As the Crow Flies Read online

  Charlie put his cap back on and turned to go, the box under one arm, a brown paper parcel under the other and a ticket to London in his top pocket.

  As he marched out of the barracks to make his way to the station—he wondered how long it would be before he could walk at a normal pace—when he reached the guardroom he stopped and turned round for one last look at the parade ground. A set of raw recruits was marching up and down with a new drill instructor who sounded every bit as determined as the late Sergeant Major Philpott had been to see that the snow was never allowed to settle.

  Charlie turned his back on the parade ground and began his journey to London. He was nineteen years of age and had only just qualified to receive the King’s shilling; but now he was a couple of inches taller, shaved and had even come near to losing his virginity.

  He’d done his bit, and at least felt able to agree with the Prime Minister on one matter. He had surely taken part in the war to end all wars.

  The night sleeper from Edinburgh was full of men in uniform who eyed the civilian-clad Charlie with suspicion, as a man who hadn’t yet served his country or, worse, was a conscientious objector.

  “They’ll be calling him up soon enough,” said a corporal to his mate in a loud whisper from the far side of the carriage. Charlie smiled but didn’t comment.

  He slept intermittently, amused by the thought that he might have found it easier to rest in a damp, muddy trench with rats and cockroaches for companions. By the time the train pulled into King’s Cross Station at seven the following morning, he had a stiff neck and an aching back. He stretched himself before he picked up his large paper parcel along with Tommy’s life possessions.

  At the station he bought a sandwich and a cup of tea. He was surprised when the girl asked him for three pence. “Tuppence for those what are in uniform,” he was told with undisguised disdain. Charlie downed the tea and left the station without another word.

  The roads were busier and more hectic than he remembered, but he still jumped confidently on a tram that had “City” printed across the front. He sat alone on a trestled wooden bench, wondering what changes he would find on his return to the East End. Did his shop flourish, was it simply ticking over, had it been sold or even gone bankrupt? And what of the biggest barrow in the world?

  He jumped off the tram at Poultry, deciding to walk the final mile. His pace quickened as the accents changed; City gents in long black coats and bowlers gave way to professional men in dark suits and trilbies, to be taken over by rough lads in ill-fitting clothes and caps, until Charlie finally arrived in the East End, where even the boaters had been abandoned by those under thirty.

  As Charlie approached the Whitechapel Road, he stopped and stared at the frantic bustle taking place all around him. Hooks of meat, barrows of vegetables, trays of pies, urns of tea passed him in every direction.

  But what of the baker’s shop, and his grandfather’s pitch? Would they be “all present and correct”? He pulled his cap down over his forehead and slipped quietly into the market.

  When he reached the corner of the Whitechapel Road he wasn’t sure he had come to the right place. The baker’s shop was no longer there but had been replaced by a bespoke tailor who traded under the name of Jacob Cohen. Charlie pressed his nose against the window but couldn’t recognize anyone who was working inside. He swung round to stare at the spot where the barrow of “Charlie Trumper, the honest trader” had stood for nearly a century, only to find a gaggle of youths warming themselves round a charcoal fire where a man was selling chestnuts at a penny a bag. Charlie parted with a penny and was handed a bagful, but no one even gave him a second glance. Perhaps Becky had sold everything as he instructed, he thought, as he left the market to carry on down Whitechapel Road where at least he would have a chance to catch up with one of his sisters, rest and gather his thoughts.

  When he arrived outside Number 112, he was pleased to find that the front door had been repainted. God bless Sal. He pushed the door open and walked straight into the parlor, where he came face to face with an overweight, half-shaven man dressed in a vest and trousers who was brandishing an open razor.

  “What’s your game then?” asked the man, holding up the razor firmly.

  “I live ’ere,” said Charlie.

  “Like ’ell you do. I took over this dump six months ago.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” said the man and without warning gave Charlie a shove in the chest which propelled him back into the street. The door slammed behind him, and Charlie heard a key turn in the lock. Not certain what to do next, he was beginning to wish he had never come home.

  “’Ello, Charlie. It is Charlie, isn’t it?” said a voice from behind him. “So you’re not dead after all.”

  He swung round to see Mrs. Shorrocks standing by her front door.

  “Dead?” said Charlie.

  “Yes,” replied Mrs. Shorrocks. “Kitty told us you’d been killed on the Western Front and that was why she ’ad to sell 112. That was months ago—’aven’t seen ’er since. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  “No, no one told me,” said Charlie, at least glad to find someone who recognized him. He stared at his old neighbor trying to puzzle out why she looked so different.

  “’Ow about some lunch, luv? You look starved.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Shorrocks.”

  “I’ve just got myself a packet of fish and chips from Dunkley’s. You won’t ’ave forgotten how good they are. A threepenny lot, a nice piece of cod soaked in vinegar and a bag full of chips.”

  Charlie followed Mrs. Shorrocks into Number 110, joined her in the tiny kitchen and collapsed onto a wooden chair.

  “Don’t suppose you know what ’appened to my barrow or even Dan Salmon’s shop?”

  “Young Miss Rebecca sold ’em both. Must ’ave been a good nine months back, not that long after you left for the front, come to think of it.” Mrs. Shorrocks placed the bag of chips and the fish on a piece of paper in the middle of the table. “To be fair, Kitty told us you were listed as killed on the Marne and by the time anyone found out the truth it was too late.”

  “May as well ’ave been,” said Charlie, “for all there is to come ’ome to.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Shorrocks as she flicked the top off a bottle of ale, took a swig and then pushed it over to Charlie. “I ’ear there’s a lot of barrows up for sale nowadays and some still goin’ for bargain prices.”

  “Glad to ’ear it,” said Charlie. “But first I must catch up with Posh Porky as I don’t ’ave much capital left of my own.” He paused to take his first mouthful of fish. “Any idea where she’s got to?”

  “Never see her round these parts nowadays, Charlie. She always was a bit ’igh and mighty for the likes of us, but I did ’ear mention that Kitty had been to see her at London University.”

  “London University, eh? Well, she’s about to discover Charlie Trumper’s very much alive, however ’igh and mighty she’s become. And she’d better ’ave a pretty convincing story as to what ’appened to my share of our money.” He rose from the table and gathered up his belongings, leaving the last two chips for Mrs. Shorrocks.

  “Shall I open another bottle, Charlie?”

  “Can’t stop now, Mrs. Shorrocks. But thanks for the beer and grub—and give my best to Mr. Shorrocks.”

  “Bert?” she said. “’Aven’t you ’eard? ’E died of an ’eart attack over six months ago, poor man. I do miss ’im.” It was then that Charlie realized what was different about his old neighbor: no black eye and no bruises.

  He left the house and set out to find London University, and see if he could track down Rebecca Salmon. Had she, as he’d instructed if he were listed as dead, divided the proceeds of the sale between his three sisters—Sal, now in Canada; Grace, still somewhere in France; and Kitty, God knows where? In which case there would be no capital for him to start up again other than Tommy’s back pay and a few pounds he’d managed to save himself. He asked the