Jeffrey Archer: As the Crow Flies

He dug his teeth into a morning apple before he dropped off Mrs. Smelley's weekly order and resumed to his pitch in the Whitechapel Road. Monday was always busy with everybody stocking up after the weekend and by the time he arrived back home at Number 112 for his afternoon tea he was exhausted. Charlie was sticking a fork into his third of a pork pie when he heard a knock on the door.

"Who can that be?" said Kitty, as Sal served Charlie a second potato.

"There's only one way we're going to find out, my girl," said Charlie, not budging an inch.

Kitty reluctantly left the table only to return a moment later with her nose held high in the air. "It's that Becky Salmon. Says she 'desires to have a word with you.'"

"Does she now? Then you had better show Miss Salmon into the parlor," said Charlie with a grin.

Kitty slouched off again while Charlie got up from the kitchen table carrying the remainder of the pie in his fingers. He strolled into the only other room that wasn't a bedroom. He lowered himself into an old leather chair and continued to chew while he waited. A moment later Posh Porky marched into the middle of the room and stood right in front of him. She didn't speak. He was slightly taken aback by the sheer size of the girl. Although she was two or three inches shorter than Charlie, she must have weighed at least a stone more than he did, a genuine heavyweight. She so obviously hadn't given up stuffing herself with Salmon's cream buns. Charlie stared at her gleaming white blouse and dark blue pleated skirt. Her smart blue blazer sported a golden eagle surrounded by words he had never seen before. A red ribbon sat uneasily in her short dark hair and Charlie noticed that her little black shoes and white socks were as spotless as ever.

He would have asked her to sit down but as he was occupying the only chair in the room, he couldn't. He ordered Kitty to leave them alone. For a moment she stared defiantly at Charlie, but then left without another word.

"So what do you want?" asked Charlie once he heard the door close.

Rebecca Salmon began to tremble as she tried to get the words out. "I've come to see you because of what has happened to my parents." She enunciated each word slowly and carefully and, to Charlie's disgust, without any trace of an East End accent.

"So what 'as 'appened to your parents?" asked Charlie gruffly, hoping she wouldn't realize that his voice had only recently broken. Becky burst into tears. Charlie's only reaction was to stare out of the window because he wasn't quite sure what else to do.

Becky continued shaking as she began to speak again. "Tata was killed in the raid last night and Mummy has been taken to the London Hospital." She stopped abruptly, adding no further explanation.

Charlie jumped out of his chair. "No one told me," he said, as he began pacing round the room.

"There's no way that you could possibly have known," said Becky. "I haven't even told the assistants at the shop yet. They think he's off sick for the day."

"Do you want me to tell them?" asked Charlie. "Is that why you came round?"

"No," she said, raising her head slowly and pausing for a moment. "I want you to take over the shop."

Charlie was so stunned by this suggestion that although he stopped pacing he made no attempt to reply.

"My father always used to say that it wouldn't be that long before you had your own shop, so I thought . . ."

"But I don't know the first thing about baking," stammered Charlie as he fell back into his chair.

"Tata's two assistants know everything there is to know about the trade, and I suspect you'll know even more than they do within a few months. What that shop needs at this particular moment is a salesman. My father always considered that you were as good as old Granpa Charlie and everyone knows he was the best."

"But what about my barrow?"

"It's only a few yards away from the shop, so you could easily keep an eye on both." She hesitated before adding, "Unlike your delivery service."

"You knew about that?"

"Even know you tried to pay back the last five shillings a few minutes before my father went to the synagogue one Saturday. We had no secrets."

"So 'ow would it work?" asked Charlie, beginning to feel he was always a yard behind the girl.

"You run the barrow and the shop and we'll be fifty-fifty partners."

"And what will you do to earn your share?"

"I'll check the books every month and make sure that we pay our tax on time and don't break any council regulations."

"I've never paid any taxes before," said Charlie "and who in 'ell's name cares about the council and their soppy regulations?"

Becky's dark eyes fixed on him for the first time. "People who one day hope to be running a serious business enterprise, Charlie Trumper, that's who."

"Fifty-fifty doesn't seem all that fair to me," said Charlie, still trying to get the upper hand.

"My shop is considerably more valuable than your barrow and it also derives a far larger income."

"Did, until your father died," said Charlie, regretting the words immediately after he had spoken them.

Becky bowed her head again. "Are we to be partners or not?" she muttered.

"Sixty-forty," said Charlie.

She hesitated for a long moment, then suddenly thrust out her arm. Charlie rose from the chair and shook her hand vigorously to confirm that his first deal was closed.

After Dan Salmon's funeral Charlie tried to read the Daily Chronicle every morning in the hope of discovering what the second battalion, Royal Fusiliers was up to and where his father might be. He knew the regiment was fighting somewhere in France, but its exact location was never recorded in the paper, so Charlie was none the wiser.

The daily broadsheet began to have a double fascination for Charlie, as he started to take an interest in the advertisements displayed on almost every page. He couldn't believe that those nobs in the West End were willing to pay good money for things that seemed to him to be nothing more than unnecessary luxuries. However, it didn't stop Charlie wanting to taste Coca-Cola, the latest drink from America, at a cost of a penny a bottle; or to try the new safety razor from Gillette—despite the fact that he hadn't even started shaving—at sixpence for the holder and tuppence for six blades: he felt sure his father, who had only ever used a cutthroat, would consider the very idea sissy. And a woman's girdle at two guineas struck Charlie as quite ridiculous. Neither Sal nor Kitty would ever need one of those—although Posh Porky might soon enough, the way she was going.

So intrigued did Charlie become by these seemingly endless selling opportunities that he started to take a tram up to the West End on a Sunday morning just to see for himself. Having ridden on a horse-drawn vehicle to Chelsea, he would then walk slowly back east towards Mayfair, studying all the goods in the shop windows on the way. He also noted how people dressed and admired the motor vehicles that belched out fumes but didn't drop shit as they traveled down the middle of the road. He even began to wonder just how much it cost to rent a shop in Chelsea.

On the first Sunday in October 1917 Charlie took Sal up West with him—to show her the sights, he explained.

Charlie and his sister walked slowly from shop window to shop window, and he was unable to hide his excitement at every new discovery he came across. Men's clothes, hats, shoes, women's dresses, perfume, undergarments, even cakes and pastries could hold his attention for minutes on end.

"For Gawd's sake, let's get ourselves back to Whitechapel where we belong," said Sal. "Because one thing's for sure—I'm never going to feel at 'ome 'ere."

"But don't you understand?" said Charlie. "One day I'm going to own a shop in Chelsea."