As the Crow Flies (22 page)

“Abundantly,”
said Mr. Crowther, glancing at the note Palmer had attached to the sale of 147:
the lad hadn’t exaggerated in the forthright opinion of his client. He pushed
his spectacles back up his nose.

“I
think Mr. Kendrick might be willing to accept one hundred and twenty-five
pounds if you would also agree to a pension of twenty-five pounds a year until
his deaths,

“But
he might live forever.”

“I
feel I should point out, madam, that it was you, not I, who referred to Mr.
Kendrick’s present state of health.” For the first time the junior partner leaned
back in his chair.

“I
have no desire to rob Mr. Kendrick of his pension,” Becky replied. “Please
offer him one hundred pounds for the freehold of the shop and twenty pounds a
year for a period of eight years as a pension. I’m flexible on the latter part
of the transaction but not on the former. Is that understood, Mr. Crowther?”

“It
certainly is, madam.”

“And
if I’m to pay Mr. Kendrick a pension I shall also expect him to be available to
offer advice from time to time as and when we require it.”

“Quite
so,” said Crowther, making a note of her request in the margin.

“So
what can you tell me about 131?”

“Now
that is a knotty problem,” said Crowther, opening a second file. “I don’t know
if you are fully aware of the circumstances, madam, but...”

Becky
decided not to help him on this occasion. She smiled sweetly.

“Um,
well,” continued the junior partner, “Mr. Rutherford is off to New York with a
friend to open an antiques gallery, in somewhere called the ‘Village.’” He
hesitated.

“And
their partnership is of a somewhat unusual nature?” assisted Becky after a
prolonged silence. “And he might prefer to spend the rest of his days in an
apartment in New York, rather than a cell in Brixton?”

“Quite
so,” said Mr. Crowther, as a bead of perspiration appeared on his forehead. “And
in this particular gentleman’s case, he wishes to remove everything from the
premises, as he feels his merchandise might well fetch a better price in
Manhattan. Therefore all that he would leave for your consideration would be
the freehold.”

“Then
can I presume in his case there will be no pension?

“I
think we may safely presume that.”

“And
may we therefore expect his price to be a little more reasonable, remembering
some of the pressures he is under?”

“I
would have thought not,” replied Mr. Crowther, “as the shop in question is
rather larger than most of the others in Chelsea... “

“One
thousand, four hundred and twenty-two square feet, to be precise,” said Becky, “compared
with one thousand square feet at Number 147, which we acquired for... “

“A
very reasonable price at the time, if I may be so bold as to suggest, Miss
Salmon.”

“However...”

“Quite
so,” said Mr. Crowther. Another bead of sweat appeared on his forehead.

“So
how much is he hoping to raise for the freehold, now that we have established
that he won’t be requiring a pension?”

“His
asking price,” said Mr. Crowther, whose eyes had once again returned to the
file, “is two hundred pounds. However, I suspect,” he added before Becky had
the chance to challenge him, “that if you were able to close the negotiations
quickly he might allow the property to go for as little as one hundred and
seventy-five.” His eyebrows arched. “I am given to understand that he is
anxious to join his friend as quickly as possible.”

“If
he’s that anxious to join his friend I suspect he will be only too happy to
lower his price to one hundred and fifty for a quick sale, and he might even
accept one hundred and sixty, despite it taking a few days longer.”

“Quite
so.” Mr. Crowther removed his handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his
brow. Becky couldn’t help noticing that it was still raining outside. “Will
there be anything else, madam?” he asked, the handkerchief having been returned
to the safety of his pocket.

“Yes,
Mr. Crowther,” said Becky. “I should like you to keep a watching brief on all
the properties in Chelsea Terrace and approach either Mr. Trumper or myself the
moment you hear of anything likely to come on the market.”

“Perhaps
it might be helpful if I were to prepare a full assessment of the properties on
the block, then let you and Mr. Trumper have a comprehensive written report for
your consideration?”

“That
would be most useful,” said Becky, hiding her surprise at this sudden piece of
initiative.

She
rose from her chair to make it clear she considered the meeting to be over.

As
they walked back to the front desk, Mr. Crowther ventured, “I am given to
understand that Number 147 is proving most popular with the inhabitants of
Chelsea.”

“And
how would you know that?” asked Becky, surprised for a second time.

“My
wife,” Mr. Crowther explained, “refuses to shop for her fruit and vegetables
anywhere else, despite the fact that we live in Fulham.”

“A
discerning lady, your wife,” said Becky.

“Quite
so,” said Mr. Crowther.

Becky
assumed that the banks would react to her approach with much the same
enthusiasm as the estate agent had. However, having selected eight she thought
might be possibilities, she quickly discovered that there is a considerable
difference between offering yourself as a buyer and prostrating oneself as a
borrower. Every time she presented her plans to someone so junior as to be most
unlikely to be able to make a decision she received only a dismissive shake of
the head. This included the bank that already held the Trumper account. “In
fact,” as she recounted to Daphne later that evening, “one of the junior
assistants at the Penny Bank even had the nerve to suggest that should I ever
become a married woman then they’d be only too delighted to do business with my
husband.”

“Come
up against the world of men for the first time, have we?” asked Daphne,
dropping her magazine on the floor. “Their cliques, their clubs? A woman’s
place is in the kitchen, and, if you’re half attractive, perhaps occasionally
in the bedroom.”

Becky
nodded glumly as she placed the magazine back on a side table.

“It’s
an attitude of mind that’s never worried me, I must confess,” Daphne admitted
as she pushed her feet into a pair of shoes with stylish pointed toes. “But
then I wasn’t born overly ambitious like you, my darling. However, perhaps it’s
time to throw you another lifeline.”

“Lifeline?”

“Yes.
You see, what you need to solve your problem is an old school tie.”

“Wouldn’t
it look a bit silly on me?”

“Probably
look rather fetching actually, but that’s not the point. The dilemma you seem
to be facing is your gender not to mention Charlie’s accent, although I’ve
nearly cured the dear boy of that problem. However, one thing’s for sure, they
haven’t yet found a way to change people’s sex.”

“Where
is all this leading?” asked Becky innocently.

“You’re
so impatient, darling. Just like Charlie. You must allow us lesser mortals a
little more time to explain what we’re about.”

Becky
took a seat on the corner of the sofa and placed her hands in her lap.

“First
you must realize that all bankers are frightful snobs” continued Daphne. “Otherwise
they’d be out there like you, running their own businesses. So what you
require, to have them eating out of your hand, is a respectable front man.”

“Front
man?”

“Yes.
Someone who’ll accompany you on your trips to the bank whenever it should prove
necessary.” Daphne rose and checked herself in the mirror before continuing. “Such
a person may not be blessed with your brains, but then on the other hand he won’t
be encumbered by your gender or by Charlie’s accent. What he will have,
however, is an old school tie, and preferably a tide of some kind to go with
it. Bankers do like a ‘Bart’ but most important of all you must secure someone
who has a definite need of cash. For services rendered, you understand.”

“Do
such people exist?” asked Becky in disbelief.

“They
most certainly do. In fact, there are far more of that type around than there
are those who are willing to do a day’s work.” Daphne smiled reassuringly. “Give
me a week or two and I feel confident I’ll be able to come up with a shortlist
of three. You’ll see.”

“You’re
a wonder,” said Becky.

“In
return I shall expect a small favor from you.”

“Anything.”

“Never
use that word when dealing with a praying mantis like myself, darling. However,
my request on this occasion is quite simple, and well within your power to
grant. If Charlie should ask you to accompany him to his regimental dinner and
dance, you are to accept.”

“Why?”

“Because
Reggie Arbuthnot has been stupid enough to invite me to the blithering occasion
and I can’t refuse him if I’m to hope for a little stalking on his estate in
Scotland come November.” Becky laughed as Daphne added, “I don’t mind being
taken to the ball by Reggie, but I do object to having to leave with him. So,
if we have reached an agreement, I’ll supply you with your necessary chinless
Bart and all you have to do when Charlie asks you is say ‘yes.’”

“Yes.”

Charlie
wasn’t surprised when Becky agreed without hesitation to be escorted to the
regimental ball. After all, Daphne had already explained the details of their
agreement to him. But it did come as a shock that, when Becky took her seat at
the table, his fellow sergeants couldn’t take their eyes off her.

The
dinner had been laid out in a massive gymnasium, which prompted Charlie’s mates
to tell story after story of their early days of training in Edinburgh.
However, there the comparison ended, because the food was of a far higher
standard than Charlie remembered being offered in Scotland.

“Where’s
Daphne?” asked Becky, as a portion of apple pie liberally covered in custard
was placed in front of her.

“Up
there on the top table with all the notes,” said Charlie, pointing over his
shoulder with his thumb. “Can’t afford to be seen with the likes of us, can
she?” he added with a grin.

Once
the dinner was over there followed a series of toasts to everyone, it seemed to
Becky, except the King. Charlie explained that the regiment had been granted
dispensation from the loyal toast by King William IV in 1835 as their
allegiance to the crown was without question. However, they did raise their
glasses to the armed forces, each battalion in turn, and finally to the
regiment, coupled with the name of their former colonel, each toast ending in
rousing cheers. Becky watched the reactions of the men seated around her at the
table and came to realize for the first time how many of that generation
considered themselves lucky simply to be alive.

The
former Colonel of the Regiment, Sir Danvers Hamilton, Bt., DSO, CBE, monocTe in
place, made a moving speech about all their fellow comrades who were for
different reasons unable to be present that night Becky saw Charlie visibly
stiffen at the mention of his friend Tommy Prescott. Finally they all rose and
toasted absent friends. Becky found herself unexpectedly moved.

Once
the colonel had sat down the tables were cleared to one side so that dancing
could begin. No sooner had the first note struck up from the regimental band
than Daphne appeared from the other end of the room.

“Come
on, Charlie. I haven’t the time to wait for you to find your way up to the top
table.”

“Delighted,
I’m sure, madam,” said Charlie, when he rose from his seat, “but what has
happened to Reggie what’s-his-name?”

“Arbuthnot,”
she said. “I have left the silly man clinging on to a deb from Chelmsford. And
quite dreadfuf she was, I can tell you.”

“What
was so ‘dreadful’ about her?” mimicked Charlie.

“I
never thought the day would come,” said Daphne, “when His Majesty would allow
anyone from Essex to be presented at court. But worse than that was her age.”

“Why?
How old is she?” asked Charlie, as he waltzed Daphne confidently round the
floor.

“I
can’t altogether be certain, but she had the nerve to introduce me to her
widowed father.”

Charlie
burst out laughing.

“You’re
not supposed to find it funny, Charles Trumper, you’re meant to show some
sympathy. There’s still so much you have to ream.”

Becky
watched Charlie as he danced smoothly round the floor. “That Daphne’s a bit of
all right,” said the man sitting next to her, who had introduced himself as
Sergeant Mike Parker and turnd out to be a butcher from Camberwell who had
served alongside Charlie on the Marne. Becky accepted his judgment without
comment, and when he later bowed and asked Becky for the pleasure of the next
dance she reluctantly accepted. He proceeded to march her around the ballroom
floor as if she were a leg of mutton on the way to the refrigeration room. The
only thing he managed to do in time with the music was to tread on her toes. At
last he resumed Becky to the comparative safety of their beer-stained table.
Becky sat in silence while she watched everyone enjoying themselves, hoping
that no one else would ask her for the pleasure. Her thoughts returned to Guy,
and the meeting that she could no longer avoid if in another two weeks...