As the Crow Flies Read online

  “Life isn’t, to quote my father. I had to grow up some time, Charlie. For you it was the Western Front.”

  “So what are we going to do now?”

  “We?” said Becky.

  “Yes, we. We’re still partners, you know. Or had you forgotten?”

  “To start with I’ll have to find somewhere else to live; it wouldn’t be fair to Daphne—”

  “What a friend she’s turned out to be,” said Charlie.

  “To both of us,” said Becky as Charlie stood up, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to march around the little room. It reminded Becky of when they had been at school together.

  “I don’t suppose…” said Charlie. It was his turn to be unable to look her in the face.

  “Suppose? Suppose what?”

  “I don’t suppose…” he began again.

  “Yes?”

  “You’d consider marrying me?”

  There was a long silence before a shocked Becky felt able to reply. She eventually said, “But what about Daphne?”

  “Daphne? You surely never believed we had that sort of relationship? It’s true she’s been giving me night classes but not the type you think. In any case, there’s only ever been one man in Daphne’s life, and it’s certainly not Charlie Trumper for the simple reason she’s known all along that there’s only been one woman in mine.”

  “But—”

  “And I’ve loved you for such a long time, Becky.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Becky, placing her head in her hands.

  “I’m sorry,” said Charlie. “I thought you knew. Daphne told me women always know these things.”

  “I had no idea, Charlie. I’ve been so blind as well as stupid.”

  “I haven’t looked at another woman since the day I came back from Edinburgh. I suppose I just ’oped you might love me a little,” he said.

  “I’ll always love you a little, Charlie, but I’m afraid it’s Guy I’m in love with.”

  “Lucky blighter. And to think I saw you first. Your father once chased me out of ’is shop, you know, when he ’eard me calling you ‘Posh Porky’ behind your back.” Becky smiled. “You see, I’ve always been able to grab everything I really wanted in life, so ’ow did I let you get away?”

  Becky was unable to look up at him.

  “He’s an officer, of course, and I’m not. That would explain it.” Charlie had stopped pacing round the room and came to halt in front of her.

  “You’re a general, Charlie.”

  “It’s not the same, though, is it?”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Becky stopped, checked carefully over the few sentences she had written, groaned, crumpled up the notepaper and dropped it in the wastepaper basket that rested at her feet. She stood up, stretched and started to pace around the room in the hope that she might be able to dream up some new excuse for not continuing with her task. It was already twelve-thirty so she could now go to bed, claiming that she had been too weary to carry on—only Becky knew that she wouldn’t be able to sleep until the letter had been completed. She returned to her desk and tried to settle herself again before reconsidering the opening line. She picked up her pen.

  Oh no, thought Becky, and tore up her latest effort before once again dropping the scraps of paper into the wastepaper basket. She traipsed off to the kitchen to make herself a pot of tea. After her second cup, she reluctantly returned to her writing desk and settled herself again.

  “And by the way I’m pregnant,” said Becky out loud, and tore up her third attempt. She replaced the top on her pen, deciding the time had come to take a walk round the square. She picked up her coat from its hook in the hall, ran down the stairs and let herself out. She strolled aimlessly up and down the deserted road seemingly unaware of the hour. She was pleased to find that “Sold” signs now appeared in the windows of Numbers 131 and 135. She stopped outside the old antiques shop for a moment, cupped her hands round her eyes and peered in through the window. To her horror she discovered that Mr. Rutherford had removed absolutely everything, even the gas fittings and the mantelpiece that she had assumed were fixed to the wall. That’ll teach me to study an offer document more carefully next time, she thought. She continued to stare at the empty space as a mouse scurried across the floorboards. “Perhaps we should open a pet shop,” she said aloud.

  “Beg pardon, miss.”

  Becky swung round to find a policeman rattling the doorknob of 133, to be certain the premises were locked.

  “Oh, good evening, Constable,” said Becky sheepishly, feeling guilty without any reason.

  “It’s nearly two in the morning, miss. You just said ‘Good evening.’”

  “Oh, is it?” said Becky, looking at her watch. “Oh, yes, so it is. How silly of me. You see, I live at 97.” Feeling some explanation was necessary, she added, “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to take a walk.”

  “Better join the force then. They’ll be happy to keep you walking all night.”

  Becky laughed. “No, thank you, Constable. I think I’ll just go back to my flat and try and get some sleep. Good night.”

  “Good night, miss,” said the policeman, touching his helmet in a half salute before checking that the empty antiques shop was also safely locked up.

  Becky turned and walked determinedly back down Chelsea Terrace, opened the front door of 97, climbed the staircase to the flat, took off her coat and returned immediately to the little writing desk. She paused only for a moment before picking up her pen and starting to write.

  For once the words flowed easily because she now knew exactly what needed to be said.

  She was unable to control her tears as she read her words through a second time. As she folded the notepaper the bedroom door swung open and a sleepy Daphne appeared in front of her.

  “You all right, darling?”

  “Yes. Just felt a little queasy,” explained Becky. “I decided that I needed a breath of fresh air.” She deftly slipped the letter into an unmarked envelope.

  “Now I’m up,” said Daphne, “would you care for a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve already had two cups.”

  “Well, I think I will.” Daphne disappeared into the kitchen. Becky immediately picked up her pen again and wrote on the envelope:

  She had left the flat, posted the letter in the pillar box on the corner of Chelsea Terrace and returned to Number 97 even before the kettle had boiled.

  Although Charlie received the occasional letter from Sal in Canada to tell him of the arrival of his latest nephew or niece, and the odd infrequent call from Grace whenever she could get away from her hospital duties, a visit from Kitty was rare indeed. But when she came to the flat it was always with the same purpose.

  “I only need a couple of quid, Charlie, just to see me through,” explained Kitty as she lowered herself into the one comfortable chair only moments after she had entered the room.

  Charlie stared at his sister. Although she was only eighteen months older than he she already looked like a woman well into her thirties. Under the baggy shapeless cardigan there was no longer any sign of the figure that had attracted every wandering eye in the East End, and without makeup her face was already beginning to look splotchy and lined.

  “It was only a pound last time,” Charlie reminded her. “And that wasn’t so long ago.”

  “But my man’s left me since then, Charlie. I’m on my own again, without even a roof over my head. Come on, do us a favor.”

  He continued to stare at her, thankful that Becky was not yet back from her afternoon lecture, although he suspected Kitty only came when she could be sure the till was full and Becky was safely out of the way.

  “I won’t be a moment,” he said after a long period of silence. He slipped out of the room and headed off downstairs to the shop. Once he was sure the assistants weren’t looking, he removed two pounds ten shillings from the till. He walked resignedly back upstairs to the flat.

  Kitty was alr