As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  “How long between the spasms?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  “Down to twenty minutes,” Becky replied.

  “Excellent. Then we don’t have much longer to wait.”

  Charlie appeared at the door carrying a bowl of hot water. “Anything else I can do?”

  “Yes, there certainly is. I need every clean towel you can lay your hands on, and I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”

  Charlie ran back out of the room.

  “Husbands are always a nuisance on these occasions,” Mrs. Westlake declared. “One must simply keep them on the move.”

  Becky was about to explain to her about Charlie when another contraction gripped her.

  “Breathe deeply and slowly, my dear,” encouraged Mrs. Westlake in a gentler voice, as Charlie came back with three towels and a kettle of hot water.

  Without turning to see who it was, Mrs. Westlake continued. “Leave the towels on the sideboard, pour the water in the largest bowl you’ve got, then put the kettle back on so that I’ve always got more hot water whenever I call for it.”

  Charlie disappeared again without a word.

  “I wish I could get him to do that,” gasped Becky admiringly.

  “Oh, don’t worry, my dear. I can’t do a thing with my own husband and we’ve got seven children.”

  A couple of minutes later Charlie pushed open the door with a foot and carried another bowl of steaming water over to the bedside.

  “On the side table,” said Mrs. Westlake, pointing. “And try not to forget my tea. After that I shall still need more towels,” she added.

  Becky let out a loud groan.

  “Hold my hand and keep breathing deeply,” said the midwife.

  Charlie soon reappeared with another kettle of water, and was immediately instructed to empty the bowl before refilling it with the new supply. After he had completed the task, Mrs. Westlake said, “You can wait outside until I call for you.”

  Charlie left the room, gently pulling the door closed behind him.

  He seemed to be making countless cups of tea, and carrying endless kettles of water, backwards and forwards, always arriving with the wrong one at the wrong time until finally he was shut out of the bedroom and left to pace up and down the kitchen fearing the worst. Then he heard the plaintive little cry.

  Becky watched from her bed as the midwife held up her child by one leg and gave it a gentle smack on the bottom. “I always enjoy that,” said Mrs. Westlake. “Feels good to know you’ve brought something new into the world.” She wrapped up the child in a tea towel and handed the bundle back to its mother.

  “It’s—?”

  “A boy, I’m afraid,” said the midwife. “So the world is unlikely to be advanced by one jot or tittle. You’ll have to produce a daughter next time,” she said, smiling broadly. “If he’s still up to it, of course.” She pointed a thumb towards the closed door.

  “But he’s—” Becky tried again.

  “Useless, I know. Like all men.” Mrs. Westlake opened the bedroom door in search of Charlie. “It’s all over, Mr. Salmon. You can stop skulking around and come and have a look at your son.”

  Charlie came in so quickly that he nearly knocked the midwife over. He stood at the end of the bed and stared down at the tiny figure in Becky’s arms.

  “He’s an ugly little fellow, isn’t he?” said Charlie.

  “Well, we know who to blame for that,” said the midwife. “Let’s just hope this one doesn’t end up with a broken nose. In any case, as I’ve already explained to your wife, what you need next is a daughter. By the way, what are you going to call this one?”

  “Daniel George,” said Becky without hesitation. “After my father,” she explained, looking up at Charlie.

  “And mine,” said Charlie, as he walked to the head of the bed and placed an arm round Becky.

  “Well, I have to go now, Mrs. Salmon. But I shall be back first thing in the morning.”

  “No, it’s Mrs. Trumper actually,” said Becky quietly. “Salmon was my maiden name.”

  “Oh,” said the midwife, looking flustered for the first time. “They seem to have got the names muddled up on my call sheet. Oh, well, see you tomorrow, Mrs. Trumper,” she said as she closed the door.

  “Mrs. Trumper?” said Charlie.

  “It’s taken me an awful long time to come to my senses, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Trumper?”

  DAPHNE

  1918–1921

  CHAPTER

  13

  When I opened the letter, I confess I didn’t immediately recall who Becky Salmon was. But then I remembered that there had been an extremely bright, rather plump pupil by that name at St. Paul’s, who always seemed to have an endless supply of cream cakes. If I remember, the only thing I gave her in return was an art book that had been a Christmas present from an aunt in Cumberland.

  In fact, by the time I had reached the upper sixth, the precocious little blighter was already in the lower sixth, despite there being a good two years’ difference in our ages.

  Having read her letter a second time, I couldn’t imagine why the girl should want to see me, and concluded that the only way I was likely to find out was to invite her round to tea at my little place in Chelsea.

  When I first saw Becky again I hardly recognized her. Not only had she lost a couple of stone, but she would have made an ideal model for one of those Pepsodent advertisements that one saw displayed on the front of every tram—you know, a fresh-faced girl showing off a gleaming set of perfect teeth. I had to admit I was quite envious.

  Becky explained to me that all she needed was a room in London while she was up at the university. I was only too happy to oblige. After all, the mater had made it clear on several occasions how much she disapproved of my being in the flat on my own, and that she couldn’t for the life of her fathom what was wrong with 26 Lowndes Square, our family’s London residence. I couldn’t wait to tell Ma, and Pa for that matter, the news that I had, as they so often requested, found myself an appropriate companion.

  “But who is this girl?” inquired my mother, when I went down to Harcourt Hall for the weekend. “Anyone we know?”

  “Don’t think so, Ma,” I replied. “An old school chum from St. Paul’s. Rather the academic type.”

  “Bluestockin’, you mean?” my father chipped in.

  “Yes, you’ve got the idea, Pa. She’s attending someplace called Bedford College to read the history of the Renaissance, or something like that.”

  “Didn’t know girls could get degrees,” my father said. “Must all be part of that damned little Welshman’s ideas for a new Britain.”

  “You must stop describing Lloyd George in that way,” my mother reprimanded him. “He is, after all, our prime minister.”

  “He may be yours, my dear, but he’s certainly not mine. I blame it all on those suffragettes,” my father added, producing one of his habitual non sequiturs.

  “My dear, you blame most things on the suffragettes,” my mother reminded him, “even last year’s harvest. However,” she continued, “coming back to this girl, she sounds to me as if she could have a very beneficial influence on you, Daphne. Where did you say her parents come from?”

  “I didn’t,” I replied. “But I think her father was a businessman out East somewhere, and I’m going to take tea with her mother sometime next week.”

  “Singapore possibly?” said Pa. “There’s a lot of business goin’ on out there, rubber and all that sort of thing.”

  “No, I don’t think he was in rubber, Pa.”

  “Well, whatever, do bring the girl round for tea one afternoon,” Ma insisted. “Or even down here for the weekend. Does she hunt?”

  “No, I don’t think so, Ma, but I’ll certainly invite her to tea in the near future, so that you can both inspect her.”

  I must confess that I was equally amused by the idea of being asked along to tea with Becky’s mother, so that she could be sure that I was the right sort of girl for her daughter. Afte
r all, I was fairly confident that I wasn’t. I had never been east of the Aldwych before, as far as I could recollect, so I found the idea of going to Essex even more exciting than traveling abroad.

  Luckily the journey to Romford was without incident, mainly because Hoskins, my father’s chauffeur, knew the road well. It turned out he had originated from somewhere called Dagenham, which he informed me was even deeper inside the Essex jungle.

  I had no notion until that day that such people existed. They were neither servants nor from the professional classes nor members of the gentry, and I can’t pretend that I exactly fell in love with Romford. However, Mrs. Salmon and her sister Miss Roach couldn’t have been more hospitable. Becky’s mother turned out to be a practical, sensible, God-fearing woman who could also produce an excellent spread for tea, so it was not an altogether wasted journey.

  Becky moved into my flat the following week, and I was horrified when I discovered how hard the girl worked. She seemed to spend all day at that Bedford place, returning home only to nibble a sandwich, sip a glass of milk and then continue her studies until she fell asleep, long after I had gone to bed. I could never quite work out what it was all in aid of.

  It was after her foolish visit to John D. Wood that I first learned about Charlie Trumper and his ambitions. All that fuss, simply because she had sold off his barrow without consulting him. I felt it nothing less than my duty to point out that two of my ancestors had been beheaded for trying to steal counties, and one sent to the Tower of London for high treason; well at least, I reflected, I had a kinsman who had spent his final days in the vicinity of the East End.

  As always, Becky knew she was right. “But it’s only a hundred pounds,” she kept repeating.

  “Which you don’t possess.”

  “I’ve got forty and I feel confident it’s such a good investment that I ought to be able to raise the other sixty without much trouble. After all, Charlie could sell blocks of ice to the Eskimos.”

  “And how are you planning to run the shop in his absence?” I asked. “Between lectures perhaps?”

  “Oh, don’t be so frivolous, Daphne. Charlie will manage the shop just as soon as he gets back from the war. After all, it can’t be long now.”

  “The war has been over for some weeks,” I reminded her. “And there doesn’t seem to be much sign of your Charlie.”

  “He’s not my Charlie” was all she said.

  Anyway, I kept a close eye on Becky during the next thirty days and it quickly became plain for anyone to see that she wasn’t going to raise the money. However, she was far too proud to admit as much to me. I therefore decided the time had come to pay another visit to Romford.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Harcourt-Browne,” Becky’s mother assured me, when I arrived unannounced at their little house in Belle Vue Road. I should point out, in my own defense, that I would have informed Mrs. Salmon of my imminent arrival if she had possessed a telephone. As I sought certain information that only she could supply before the thirty days were up—information that would save not only her daughter’s face but also her finances—I was unwilling to put my trust in the postal service.

  “Becky isn’t in any trouble, I hope?” was Mrs. Salmon’s first reaction when she saw me standing on the doorstep.

  “Certainly not,” I assured her. “Never seen the girl in perkier form.”

  “It’s just that since her father’s death I do worry about her,” Mrs. Salmon explained. She limped just slightly as she guided me into a drawing room that was as spotless as the day I had first accepted their kind invitation to tea. A bowl of fruit rested on the table in the center of the room. I only prayed that Mrs. Salmon would never drop into Number 97 without giving me at least a year’s notice.

  “How can I be of assistance?” Mrs. Salmon asked, moments after Miss Roach had been dispatched to the kitchen to prepare tea.

  “I am considering making a small investment in a greengrocer’s shop in Chelsea,” I told her. “I am assured by john D. Wood that it is a sound proposition, despite the current food shortage and the growing problems with trade unions—that is, as long as I can install a first-class manager.”

  Mrs. Salmon’s smile was replaced by a puzzled expression.

  “Becky has sung the praises of someone called Charlie Trumper, and the purpose of my visit is to seek your opinion of the gentleman in question.”

  “Gentleman he certainly is not,” said Mrs. Salmon without hesitation. “An uneducated ruffian might be nearer the mark.”

  “Oh, what a disappointment,” I said. “Especially as Becky led me to believe that your late husband thought rather highly of him.”

  “As a fruit and vegetable man he certainly did. In fact I’d go as far as to say that Mr. Salmon used to consider that young Charlie might end up being as good as his grandfather.”

  “And how good was that?”

  “Although I didn’t mix with those sort of people, you understand,” explained Mrs. Salmon, “I was told, second-hand of course, that he was the finest Whitechapel had ever seen.”

  “Good,” I said. “But is he also honest?”

  “I have never heard otherwise,” Mrs. Salmon admitted. “And Heaven knows, he’s willing to work all the hours God gave, but he’s hardly your type, I would have thought, Miss Harcourt-Browne.”

  “I was considering employing the man as a shopkeeper, Mrs. Salmon, not inviting him to join me in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot.” At that moment Miss Roach reappeared with a tray of tea—jam tarts and eclairs smothered in cream. They turned out to be so delicious that I stayed far longer than I had planned.

  The following morning I paid a visit to John D. Wood and handed over a check for the remaining ninety pounds. I then visited my solicitor and had a contract drawn up, which when it was completed I didn’t begin to understand.

  Once Becky had found out what I had been up to I drove a hard bargain, because I knew the girl would resent my interference if I wasn’t able to prove that I was getting something worthwhile out of the deal.

  As soon as she had been convinced of that, Becky immediately handed over a further thirty pounds to help reduce the debt. She certainly took her new enterprise most seriously, because within weeks she had stolen a young man from a shop in Kensington to take over Trumper’s until Charlie returned. She also continued to work hours I didn’t even know existed. I could never get her to explain to me the point of rising before the sun did.

  After Becky had settled into her new routine I even invited her to make up a foursome for the opera one night—to see La Bohème. In the past she had shown no inclination to attend any of my outings, especially with her new responsibilities with the shop. But on this occasion I pleaded with her to join the group because a chum of mine had canceled at the last minute and I desperately needed a spare girl.

  “But I’ve nothing to wear,” she said helplessly.

  “Take your pick of anything of mine you fancy,” I told her, and ushered her through to my bedroom.

  I could see that she found such an offer almost irresistible. An hour later she reemerged in a long turquoise dress that brought back memories of what it had originally looked like on the model.

  “Who are your other guests?” Becky inquired.

  “Algernon Fitzpatrick. He’s Percy Wiltshire’s best friend. You remember, the man who hasn’t yet been told I’m going to marry him.”

  “And who makes up the party?”

  “Guy Trentham. He’s a captain in the Royal Fusiliers, an acceptable regiment, just,” I added. “He’s recently returned from the Western Front where it’s said he had a rather good war. MC and all that. We come from the same village in Berkshire, and grew up together, although I confess we don’t really have a lot in common. Very good-looking, but has the reputation as a bit of a ladies’ man, so beware.”

  La Bohème, I felt, had been a great success, even if Guy couldn’t stop leering at Becky throughout the second act—not that she seemed to show the slightes
t interest in him.

  However, to my surprise, as soon as we got back to the flat Becky couldn’t stop talking about the man—his looks, his sophistication, his charm—although I couldn’t help noting that she didn’t once refer to his character. Eventually I managed to get to bed, but not before I had assured Becky to her satisfaction that her feelings were undoubtedly reciprocated.

  In fact, I became, unwittingly, Cupid’s messenger for the budding romance. The following day I was asked by Guy to invite Miss Salmon to accompany him to a West End play. Becky accepted, of course, but then I had already assured Guy she would.

  After their outing to the Haymarket, I seemed to bump into the two of them all the time, and began to fear that if the relationship became any more serious it could only, as my nanny used to say, end in tears. I began to regret having ever introduced them in the first place, although there was no doubt, to quote the modern expression: she was head over heels in love.

  Despite this, a few weeks’ equilibrium returned to the residents of 97—and then Charlie was demobbed.

  I wasn’t formally introduced to the man for some time after his return, and when I was I had to admit they didn’t make them like that in Berkshire. The occasion was a dinner we all shared at that awful little Italian restaurant just up the road from my flat.

  To be fair, the evening was not what one might describe as a wow, partly because Guy made no effort to be sociable, but mainly because Becky didn’t bother to bring Charlie into the conversation at all. I found myself asking and then answering most of the questions, and, as for Charlie, he appeared on first sighting to be somewhat gauche.

  When we were all walking back to the flat after dinner, I suggested to him that we should leave Becky and Guy to be themselves. When Charlie escorted me into his shop he couldn’t resist stopping to explain how he had changed everything around since he had taken over. His enthusiasm would have convinced the most cynical investor, but what impressed me most was his knowledge of a business which until that moment I hadn’t given a second thought to. It was then that I made the decision to assist Charlie with both his causes.