baby’s coming,” was all she said.

“Pick her up gently, cook,” said Charlie, “and help me get her to the car.”

Together they carried Becky out of the house and down the path as nanny ran ahead of them to open the car door so they could place her on the backseat. Charlie stared down at his wife. Her face was drained of color and her eyes were glazed. She appeared to lose consciousness as he closed the car door.

Charlie jumped into the front of the car and shouted at cook, who was already turning the handle to get the engine started.

“Ring my sister at Guy’s Hospital and explain we’re on our way. And tell her to be prepared for an emergency.”

The motor spluttered into action and cook jumped to one side as Charlie drove the car out into the middle of the road, trying to keep a steady pace as he avoided pedestrians, bicycles, trams, horses and other cars as he crashed through the gears on his journey south towards the Thames.

He turned his head every few seconds to stare at his wife, not even sure if she was still alive. “Let them both live,” he shouted at the top of his voice. He continued on down the Embankment as fast as he could manage, honking his horn and several times screaming at people who were casually crossing the road unaware of his plight. As he drove across Southwark Bridge he heard Becky groan for the first time.

“We’ll soon be there, my darling,” he promised. “Just hold on a little longer.”

Once over the bridge he took the first left and maintained his speed until the great iron gates of Guy’s came into view. As he swung into the courtyard and round the circular flower bed he spotted Grace and two men in long white coats standing waiting, a stretcher by their side. Charlie brought the car to a halt almost on their toes.

The two men lifted Becky gently out and placed her on the stretcher before rushing her up the ramp and into the hospital. Charlie jumped out of the car and marched by the stretcher holding Becky’s hand as they climbed a flight of stairs, Grace running by his side explaining that Mr. Armitage, the hospital’s senior obstetrician, was waiting for them in an operating theater on the first floor.

By the time Charlie reached the doors of the theater, Becky was already inside. They left him outside in the corridor on his own. He began to pace up and down, unaware of others bustling past him as they went about their work.

Grace came out a few minutes later to reassure him that Mr. Armitage had everything under control and that Becky could not be in better hands. The baby was expected at any moment. She squeezed her brother’s hand, then disappeared back into the theater. Charlie continued his pacing, thinking only of his wife and their first child, the sight of Trentham already becoming a blur. He prayed for a boy Tommy who would be a brother for Daniel and perhaps one day even take over Trumper’s. Pray God that Becky was not going through too much pain as she delivered their son. He paced up and down that long green-walled corridor mumbling to himself, aware once again how much he loved her.

It was to be another hour before a tall, thickset man emerged from behind the closed doors, followed by Grace. Charlie turned to face them but as the surgeon had a mask over his face, Charlie had no way of knowing how the operation had gone. Mr. Armitage removed the mask: the expression on his face answered Charlie’s silent prayer.

“I managed to save your wife’s life,” he said, “but I am so very sorry, Mr. Trumper, I could do nothing about your stillborn daughter.”