As the Crow Flies

“But Stan’s not stopping,” said Becky, as the Rolls passed the college entrance and weaved its way into Fleet Street.

“I can’t believe he’s bought a newspaper,” said Cathy.

“Or taken a job in the City,” Becky added as the Rolls drove on down towards the Mansion House.

“I’ve got it,” said Becky triumphantly, as the Rolls left the City behind them and nosed its way into the East End. “He’s been working on some project at his boys’ club in Whitechapel.”

Stan continued east until he finally brought the car to a halt outside the Dan Salmon Center.

“But it doesn’t make any sense,” said Cathy. “If that’s all he wanted to do with his spare time why didn’t he tell you the truth in the first place? Why go through such an elaborate charade?”

“I can’t work that one out either,” said Becky. “In fact, I confess I’m even more baffled.”

“Well, let’s at least go in and find out what he’s up to.”

“No,” said Becky, placing a hand on Cathy’s arm. “I need to sit and think for a few moments before I decide what to do next. If Charlie is planning something he doesn’t want us to know about, I’d hate to be the one who spoils his bit of fun, especially when it was me who banned him from going into Trumper’s in the first place.”

“All right,” said Cathy. “So why don’t we just go back to my office and say nothing of our little discovery? After all, we can always phone Mr. Anson at the Lords, who as we know will make sure Charlie returns your call within the hour. That will give me easily enough time to sort out David Field and the problem of his cigars.”

Becky nodded her agreement and instructed the bemused cabbie to return to Chelsea Terrace. As the taxi swung round in a circle to begin its journey back towards the West End, Becky glanced out of the rear window at the center named after her father. “Stop,” she said without warning. The cabbie threw on the brakes and brought the taxi to a sudden halt.

“What’s the matter?” asked Cathy.

Becky pointed out of the back window, her eyes now fixed on a figure who was walking down the steps of the Dan Salmon Center dressed in a grubby old suit and flat cap.

“I don’t believe it,” said Cathy.

Becky quickly paid off the cabdriver while Cathy jumped out and began to follow Stan as he headed off down the Whitechapel Road.

“Where can he be going?” asked Cathy, as they kept Stan well within their sights. The shabbily dressed chauffeur continued to march along the pavement, leaving any old soldier who saw him in no doubt of his former profession while causing the two ladies who were pursuing him to have occasionally to break into a run.

“It ought to be Cohen’s the tailor’s,” said Becky. “Because heaven knows the man looks as if he could do with a new suit.”

But Stan came to a halt some yards before the tailor’s shop. Then, for the first time, they both saw another man, also dressed in an old suit and flat cap, standing beside a brand-new barrow on which was printed the words: “Charlie Salmon, the honest trader. Founded in 1969.”

“I don’t offer you these at two pounds, ladies,” declared a voice as loud as that of any of the youngsters on the pitches nearby, “not one pound, not even fifty pence. No, I’m going to give ’em away for twenty pence.”

Cathy and Becky watched in amazement as Stan Russell touched his cap to Charlie, then began to fill a woman’s basket, so that his master could deal with the next customer.

“So what’ll it be today, Mrs. Bates? I’ve got some lovely bananas just flown in from the West Indies. Ought to be selling ’em at ninety pence the bunch, but to you, my old duck, fifty pence, but be sure you don’t tell the neighbors.”

“What about those tatoes, Charlie?” said a heavily made-up, middle-aged woman who pointed suspiciously at a box on the front of the barrow.

“As I stand ’ere, Mrs. Bates, new in from Jersey today and I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll sell ’em at the same price as my so-called rivals are still peddling their old ones for. Could I be fairer, I ask?”

“I’ll take four pounds, Mr. Salmon.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bates. Serve the lady, Stan, while I deal with the next customer.” Charlie stepped across to the other side of barrow.

“And ’ow nice to see you this fine afternoon, Mrs. Singh. Two pounds of figs, nuts and raisins, if my memory serves me right. And how is Dr. Singh keeping?”

“Very busy, Mr. Salmon, very busy.”

“Then we must see that ’e’s well fed, mustn’t we?” said Charlie. “Because if this weather takes a turn for the worse, I may need to come and seek ’is advice about my sinus trouble. And ’ow’s little Suzika?”

“She’s just passed three A-levels, Mr. Salmon, and will be going to London University in September to read engineering.”

“Can’t see the point of it myself,” said Charlie as he selected some figs. “Engineerin’, you say. What will they think of next? Knew a girl once from these parts who took ’erself off to university and a fat lot of good it did ’er. Spent the rest of ’er life living off ’er ’usband, didn’t she? My old granpa always used to say—”