As the Crow Flies (14 page)

After
I had moved into Chelsea Terrace, life for both of us quickly settled into a
routine. Daphne flitted from party to party while I walked at a slightly faster
pace from lecture hall to lecture hall, our two paths rarely crossing.

Despite
my apprehension, Daphne turned out to be a wonderful companion to share digs
with. Although she showed little interest in my academic life her energies were
spent in the pursuit of foxes and guards officers she was always brimful of
common sense on every subject under the sun, not to mention having constant
contact with a string of eligible young men who seemed to arrive in a
never-ending convoy at the front door of 97 Chelsea Terrace.

Daphne
treated them all with the same disdain, confiding in me that her one true love
was still serving on the Western Front not that she once mentioned his name in
my presence.

Whenever
I found time to break away from my books, she could always manage to supply a
spare young officer to escort me to a concert, a play, even the occasional
regimental dance. Although she never showed any interest in what I was up to at
university, she often asked questions about the East End and seemed fascinated
by my stories of Charlie Trumper and his barrow.

It
might have continued like this indefinitely if I hadn’t picked up a copy of the
Kensington News, a paper Daphne took so she could find out what was showing at
the local picture house.

As
I flicked through the pages one Friday evening an advertisement caught my eye.
I studied the wording closely to be sure the shop was exactly where I thought
it was, folded up the paper and left the flat to check for myself. I strolled
down Chelsea Terrace to find the sign in the window of the local greengrocer’s.
I must have walked past it for days without noticing: “For sale. Apply John D.
Wood, 6 Mount Street, London W1.”

I
remembered that Charlie had always wanted to know how prices in Chelsea
compared with those in Whitechapel so I decided to find out for him.

The
following morning, having asked some leading questions of our local news agent
Mr. Bales always seemed to know exactly what was going on in the Terrace and
was only too happy to share his knowledge with anyone who wanted to pass the
time of day I presented myself at the offices of John D. Wood in Mount Street.
For some time I was left standing at the counter but eventually one of four
assistants came over, introduced himself to me as Mr. Palmer and asked how he
could help.

After
a closer inspection of the young man, I doubted that he could help anyone. He
must have been about seventeen and was so pale and thin he looked as if a gust
of wind might blow him away.

“I’d
like to know some more details concerning Number 147 Chelsea Terrace,” I said.

He
managed to look both surprised and baffled at the same time.

“Number
147 Chelsea Terrace?”

“Number
147 Chelsea Terrace.”

“Would
madam please excuse me?” he said and walked over to a filing cabinet, shrugging
exaggeratedly as he passed one of his colleagues. I could see him thumb through
several papers before returning to the counter with a single sheet; he made no
attempt to invite me in or even to offer me a chair.

He
placed the single sheet on the countertop and studied it closely.

“A
greengrocer’s shop,” he said.

“Yes.”

“The
shop frontage,” the young man went on to explain in a tired voice, “is
twenty-two feet. The shop itself is a little under one thousand square feet,
which includes a small flat on the first floor overlooking the park.”

“What
park?” I asked, not certain we were discussing the same property.

“Princess
Gardens, madam,” he said.

“That’s
a patch of grass a few feet by a few feet,” I informed him, suddenly aware that
Mr. Palmer had never visited Chelsea Terrace in his life.

“The
premises are freehold,” he continued, not responding to my comment, but at
least no longer leaning on the counter. “And the owner would allow vacant
possession within thirty days of contracts being signed.”

“What
price is the owner asking for the property?” I asked. I was becoming more and
more annoyed by being so obviously patronized.

“Our
client, a Mrs. Chapman... “ continued the assistant.

“Wife
of Able Seaman Chapman, late of HMS Boxer,” I informed him. “Killed in action
on 8 February 1918, leaving a daughter aged seven and a son aged five.”

Mr.
Palmer had the grace to turn white.

“I
also know that Mrs. Chapman has arthritis which makes it almost impossible for
her to climb those stairs to the little flat,” I added for good measure.

He
now looked considerably perplexed. “Yes,” he said. “Well, yes.”

“So
how much is Mrs. Chapman hoping the property will fetch?” I insisted. By now
Mr. Palmer’s three colleagues had stopped what they were doing in order to
follow our conversation.

“One
hundred and fifty guineas is being asked for the freehold,” stated the
assistant, his eyes fixed on the bottom line of the schedule.

“One
hundred and fifty guineas,” I repeated in mock disbelief, without a clue as to
what the property was really worth. “She must be living in cloud cuckoo land.
Has she forgotten there’s a war on? Offer her one hundred, Mr. Palmer, and don’t
bother me again if she expects a penny more.”

“Guineas?”
he said hopefully.

“Pounds,”
I replied as I wrote out my name and address on the back of the particulars and
left it on the counter. Mr. Palmer seemed incapable of speech, and his mouth
remained wide open as I turned and walked out of the office.

I
made my way back to Chelsea only too aware that I had no intention of buying a
shop in the Terrace. In any case, I hadn’t got one hundred pounds, or anything
like it. I had just over forty pounds in the bank and not much prospect of
raising another bean, but the silly man’s attitude had made me so angry. Still,
I decided, there wasn’t much fear of Mrs. Chapman accepting so insulting an
offer.

Mrs.
Chapman accepted my offer the following morning. Blissfully unaware that I had
no obligation to sign any agreement, I put down a ten-pound deposit the same
afternoon. Mr. Palmer explained that the money was not returnable, should I
fail to complete the contract within thirty days.

“That
won’t be a problem,” I told him with bravado, though I hadn’t a clue how I
would get hold of the balance of the cash.

For
the following twenty-seven days I approached everyone I knew, from the Bow
Building Society to distant aunts, even fellow students, but none of them
showed the slightest interest in backing a young woman undergraduate to the
tune of sixty pounds in order that she could buy a fruit and vegetable shop.

“But
it’s a wonderful investment,” I tried to explain to anyone who would listen. “What’s
more, Charlie Trumper comes with the deal, the finest fruit and vegetable man
the East End has ever seen.” I rarely got beyond this point in my sales patter
before expressions of incredulity replaced polite disinterest.

After
the first week I came to the reluctant conclusion that Charlie Trumper wasn’t
going to be pleased that I had sacrificed ten pounds of our money six of his
and four of mine just to appease my female vanity. I decided I would carry the
six-pound loss myself rather than admit to him I’d made such a fool of myself.

“But
why didn’t you talk it over with your mother or your aunt before you went ahead
with something quite so drastic?” inquired Daphne on the twenty-sixth day. “After
all, they both seemed so sensible to me.”

“And
be killed for my trouble? No, thank you,” I told her sharply. “In any case, I’m
not that sure they have sixty pounds between them. Even if they did, I don’t
think they’d be willing to invest a penny in Charlie Trumper.”

At
the end of the month I crept back round to John D. Wood to explain that the
ninety pounds would not be forthcoming and they should feel free to place the
property back on the market. I dreaded the “I knew as much” smirk that would
appear on Mr. Palmer’s face once he learned my news.

“But
your representative completed the transaction yesterday,” Mr. Palmer assured
me, looking as if he would never understand what made me tick.

“My
representative?” I said.

The
assistant checked the file. “Yes, a Miss Daphne Harcourt-Browne of... “

“But
why?” I asked.

“I
hardly feel that I’m the person to answer that particular question,” offered
Mr. Palmer, “as I’ve never set eyes on the lady before yesterday.”

*
* *

“Quite
simple really,” Daphne replied when I put the same question to her that
evening. Elf Charlie Trumper is half as good as you claim then I’ll have made a
very sound investment.”

“
Investment?”

“Yes.
You see, I require that my capital plus four percent interest should be
returned within three years.”

“Four
percent?”

“Correct.
After all, that’s the amount I am receiving on my war loan stock. On the other
hand, should you fail to return my capital plus interest in full, I will
require ten percent of the profits from the fourth year onwards.”

“But
there may not be any profits.”

“In
which case I will automatically take over sixty percent of the assets. Charlie
will then own twenty-four percent and you sixteen. Everything you need to know
is in this document.” She handed over several pages of tightly worded copy, the
last page of which had a seven on the top. “All it now requires is your
signature on the bottom line.”

I
read through the papers slowly while Daphne poured herself a sherry. She or her
advisers seemed to have considered every eventuality.

“There’s
only one difference between you and Charlie Trumper,” I told her, penning my
signature between two penciled crosses.

“And
what’s that?”

“You
were born in a four-poster bed.”

As
I was quite unable to organize the shop myself and continue with my studies at
the university, I quickly came to the conclusion that I would have to appoint a
temporary manager. The fact that the three girls who were already employed at
Number 147 just giggled whenever I gave any instructions only made the
appointment more pressing.

The
following Saturday I began a tour of Chelsea, Fulham and Kensington, staring
into shop windows up and down the three boroughs and watching young men going
about their business in the hope of eventually finding the right person to run
Trumper’s.

After
keeping an eye on several possible candidates who were working in local shops,
I finally selected a young man who was an assistant at a fruiterer’s in
Kensington. One evening in November I waited for him to finish his day’s work.
I then followed him as he began his journey home.

The
ginger-haired lad was heading towards the nearest bus stop when I managed to
catch up with him.

“Good
evening, Mr. Makins,” I said.

“Hello?”
He looked round startled and was obviously surprised to discover that an
unintroduced young woman knew his name. He carried on walking.

“I
own a greengrocer’s shop in Chelsea Terrace...” I said, keeping up with him
stride for stride as he continued on towards the bus stop. He showed even more
surprise but didn’t say anything, only quickened his pace. “And I’m looking for
a new manager.”

This
piece of information caused Makins to slow down for the first time and look at
me more carefully.

“Chapman’s,”
he said. “Was it you who bought Chapman’s?”

“Yes,
but it’s Trumper’s now,” I told him. “And I’m offering you the job as manager
at a pound a week more than your present salary.” Not that I had any idea what
his present salary was.

It
took several miles on the bus and a lot of questions still to be answered
outside his front door before he invited me in to meet his mother. Bob Makins
joined us two weeks later as manager of Trumper’s.

Despite
this coup I was disappointed to find at the end of our first month that the
shop had made a loss of over three pounds which meant I wasn’t able to return a
penny piece to Daphne.

“Don’t
be despondent,” she told me. “Just keep going and there must still be an
outside chance the penalty clause will never come into force, especially if on
Mr. Trumper’s return he proves half as good as you claim he is.”

During
the previous six months I had been able to keep a more watchful eye on the
whereabouts of the elusive Charlie, thanks to the help of a young officer
Daphne had introduced me to who worked in the war office. He always seemed to
know exactly where Sergeant Charles Trumper of the Royal Fusiliers could be
located at any time of the day or night. But I still remained determined to
have Trumper’s running smoothly and declaring a profit long before Charlie set
foot in the premises.

However
I learned from Daphne’s friend that my errant partner was to be discharged on
20 February 1919, leaving me with little or no time to balance the books. And
worse, we had recently found it necessary to replace two of the three giggling
girls who had sadly fallen victim to the Spanish flu epidemic, and sack the third
for incompetence.