As the Crow Flies Read online

  “Could be ex-directory,” the girl behind the counter explained. “Which means they won’t take your call in any case.”

  “Or there just isn’t a Trentham living in london,” I said, and accepted that the regimental museum was now my only hope.

  I thought I had worked hard at the University of Melbourne, but the hours they expected us to do at the Melrose would have brought a combat soldier to his knees. All the same, I was damned if I was going to admit as much, especially after Pam and Maureen gave up the struggle within a month, cabled their parents in Sydney for some money and returned to Australia on the first available boat. At least it meant I ended up with a room to myself until the next boatload arrived. To be honest I wish I could have packed up and gone home with them, but I hadn’t anyone in Australia to whom I could cable back for more than about ten pounds.

  The first full day I had off and wasn’t totally exhausted, I took a train to Hounslow. When I left the station the ticket collector directed me to the Royal Fusiliers’ Depot, where the museum was situated now. After walking about a mile I eventually reached the building I was looking for. It seemed to be uninhabited except for a single receptionist. He was dressed in khaki uniform, with three stripes on both arms. He sat dozing behind a counter. I walked noisily over and pretended not to wake him.

  “Can I ’elp you, young lady?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “I hope so.”

  “Australian?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “I fought alongside your chaps in North Africa,” he explained. “Damned great bunch of soldiers, I can tell you. So ’ow can I help you, miss?”

  “I wrote to you from Melbourne,” I said, producing a handwritten copy of the letter. “About the holder of this medal.” I slipped the piece of string over my head and handed my prize to him. “His name was Guy Francis Trentham.”

  “Miniature MC,” said the sergeant without hesitation as he held the medal in his hand. “Guy Francis Trentham, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Good. So let’s look ’im up in the great book, 1914–1918, yes?”

  I nodded.

  He went over to a massive bookshelf weighed down by heavy volumes and removed a large leather-bound book. He placed it on the counter with a thud, sending dust in every direction. On the cover were the words, printed in gold, “Royal Fusiliers, Decorations, 1914–1918”.

  “Let’s have a butcher’s, then,” he said as he started to flick through the pages. I waited impatiently. “There’s our man,” he announced triumphantly. “Guy Francis Trentham, Captain.” He swung the book round so that I could study the entry more carefully. I was so excited it was several moments before I could take the words in.

  Captain Trentham’s citation went on for twenty-two lines and I asked if I might be allowed to copy out the details in full.

  “Of course, miss,” he said. “Be my guest.” He handed over a large sheet of ruled paper and a blunt army-issue pencil. I began to write:

  Having written out every word of the citation in my neatest hand, I closed the heavy cover and turned the book back round to face the sergeant.

  “Trentham,” he said. “If I remember correctly, miss, ’e still ’as ’is picture up on the wall.” The sergeant picked up some crutches, maneuvered himself from behind the counter and limped slowly to the far corner of the museum. I hadn’t realized until that moment that the poor man only had one leg. “Over ’ere, miss,” he said. “Follow me.”

  My palms began to sweat and I felt a little sick at the thought of discovering what my father looked like. I wondered if I might resemble him in any way.

  The sergeant hobbled straight past the VCs before we came to a row of MCs. They were all lined up, old sepia pictures, badly framed. His finger ran along them—Stevens, Thomas, Tubbs. “That’s strange. I could have sworn ’is photo was there. Well, I’ll be damned. Must ’ave got lost when we moved from the Tower.”

  “Could his picture be anywhere else?”

  “Not to my knowledge, miss,” he said. “I must ’ave imagined it all along, but I’d swear I’d seen ’is photo when the museum was at the Tower. Well, I’ll be damned,” he repeated.

  I asked him if he could supply me with any more details of Captain Trentham and what might have happened to him since 1918. He hobbled back to the counter and looked up his name in the regimental handbook. “Commissioned 1915, promoted to first lieutenant 1916, captain 1917, India 1920–1922, resigned ’is commission August 1922. Since then nothing known of ’im, miss.”

  “So he could still be alive?”

  “Certainly could, miss. ’E’d only be fifty, fifty-five, most.”

  I checked my watch, thanked him and ran quickly out of the building, suddenly aware of how much time I had spent at the museum and fearful that I might miss the train back to London and wouldn’t be in time to clock on for my five o’clock shift.

  After I had settled in a corner of a dingy third-class compartment I read over the citation again. It pleased me to think that my father had been a First World War hero; but I still couldn’t fathom out why Miss Benson had been so unwilling to tell me anything about him. Why had he gone to Australia? Had he changed his name to Ross? I felt I would have to return to Melbourne if I was ever going to find out exactly what had happened to Guy Francis Trentham. Had I possessed the money to pay for my return fare, I would have gone back that night, but as I had to work out my contract at the hotel for another nine months before they would advance me enough cash to cover the one-way ticket home I settled down to complete my sentence.

  London in 1947 was an exciting city for a twenty-three-year-old so despite the dreary work there were many compensations. Whenever I had any time off I would visit an art gallery, a museum or go to a cinema with one of the girls from the hotel. On a couple of occasions I even accompanied a group of friends to a dance at the Mecca ballroom just off the Strand. One particular night I remember a rather good-looking bloke from the RAF asked me for a dance and, just moments after we had started going round the hall, he tried to kiss me. When I pushed him away he became even more determined and only a firm kick on his ankle followed by a short dash across the dance floor made it possible for me to escape. A few minutes later I found myself out on the pavement and heading back to the hotel on my own.

  As I strolled through Chelsea in the general direction of Earl’s Court I stopped from time to time to admire the unattainable goods on display in every shop window. I particularly craved a long blue silk shawl draped over the shoulders of an elegant slim mannequin. I stopped window-shopping for a moment and glanced up at the name over the door: “Trumper’s.” There was something familiar about the name but I couldn’t think what. I walked slowly back to the hotel but the only Trumper I could recall was the legendary Australian cricketer who had died before I was born. Then in the middle of the night it came back to me. Trumper, C. was the corporal mentioned in the citation written about my father. I jumped out of bed, opened the bottom drawer of my little desk and checked the words I had copied out during my visit to the Royal Fusiliers Museum.

  The name was not one I’d come across since arriving in England, so I wondered if the shopkeeper might be related in some way to the corporal and therefore might help me find him. I decided to return to the museum in Hounslow on my next day off and see if my one-legged friend could be of any further assistance.

  “Nice to see you again, miss,” he said as I walked up to the counter. I was touched that he remembered me.

  “More information you’re after?”

  “You’re right,” I told him. “Corporal Trumper, he’s not the…?

  “Charlie Trumper the ’onest trader. Certainly is, miss; but now ’e’s Sir Charles and owns that large group of shops in Chelsea Terrace.”

  “I thought so.”

  “I was about to tell you all about ’im when you ran off last time, miss.” He grinned. “Could ’ave saved you a train journey and about six months of your