Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

It was around this time that Daphne explained that if we hoped to raise some real money from the banks then we were definitely in need of a front man. Becky's sex was now militating—another of Daphne's words—against her, although she was kind enough not to mention my accent "militating" against me.

On the way home from the regimental ball Becky breezily informed Daphne that she had decided that the colonel was the obvious man to represent us whenever we had to go cap in hand seeking loans from one of the banks. I wasn't optimistic, but Becky insisted after her conversation with the colonel's wife that we at least go round to see him and present our case.

I fell in line and to my surprise we received a letter ten days later saying that he was our man.

A few days after that Becky admitted she was going to have a baby. From that moment on my consuming interest became finding out what news Becky had of Trentham's intentions. I was horrified to discover that she hadn't even written to tell him her news, although she was almost four months pregnant. I made her swear that she would send a letter that night, even if she did refuse to consider threatening him with a breach of promise suit. The following day Daphne assured me that she had watched from the kitchen window as Becky posted the letter.

I made an appointment to see the colonel and briefed him on Becky's state before the whole world knew. He said somewhat mysteriously, "Leave Trentham to me."

Six weeks later Becky told me that she had still heard nothing from the man, and I sensed for the first time that her feelings for him were beginning to wane.

I had even asked her to marry me, but she didn't take my proposal at all seriously although I had never been more sincere about anything in my life. I lay awake at night wondering what else I could possibly do to make her feel I was worthy of her.

As the weeks passed Daphne and I began to take more and more care of Becky, as daily she increasingly resembled a beached whale. There was still no word from India but long before the child was due she had stopped referring to Trentham by name.

When I first saw Daniel I wanted to be his father and was overjoyed when Becky said she hoped I still loved her.

Hoped I still loved her!

We were married a week later with the colonel, Bob Makins and Daphne agreeing to be godparents.

The following summer Daphne and Percy were themselves married, not at Chelsea Register Office but at St. Margaret's, Westminster. I watched out for Mrs. Trentham just to see what she looked like, but then I remembered that Percy had said she hadn't been invited.

Daniel grew like a weed, and I was touched that one of the first words he repeated again and again was "Dad." Despite this I could only wonder how long it would be before we had to sit down and tell the boy the truth. "Bastard" is such a vicious slur for an innocent child to have to live with.

"We don't have to worry about that for some time yet," Becky kept insisting, but it didn't stop me being fearful of the eventual outcome if we remained silent on the subject for much longer, after all some people in the Terrace already knew the truth.

Sal wrote from Toronto to congratulate me, as well as to inform me that she herself had stopped having babies. Twin girls—Maureen and Babs—and two boys—David and Rex—seemed to her quite enough, even for a good Catholic. Her husband, she wrote, had been promoted to area sales rep for E.P. Taylor so altogether they seemed to be doing rather well. She never made mention of England in her letters or of any desire to return to the country of her birth. As her only real memories of home must have been sleeping three to a bed, a drunken father and never having enough food for a second helping I couldn't really blame her.

She went on to chastise me for allowing Grace to be a far better letter-writer than I was. I couldn't claim the excuse of work, she added, as being a ward sister in a London teaching hospital left my sister with even less time than I had. After Becky had read the letter and nodded her agreement I made more of an effort over the next few months.

Kitty made periodic visits to Chelsea Terrace, but only with the purpose of talking me out of more money, her demands rising on each occasion. However, she always made certain that Becky was not around whenever she turned up. The sums she extracted, although exorbitant, were always just possible.

I begged Kitty to find a job, even offered her one myself, but she simply explained that she and work didn't seem to get along together. Our conversations rarely lasted for more than a few minutes because as soon as I'd handed over the cash she immediately sloped off. I realized that with every shop I opened it would become harder and harder to convince Kitty that she should settle down, and once Becky and I had moved into our new home on Gilston Road her visits only became more frequent.

Despite Syd Wrexall's efforts to thwart my ambition of trying to buy up every shop that became available in the terrace—I was able to get hold of seven before I came across any real opposition—I now had my eyes on Numbers 25 to 99, a block of flats which I intended to purchase without Wrexall ever finding out what I was up to; not to mention my desire to get my hands on Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, which, given its position on the street, remained crucial as part of my long-term plan to own the entire block.

During 1922 everything seemed to be falling neatly into place and I began to look forward to Daphne's return from her honeymoon so I could tell her exactly what I had been up to in her absence.

The week after Daphne arrived back in England she invited us both to dinner at her new home in Eaton Square. I couldn't wait to hear all her news, knowing that she would be impressed to learn that we now owned nine shops, a new home in Gilston Road and at any moment would be adding a block of flats to the Trumper portfolio. However, I knew the question she would ask me as soon as I walked in their front door, so I had my reply ready—"It will take me about another ten years before I own the entire block—as long as you can guarantee no floods, pestilence or the outbreak of war."

Just before Becky and I set out for our reunion dinner an envelope was dropped through the letter box of 11 Gilston Road.

Even as it lay on the mat I could recognize the bold hand. I ripped it open and began to read the colonel's words. When I had finished the letter I suddenly felt sick and could only wonder why he should want to resign.

Charlie stood alone in the hall and decided not to mention the colonel's letter to Becky until after they had returned from their dinner with Daphne. Becky had been looking forward to the occasion for such a long time that he feared the colonel's unexplained resignation could only put a blight on the rest of the evening.

"You all right, darling?" asked Becky when she reached the bottom of the stairs. "You look a bit pale."

"I'm just fine," said Charlie, nervously tucking the letter into an inside pocket. "Come on or we'll be late, and that would never do." Charlie looked at his wife and noticed that she was wearing the pink dress with a massive bow on the front. He remembered helping her choose it. "You look ravishing," he told her. "That gown will make Daphne green with envy."

"You don't look so bad yourself."

"When I put on one of these penguin suits I always feel like the head waiter of the Ritz," admitted Charlie as Becky straightened his white tie.

"How could you possibly know when you've never been to the Ritz?" she said, laughing.

"At least the outfit came from my own shop this time," Charlie replied as he opened the front door for his wife.

"Ah, but have you paid the bill yet?"