As the Crow Flies (31 page)

With
only a week to go Daphne suggested to Percy that they should pop along to the
nearest register office and get the whole thing over with as quickly as
possible and preferably without bothering to tell anyone else.

“Anything
you say, old gel,” said Percy, who had long ago stopped listening to anyone on
the subject of marriage.

On
16 July 1921 Daphne woke at five forty-three feeling drained, but by the time
she stepped out into the sunshine in Lowndes Square at one forty-five she was
exhilarated and actually looking forward to the occasion.

Her
father helped her up the steps into an open carriage that her grandmother and
mother had traveled in on the day they were married. A little crowd of servants
and well-wishers cheered the bride as she began her journey lo Westminster,
while others waved from the pavement. Officers saluted, toffs blew her a kiss
and would-be brides sighed as she passed by.

Daphne,
on her father’s arm, entered the church by the north door a few minutes after
Big Ben had struck two, then proceeded slowly down the aisle to the
accompaniment of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March.

She
paused only for a moment before joining Percy, curtsying to the King and Queen,
who sat alone in their private pews beside the altar. After all those months of
waiting the service seemed over in moments. As the organ struck up “Rejoice,
rejoice” and the married couple were bidden to an anteroom to sign the
register, Daphne’s only reaction was to want to go through the entire ceremony
again.

Although
she had secretly practiced the signature several times on her writing paper
back at Lowndes Square, she still hesitated before she wrote the words, “Daphne
Wiltshire.”

Husband
and wife left the church to a thunderous peal of bells and strolled on through
the streets of Westminster in the bright afternoon sun. Once they had arrived
at the large marquee that had been set up on the lawn in Vincent Square, they
began to welcome their guests.

Trying
to have a word with every one of them resulted in Daphne’s almost failing to
sample a piece of her own wedding cake, and no sooner had she taken a bite than
the dowager marchioness swept up to announce that if they didn’t get on with
the speeches they might as well dispense with any hope of sailing on the last
tide.

Algernon
Fitzpatrick praised the bridesmaids and toasted the bride and groom. Percy made
a surprisingly witty and well-received reply. Daphne was then ushered off to 45
Vincent Square, the home of a distant uncle, so that she could change into her
going-away outfit.

Once
again the crowds flocked out onto the pavement to throw rice and rose petals,
while Hoskins waited to dispatch the newlyweds off to Southampton.

Thirty
minutes later Hoskins was motoring peacefully down the A30 past Kew Gardens,
leaving the wedding guests behind them to continue their celebrations without
the bride and groom.

“Well,
now you’re stuck with me for life, Percy Wiltshire,” Daphne told her husband.

“That,
I suspect, was ordained by our mothers before we even met,” said Percy. “Silly,
really.”

“Silly?”

“Yes.
I could have stopped all their plotting years ago, by simply telling them that
I never wanted to marry anyone else in the first place.”

Daphne
was giving the honeymoon serious thought for the first time when Hoskins
brought the Rolls to a halt on the dockside a good two hours before the
Mauretania was due even to turn her pistons. With the help of several porters
Hoskins unloaded two trunks from the boot of the car fourteen having been sent
down the previous day while Daphne and Percy headed towards the gangplank where
the ship’s purser was awaiting them.

Just
as the purser stepped forward to greet the marquess and his bride someone from
the crowd shouted: “Good luck, your lordship! And I’d like to say on behalf of
the misses and myself that the marchioness looks a bit of all right.”

They
both turnd and burst out laughing when they saw Charlie and Becky, still in
their wedding outfits, standing among the crowd.

The
purser guided the four of them up the gangplank and into the Nelson stateroom,
where they found yet another bottle of champagne waiting to be opened.

“How
did you manage to get here ahead of us?” asked Daphne.

“Well,”
said Charlie in a broad cockney accent, “we may not ‘ave a Rolls-Royce, my
lady, but we still managed to overtake ‘Oskins in our tilde two-seater just the
ocher side of Winchester, didn’t we?”

They
all laughed except Becky, who couldn’t take her eyes off the little diamond
brooch that looked exquisite on the lapel of Daphne’s suit.

Three
toots on the foghorn, and the purser suggested that the Trumpers might care to
leave the ship, assuming it was not their intention to accompany the Wiltshires
to New York.

“See
you in a year or so’s time,” shouted Charlie, as he turnd to wave at them from
the gangplank.

“By
then we will have traveled right round the world, old gel,” Percy confided to
his wife.

Daphne
waved. “Yes, and by the time we get back heaven knows what those two will have
been up to.”

I
’m usually
good on faces, and the moment I saw the man weighing those potatoes I knew at
once that I recognized him. Then I recalled the sign above the shop door. Of
course, Trumper, Corporal C. No, he ended up a sergeant, if I remember
correctly. And what was his friend called, the one who got the MM? Ah, yes,
Prescott, Private T. Explanation of death not altogether satisfactory. Funny
the details one’s mind considers worthy of retention.

When
I arrived back home for lunch I told the memsahib I’d seen Sergeant Trumper
again, but she didn’t show a great deal of interest until I handed over the
fruit and vegetables. It was then that she asked me where I’d bought them. “Trumper’s,”
I told her. She nodded, making a note of the name without further explanation.

The
following day I duly instructed the regimental secretary to send Trumper two
tickets for the annual dinner and dance, then didn’t give the man thought until
I spotted the two of them sitting at the sergeants’ table on the night of the
ball. I say “the two of them” because Trumper was accompanied by an extremely
attractive girl. Yet for most of the evening he seemed to ignore the lady in
favor of someone whose name I didn’t catch, a young woman I might add who had
previously been seated a few places away from me on the top table. When the
adjutant asked Elizabeth for a dance I took my chance, I can tell you. I
marched right across the dance floor, aware that half the battalion had their
eyes on me, bowed to the lady in question and asked her for the honor. Her
name, I discovered, was Miss Salmon, and she danced like an officer’s wife.
Bright as a button she was too, and gay with it. I just can’t imagine what
Trumper thought he was up to, and if it had been any of my business I would
have told him so.

After
the dance was over I took Miss Salmon up to meet Elizabeth, who seemed equally
enchanted. Later the memsahib told me that she had learned the girl was engaged
to a Captain Trentham of the regiment, who was now serving in India. Trentham,
Trentham... I remembered that there was a young officer in the battalion by
that name won an MC on the Marne but there was something else about him that I
couldn’t immediately recall. Poor girl, I thought, because I had put Elizabeth
through the same sort of ordeal when they posted me to Afghanistan in 1882.
Lost an eye to those bloody Afghans and nearly lost the only woman I’ve ever
loved at the same time. Still, it’s bad form to marry before you’re a captain
or after you’re a major, for that matter.

On
the way home, Elizabeth warned me that she had invited Miss Salmon and Trumper
round to Gilston Road the following morning.

“Why?”
I asked.

“It
seems they have a proposition to put to you.”

The
next day they arrived at our little house in Tregunter Road even before the
grandfather clock had finished chiming eleven and I settled them down in the
drawing room before saying to Trumper, “So what’s all this about, Sergeant?” He
made no attempt to reply it was Miss Salmon who turned out to be the spokesman
for the two of them. Without a wasted word she set about presenting a most
convincing case for my joining their little enterprise, in a nonexecutive
capacity you understand, on a salary of one hundred pounds per annum. Although
I didn’t consider the proposition was quite up my street, I was touched by
their confidence in me and promised I would give their proposal a great deal of
thought. Indeed I said I would write to them and let them know my decision in
the near future.

Elizabeth
fully concurred with my judgment but felt the least I could do was conduct a
little field reconnaissance of my own before I decided to finally turn down the
offer.

For
the next week I made sure I was somewhere in the vicinity of 147 Chelsea
Terrace every working day. I quite often sat on a bench opposite the shop, from
where without being seen I could watch how they went about their business. I
chose different times of the day to carry out my observation, for obvious
reasons. Sometimes I would appear first thing in the morning, at others during
the busiest hour, then again perhaps later in the afternoon. On one occasion I
even watched them close up for the day, when I quickly discovered that Sergeant
Trumper was no clock-watcher: Number 147 turned out to be the last shop in the
row to close its doors to the public. I don’t mind telling you that both
Trumper and Miss Salmon made a most favorable impression on me. A rare couple,
I told Elizabeth after my final visit.

I
had been sounded out some weeks before by the curator of the Imperial War
Museum regarding an invitation to become a member of their council, but frankly
Trumper’s offer was the only other approach I’d received since hanging up my
spurs the previous year. As the curator had made no reference to remuneration I
assumed there wasn’t any, and from the recent council papers they had sent me
to browse through it looked as if their demands wouldn’t exercise my time for
more than about an hour a week.

After
considerable soul-searching, a chat with Miss Daphne Harcourt-Browne and
encouraging noises from Elizabeth who didn’t take to having me hanging about
the house all hours of the day I dropped Miss Salmon a note to let them know I
was their man.

The
following morning I discovered exactly what I had let myself in for when the
aforementioned lady reappeared in Tregunter Road to brief me on my first
assignment. Jolly good she was too, as thorough as any staff officer I ever had
under my command, I can tell you.

Becky
she had told me that I should stop calling her “Miss Salmon” now that we were “partners”
said that I should treat our first visit to Child’s of Fleet Street as a “dry
run,” because the fish she really wanted to land wasn’t being lined up until
the following week. That was when we would “move in for the kill.” She kept
using expressions I simply couldn’t make head or tail of.

I
can tell you that I came out in a muck sweat on the morning of our meeting with
that first bank, and if the truth be known I nearly pulled out of the front
line even before the order had been given to charge. Had it not been for the
sight of those two expectant young faces waiting for me outside the bank I
swear I might have withdrawn from the whole campaign.

Well,
despite my misgivings, we walked out of the bank less than an hour later having
successfully carried out our first sortie, and I think I can safely say, in all
honesty, that I didn’t let the side down. Not that I thought a lot of Hadlow,
who struck me as an odd sort of cove, but then the Buffs were never what one
might describe as a first-class outfit. More to the point, the damned man had
never seen the whites of their eyes, which in my opinion always sorts a fellow
out.

From
that moment I kept a close eye on Trumper’s activities, insisting on a weekly
meeting at the shop so I could keep myself up to date on what was happening. I
even felt able to offer the odd word of advice or encouragement from time to
time. A fellow doesn’t like to accept remuneration unless he feels he’s pulling
his weight.

To
begin with everything seemed to be going swimmingly. Then late in June of 1920
Trumper requested a private meeting. I knew he had got his eyes fixed on
another establishment in Chelsea Terrace and the account was a bit stretched so
I assumed that was what he wanted to discuss with me.

I
agreed to visit Trumper at his flat, as he never appeared completely at ease
whenever I invited him round to my club or to Tregunter Road. When I arrived
that evening I found him in quite a state, and assumed something must have been
troubling him at one of our three establishments, but he assured me that was
not the case.

“Well,
out with it then, Trumper,” I said.

“It’s
not that easy, to be honest, sir,” he replied, so I remained silent in the hope
that it might help him relax and get whatever it was off his chest.

“It’s
Becky, sir,” he blurted out eventually.