As the Crow Flies Read online

  The general strike officially ended on the ninth morning, and by the last day of the month I had acquired another seven shops in all. I seemed to be running constantly backwards and forwards to the bank, but at least every one of my acquisitions was at a price that allowed Hadlow an accompanying smile, even if he warned me that funds were running low.

  At our next board meeting, I was able to report that Trumper’s now owned twenty shops in Chelsea Terrace, which was more than the Shops Committee membership combined. However Hadlow did express a view to the board that we should now embark on a long period of consolidation if we wanted our recently acquired properties to attain the same quality and standard as the original thirteen. I made only one other proposal of any significance at that meeting, which received the unanimous backing of my colleagues—that Tom Arnold be invited to join the board.

  I still couldn’t resist spending the odd hour sitting on the bench opposite Number 147 and watching the transformation of Chelsea Terrace as it took place before my eyes. For the first time I could differentiate between those shops I owned and those that I still needed to acquire, which included the fourteen owned by Wrexall’s committee members—not forgetting either the prestigious Number 1 or the Musketeer.

  Seventy-two days had passed since the auction, and although Mr. Fothergill still purchased his fruit and vegetables regularly from Number 147 he never uttered a word to me as to whether or not Mrs. Trentham had fulfilled her contract. Joan Moore informed my wife that her former mistress had recently received a visit from Mr. Fothergill, and although the cook had not been able to hear all the conversation there had definitely been raised voices.

  When Daphne came to visit me at the shop the following week I inquired if she had any inside information on what Mrs. Trentham was up to.

  “Stop worrying about the damned woman,” was all Daphne had to say on the subject. “In any case,” she added, “the ninety days will be up soon enough, and frankly, you should be more worried about your Part II than Mrs. Trentham’s financial problems.”

  “I agree. But if I go on at this rate, I won’t have completed the necessary work before next year,” I said, having selected twelve perfect plums for her before placing them on the weighing machine.

  “You’re always in such a hurry, Charlie. Why do things always have to be finished by a certain date?”

  “Because that’s what keeps me going.”

  “But Becky will be just as impressed by your achievement if you manage to finish a year later.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same,” I told her. “I’ll just have to work harder.”

  “There are only a given number of hours in each day,” Daphne reminded me. “Even for you.”

  “Well, that’s one thing I can’t be blamed for.”

  Daphne laughed. “How’s Becky’s thesis on Luini coming along?”

  “She’s completed the bloody thing. Just about to check over the final draft of thirty thousand words, so she’s still well ahead of me. But what with the general strike and acquiring all the new properties, not to mention Mrs. Trentham, I haven’t even had time to take Daniel to see West Ham this season.” Charlie started placing her order in a large brown paper bag.

  “Has Becky discovered what you’re up to yet?” Daphne asked.

  “No, and I make sure I only disappear completely whenever she’s working late at Sotheby’s or off cataloguing some grand collection. She still hasn’t noticed that I get up every morning at four-thirty, which is when I put in the real work.” I passed over the bag of plums and seven and tenpence change.

  “Proper little Trollope, aren’t we?” remarked Daphne. “By the way, I still haven’t let Percy in on our secret, but I can’t wait to see the expression on their faces when—”

  “Shhh, not a word…”

  When you have been chasing something for a long time it’s strange how the final prize so often lands in your lap just when you least expect it.

  I was serving at Number 147 that morning. It always annoyed Bob Makins to see me roll up my sleeves, but I do enjoy a little chat with my old customers, and lately it was about the only chance I had to catch up on the gossip, as well as an occasional insight into what the customers really thought of my other shops. However, I confess that by the time I served Mr. Fothergill the queue stretched nearly all the way to the grocery shop which I knew Bob still regarded as a rival.

  “Good morning,” I said, when Mr. Fothergill reached the front of the queue. “And what can I offer you today, sir? I’ve got some lovely—”

  “I wondered if we could have a word in private, Mr. Trumper?”

  I was so taken by surprise that I didn’t reply immediately. I knew Mrs. Trentham still had another nine days to go before she had to complete her contract and I had assumed I would hear nothing before then. After all, she must have had her own Hadlows and Crowthers to do all the paperwork.

  “I’m afraid the storeroom is the only place available at the moment,” I warned. I removed my green overall, rolled down my sleeves and replaced my jacket. “You see, my manager now occupies the flat above,” I explained as I led the auctioneer through to the back of the shop.

  I offered him a seat on an upturned orange box while pulling up another box opposite him. We faced each other, just a few feet apart, like rival chess players. Strange surroundings, I considered, to discuss the biggest deal of my life. I tried to remain calm.

  “I’ll come to the point straight away,” said Fothergill. “Mrs. Trentham has not been in touch for several weeks and lately she has been refusing to answer my calls. What’s more, Savill’s has made it abundantly clear that they have had no instruction to complete the transaction on her behalf. They have gone as far as to say that they are now given to understand that she is no longer interested in the property.”

  “Still, you got your one thousand, two hundred pounds deposit,” I reminded him, trying to stifle a grin.

  “I don’t deny it,” replied Fothergill. “But I have since made other commitments, and what with the general strike—”

  “Hard times, I agree,” I told him. I felt the palms of my hands begin to sweat.

  “But you’ve never hidden your desire to be the owner of Number 1.”

  “True enough, but since the auction I’ve been buying up several other properties with the cash I had originally put on one side for your shop.”

  “I know, Mr. Trumper. But I would now be willing to settle for a far more reasonable price—”

  “And three thousand, five hundred pounds is what I was willing to bid, as no doubt you recall.”

  “Twelve thousand was your final bid, if I remember correctly.”

  “Tactics, Mr. Fothergill, nothing more than tactics. I never had any intention of paying twelve thousand, as I feel sure you are only too aware.”

  “But your wife bid five thousand, five hundred pounds, even forgetting her later bid of fourteen thousand.”

  “I can’t disagree with that,” I told him, dropping back into my cockney accent. “But if you ’ad ever married, Mr. Fothergill, you would know only too well why we in the East End always refer to them as the trouble and strife.”

  “I’d let the property go for seven thousand pounds,” he said. “But only to you.”

  “You’d let the property go for five thousand,” I replied, “to anyone who’d cough up.”

  “Never,” said Fothergill.

  “In nine days’ time would be my bet, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” I added, leaning forward and nearly falling off my box. “I’ll honor my wife’s commitment of five thousand, five ’undred pounds, which I confess was the limit the board ’ad allowed us to go to, but only if you ’ave all the paperwork ready for me to sign before midnight.” Mr. Fothergill opened his mouth indignantly. “Of course,” I added before he could protest, “it shouldn’t be too much work for you. After all, the contract’s been sitting on your desk for the last eighty-one days. All you have to do is change the name and knock off the odd no