As the Crow Flies

“All that it needed was the date and your signature,” said Syd. “I never thought you’d do that to me, Charlie, after all these years.”

“As you well know, Syd, I’m a man of my word. I’m only sorry my managing director wasn’t properly acquainted with our personal arrangement.” Charlie removed a wallet from his pocket, took out a checkbook, and wrote out the words “Syd Wrexall” on the top line and “six thousand pounds” on the line below before signing it with a flourish.

“You’re a gentleman, Charlie, I always said you were. Didn’t I always say he was, Hilda?”

Mrs. Wrexall nodded enthusiastically as Charlie smiled, picked up the contract and placed all the papers inside his briefcase and then shook hands with the publican and his wife.

“How much is the damage?” he asked after he had drained the last drop of his beer.

“It’s on the house,” said Wrexall.

“But, Syd—”

“No, I insist, wouldn’t dream of treating an old friend like a customer, Charlie. On the house,” he repeated as the telephone rang and Hilda Wrexall went off to answer it.

“Well, I must be on my way,” said Charlie. “Otherwise I’ll be late for this conference, and I’m meant to be delivering another speech tonight. Nice to have done business with you, Syd.” He had just reached the door of the pub as Mrs. Wrexall came rushing back to the counter.

“There’s a lady on the line for you, Syd. Calling long distance. Says her name is Mrs. Trentham.”

As the months passed Charlie became the master of his brief. No port directors could be sure when he might burst into their offices, no suppliers were surprised when he demanded to check their invoices and the president of the National Farmers’ Union positively purred whenever Charlie’s name came up in conversation.

He never found it necessary to phone the Prime Minister, although Mr. Churchill did phone him on one occasion. It was four forty-five in the morning when Charlie picked up the receiver on his desk.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Trumper?”

“Yes, who’s that?”

“Churchill.”

“Good morning, Prime Minister. What can I do for you, sir?”

“Nothing. I was just checking that it was true what they say about you. By the way, thank you.” The phone went dead.

Charlie even managed from time to time to have lunch with Daniel. The boy was now attached to the War Office, but would never talk about the work he was involved in. After he was promoted to captain, Charlie’s only worry became what Becky’s reaction would be if she ever saw him in uniform.

When Charlie visited Tom Arnold at the end of the month he learned that Mr. Hadlow had retired as manager of the bank and his replacement, a Mr. Paul Merrick, was not proving to be quite as amenable. “Says our overdraft is reaching unacceptable levels and perhaps it’s time we did something about it,” explained Tom.

“Does he?” said Charlie. “Then I shall obviously have to see this Mr. Merrick and tell him a few home truths.”

Although Trumper’s now owned all the shops in Chelsea Terrace, with the exception of the bookshop, Charlie was still faced with the problem of Mrs. Trentham and her bombed-out flats, not to mention the additional worry of Herr Hitler and his unfinished war: these he tended to place in roughly the same category, and nearly always in that order.

The war with Herr Hitler began to take a step in the right direction towards the end of 1942 with the victory of the Eighth Army at El Alamein. Charlie felt confident that Churchill was right when he declared that the tide had turned, as first Africa, followed by Italy, France and finally Germany were invaded.

But by then it was Mr. Merrick who was insisting on seeing Charlie.

When Charlie entered Mr. Merrick’s office for the first time he was surprised to find how young Mr. Hadlow’s replacement was. It also took him a few moments to get used to a bank manager who didn’t wear a waistcoat or a black tie. Paul Merrick was a shade taller than Charlie and every bit as broad in everything except his smile. Charlie quickly discovered that Mr. Merrick had no small talk.

“Are you aware, Mr. Trumper, that your company account is overdrawn by some forty-seven thousand pounds and your present income doesn’t even cover—”

“But the property must be worth four or five times that amount.”

“Only if you’re able to find someone who’s willing to buy it.”

“But I’m not a seller.”

“You may be left with no choice, Mr. Trumper, if the bank decides to foreclose on you.”