As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  “I don’t give a damn how she reacts,” said Guy, and once more began to kiss her neck. His hand moved to her other breast as her lips parted and their tongues touched.

  She began to feel the buttons on the back of her dress being undone, slowly at first, then with more confidence before Guy released her again. She blushed as he removed his regimental blazer and tie and threw them over the back of the sofa, and began to wonder if she shouldn’t make it clear they had already gone too far.

  When Guy started to undo the front of his shirt she panicked for a moment: things were getting a little out of control.

  Guy leaned forward and slipped the top of Becky’s dress off her shoulders. Once he had returned to kissing her again, she felt his hand trying to undo the back of her bodice.

  Becky felt she might be saved by the fact that neither of them knew where the fasteners were. However, it became abundantly clear that Guy had overcome such problems before, as he deftly undid the offending clips and hesitated only for a moment before transferring his attention to her legs. He stopped quite suddenly when he reached the top of her stockings, and looking into her eyes murmured, “I had only imagined until now what this would be like, but I had no idea you would be quite so beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” said Becky, and sat bolt upright. Guy handed over her brandy and she took another sip, wondering if it might not be wise for her to make some excuse about the coffee going cold and to slip back into the kitchen to make another pot.

  “However there’s still been a disappointment for me this evening,” he added, one hand remaining on her thigh.

  “A disappointment?” Becky put down her brandy glass. She was beginning to feel distinctly woozy.

  “Yes,” said Guy. “Your engagement ring.”

  “My engagement ring?”

  “I ordered it from Garrard’s over a month ago, and they promised it would be ready for me to collect by this evening. But only this afternoon they informed me that I wouldn’t be able to pick it up until first thing tomorrow.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Becky.

  “It does,” said Guy. “I’d wanted to slip it on your finger tonight, so I do hope you can be at the station a little earlier than we had planned. I intend to fall on one knee and present it to you.”

  Becky stood up and smiled as Guy quickly rose and took her in his arms. “I’ll always love you, you know that, don’t you?” Daphne’s dress slipped off and fell to the floor. Guy took her by the hand and she led him into the bedroom.

  He quickly pushed back the top sheet, jumped in and held up his arms. Once she had climbed in to join him Guy quickly removed the rest of her clothes and began kissing her all over her body before making love with an expertise that Becky suspected could only have come from considerable practice.

  Although the act itself was painful, Becky was surprised how quickly the promised sensation was over and she clung to Guy for what seemed an eternity. He kept repeating how much he cared for her, which made Becky feel less guilty—after all, they were engaged.

  Becky was half asleep when she thought she heard a door slam, and turned over assuming the sound must have come from the flat above them. Guy hardly stirred. Quite suddenly the bedroom door was flung open, and Daphne appeared in front of them.

  “So sorry, I didn’t realize,” she said in a whisper and closed the door quietly behind her. Becky looked across at her lover apprehensively.

  He smiled and took her in his arms. “No need to worry about Daphne. She won’t tell anyone.” He stretched out an arm and pulled her towards him.

  Waterloo Station was already crowded with men in uniforms when Becky walked onto platform one. She was a couple of minutes late, so a little surprised not to find Guy waiting for her. Then she remembered that he’d have had to go to Albemarle Street to pick up the ring.

  She checked the board: chalked up in white capital letters were the words “Southampton Boat Train, P & O to India, departure time 11:30.” Becky continued to look anxiously up and down the platform before her eyes settled on a band of helpless girls. They were huddled together under the station clock, their shrill, strained voices all talking at once of hunt balls, polo and who was coming out that season—all of them only too aware that farewells must be said at the station because it wasn’t the done thing for a girl to accompany an officer on the train to Southampton unless she was married or officially engaged. But The Times that morning would prove that she and Guy were engaged, thought Becky, so perhaps she would be invited to travel on as far as the coast…

  She checked her watch yet again: eleven twenty-one. For the first time she began to feel slightly uneasy. Then suddenly she saw him striding across the platform towards her followed by a man dragging two cases, and a porter wheeling even more luggage.

  Guy apologized, but gave no explanation for why he was so late, only ordering his batman to place his trunks on the train and wait for him. For the next few minutes they talked of nothing in particular and Becky even felt he was a little distant, but she was well aware that there were several brother officers on the platform, also bidding their farewells, some even to their wives.

  A whistle blew and Becky noticed a guard check his watch. Guy leaned forward, brushed her cheek with his lips, then suddenly turned away. She watched him as he stepped quickly onto the train, never once looking back, while all she could think of was their naked bodies lodged together in that tiny bed and Guy saying, “I’ll always love you. You know that, don’t you?”

  A final whistle blew and a green flag was waved. Becky stood quite alone. She shivered from the gust of wind that came as the engine wound its snakelike path out of the station and began its journey to Southampton. The giggling girls also departed, but in another direction, towards their hansom cabs and chauffeur-driver cars.

  Becky walked over to a booth on the corner of platform seven, purchased a copy of The Times for two pence, and checked, first quickly, then slowly, down the list of forthcoming weddings.

  From Arbuthnot to Yelland there was no mention of a Trentham, or a Salmon.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Even before the first course had been served Becky regretted accepting Charlie’s invitation to dinner at Mr. Scallini’s, the only restaurant he knew. Charlie was trying so hard to be considerate, which only made her feel more guilty.

  “I like your dress,” he said, admiring the pastel-colored frock she had borrowed from Daphne’s wardrobe.

  “Thank you.”

  A long pause followed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have thought twice before inviting you out the same day as Captain Trentham was leaving for India.”

  “Our engagement will be announced in The Times tomorrow,” she said, not looking up from her untouched bowl of soup.

  “Congratulations,” said Charlie without feeling.

  “You don’t like Guy, do you?”

  “I never was much good with officers.”

  “But your paths had crossed during the war. In fact, you knew him before I did, didn’t you?” said Becky without warning. Charlie didn’t reply, so she added, “I sensed it the first time we all had dinner together.”

  “‘Knew him’ would be an exaggeration,” said Charlie. “We served in the same regiment, but until that night we’d never eaten at the same table.”

  “But you fought in the same war.”

  “Along with four thousand other men from our regiment,” said Charlie, refusing to be drawn.

  “And he was a brave and respected officer?”

  A waiter appeared uninvited by their side. “What would you like to drink with your fish, sir?”

  “Champagne,” said Charlie. “After all, we do have something to celebrate.”

  “Do we?” said Becky, unaware that he had used the ploy simply to change the subject.

  “Our first year’s results. Or have you forgotten that Daphne’s already been paid back more than half her loan?”

  Becky managed a
smile, realizing that while she had been worrying about Guy’s departure for India, Charlie had been concentrating on solving her other problem. But despite this news the evening continued in silence, occasionally punctuated with comments from Charlie that didn’t always receive a reply. She occasionally sipped the champagne, toyed with her fish, ordered no dessert and could barely hide her relief when the bill was eventually presented.

  Charlie paid the waiter and left a handsome tip. Daphne would have been proud of him, Becky thought.

  As she rose from her chair, she felt the room starting to go round in circles.

  “Are you all right?” asked Charlie, placing an arm around her shoulder.

  “I’m fine, just fine,” said Becky. “I’m not used to drinking so much wine two nights in a row.”

  “And you didn’t eat much dinner either,” said Charlie, guiding her out of the restaurant and into the cold night air.

  They proceeded arm in arm along Chelsea Terrace and Becky couldn’t help thinking any casual passerby might have taken them for lovers. When they arrived at the entrance to Daphne’s flat Charlie had to dig deep into Becky’s bag to find her keys. Somehow he managed to get the door open, while at the same time still keeping her propped up against the wall. But then Becky’s legs gave way and he had to cling to her to stop her from falling. He gathered her up and carried her in his arms to the first floor. When he reached her flat, he had to perform a contortion to open the door without actually dropping her. At last he staggered into the drawing room and lowered her onto the sofa. He stood up and took his bearings, not sure whether to leave her on the sofa or to investigate where her bedroom might be.

  Charlie was about to leave when she slipped off onto the floor, muttering something incoherent, the only word of which he caught was “engaged.”

  He returned to Becky’s side, but this time lifted her firmly up over his shoulder. He carried her towards a door which, when he opened it, he discovered led to a bedroom. He placed her gently on top of the bed. As he began to tiptoe back to the door, she turned and Charlie had to rush back and pull her onto the middle of the bed to prevent her falling off. He hesitated, then bent over to lift up her shoulders before undoing the buttons down the back of her dress with his free hand. Once he had reached the bottom button he lowered her onto the bed, then lifted her legs high in the air with one hand before he pulled with the other, inch by inch, until her dress was off. He left her only for a moment while he placed the dress neatly over a chair.

  “Charlie Trumper,” he said in a whisper, looking down at her, “you’re a blind man, and you’ve been blind for an awfully long time.”

  He pulled back the blanket and placed Becky between the sheets, the way he had seen nurses on the Western Front carry out the same operation with wounded men.

  He tucked her in securely, making sure that the whole process could not repeat itself. His final action was to lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

  You’re not only blind, Charlie Trumper, you’re a fool, he told himself as he closed the front door behind him.

  “Be with you in a moment,” said Charlie as he threw some potatoes onto the weighing machine, while Becky waited patiently in the corner of the shop.

  “Anythin’ else, madam?” he asked the customer at the front of the queue. “A few tangerines, per’aps? Some apples? And I’ve got some lovely grapefruit straight from South Africa, only arrived in the market this mornin’.”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Trumper, that will be all for today.”

  “Then that’ll be two shillings and five pence, Mrs. Symonds. Bob, could you carry on serving the next customer while I’ave a word with Miss Salmon?”

  “Sergeant Trumper.”

  “Sir,” was Charlie’s instant reaction when he heard the resonant voice. He turned to face the tall man who stood in front of him, straight as a ramrod, dressed in a Harris tweed jacket and cavalry twill trousers and carrying a brown felt hat.

  “I never forget a face,” the man said, although Charlie would have remained perplexed if it hadn’t been for the monocle.

  “Good God,” said Charlie, standing to attention.

  “No, ‘colonel’ will do,” the other man said, laughing. “And no need for any of that bull. Those days have long gone. Although it’s been some time since we last met, Trumper.”

  “Nearly two years, sir.”

  “Seems longer than that to me,” the colonel said wistfully. “You certainly turned out to be right about Prescott, didn’t you? And you were a good friend to him.”

  “’E was a good friend to me.”

  “And a first-class soldier. Deserved his MM.”

  “Couldn’t agree with you more, sir.”

  “Would have got one yourself, Trumper, but the rations were up after Prescott. Afraid it was only ‘mentioned in dispatches’ for you.”

  “The right man got the medal.”

  “Terrible way to die, though. The thought of it still haunts me, you know,” said the colonel. “Only yards from the tape.”

  “Not your fault, sir. If anyone’s, it was mine.”

  “If it was anyone’s fault, it was certainly not yours,” said the colonel. “And best forgotten, I suspect,” he added without explanation.

  “So ’ow’s the regiment comin’ along?” asked Charlie. “Survivin’ without me?”

  “And without me, I’m afraid,” said the colonel, placing some apples into the shopping bag he was carrying. “They’ve departed for India, but not before they put this old horse out to grass.”

  “I’m sorry to ’ear that, sir. Your ’ole life was the regiment.”

  “True, though even Fusiliers have to succumb to the Geddes axe. To be honest with you, I’m an infantryman myself, always have been, and I never did get the hang of those newfangled tanks.”

  “If we’d only ’ad ’em a couple of years earlier, sir, they might ’ave saved a few lives.”

  “Played their part, I’m bound to admit.” The colonel nodded. “Like to think I played my part as well.” He touched the knot of his striped tie. “Will we be seeing you at the regimental dinner, Trumper?”

  “I didn’t even know there was one, sir.”

  “Twice annually. First one in January, men only, second one in May with the memsahibs, which is also a ball. Gives the comrades a chance to get together and have a chinwag about old times. Would be nice if you could be on parade, Trumper. You see, I’m the president of the ball committee this year and rather hoping for a respectable turnout.”

  “Then count me in, sir.”

  “Good man. I’ll see that the office gets in touch with you pronto, ten shillings a ticket, and all you can drink thrown in, which I’m sure will be no hardship for you,” added the colonel, looking round the busy shop.

  “And can I get you anythin’ while you’re ’ere, sir?” Charlie asked, suddenly aware a long queue was forming behind the colonel.

  “No, no, your able assistant has already taken excellent care of me, and as you can see I have completed the memsahib’s written instructions.” He held up a thin slip of paper bearing a list with a row of ticks down one side.

  “Then I’ll look forward to seeing you on the night of the ball, sir,” said Charlie.

  The colonel nodded and then stepped out onto the pavement without another word.

  Becky strolled over to join her partner, only too aware that he had quite forgotten that she had been waiting to have a word with him. “You’re still standing to attention, Charlie,” she teased.

  “That was my commanding officer, Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton,” said Charlie a little pompously. “Led us at the front, ’e did, a gentleman, and ’e remembered my name.”

  “Charlie, if you could only hear yourself. A gentleman he may be, but he’s the one who’s out of work, while you’re running a thriving business. I know which I’d rather be.”

  “But ’e’s the commanding officer. Don’t you understand?”

  “Was,” said Becky. “And he was al
so quick to point out the regiment has gone to India without him.”

  “That doesn’t change anythin’.”

  “Mark my words, Charlie Trumper, that man will end up calling you ‘sir.’”

  Guy had been away almost a week, and sometimes Becky could now go a whole hour without thinking about him.

  She had sat up most of the previous night composing a letter to him, although when she left for her morning lecture the following day she walked straight past the pillar box. She had managed to convince herself that the blame for failing to complete the letter should be placed firmly on the shoulders of Mr. Palmer.

  Becky had been disappointed to find their engagement had not been announced in The Times the next day, and became quite desperate when it failed to appear on any other day during that week. When in desperation she phoned Garrard’s on the following Monday they claimed they knew nothing of a ring ordered in the name of a Captain Trentham of the Royal Fusiliers. Becky decided she would wait a further week before she wrote to Guy. She felt there must be some simple explanation.

  Guy was still very much on her mind when she entered the offices of John D. Wood in Mount Street. She palmed the flat bell on the counter and asked an inquiring assistant if she could speak to Mr. Palmer.

  “Mr. Palmer? We don’t have a Mr. Palmer any longer,” she was told. “He was called up nearly a year ago, miss. Can I be of any assistance?”

  Becky gripped the counter. “All right then, I’d like to speak to one of the partners,” she said firmly.

  “May I know the nature of your inquiry?” asked the assistant.

  “Yes,” said Becky. “I’ve come to discuss the instructions for the sale of 131 and 135 Chelsea Terrace.”

  “Ah yes, and may I ask who it is inquiring?”

  “Miss Rebecca Salmon.”

  “I won’t be a moment,” the young man promised her, but didn’t return for several minutes. When he did he was accompanied by a much older man, who wore a long black coat and horn-rimmed spectacles. A silver chain dangled from his waistcoat pocket.