It might have continued like this indefinitely if I hadn't picked up a copy of the Kensington News, a paper Daphne took so she could find out what was showing at the local picture house.
As I flicked through the pages one Friday evening an advertisement caught my eye. I studied the wording closely to be sure the shop was exactly where I thought it was, folded up the paper and left the flat to check for myself. I strolled down Chelsea Terrace to find the sign in the window of the local greengrocer's. I must have walked past it for days without noticing: "For sale. Apply John D. Wood, 6 Mount Street, London W1."
I remembered that Charlie had always wanted to know how prices in Chelsea compared with those in Whitechapel so I decided to find out for him.
The following morning, having asked some leading questions of our local news agent—Mr. Bales always seemed to know exactly what was going on in the Terrace and was only too happy to share his knowledge with anyone who wanted to pass the time of day—I presented myself at the offices of John D. Wood in Mount Street. For some time I was left standing at the counter but eventually one of four assistants came over, introduced himself to me as Mr. Palmer and asked how he could help.
After a closer inspection of the young man, I doubted that he could help anyone. He must have been about seventeen and was so pale and thin he looked as if a gust of wind might blow him away.
"I'd like to know some more details concerning Number 147 Chelsea Terrace," I said.
He managed to look both surprised and baffled at the same time.
"Number 147 Chelsea Terrace?"
"Number 147 Chelsea Terrace."
"Would madam please excuse me?" he said and walked over to a filing cabinet, shrugging exaggeratedly as he passed one of his colleagues. I could see him thumb through several papers before returning to the counter with a single sheet; he made no attempt to invite me in or even to offer me a chair.
He placed the single sheet on the countertop and studied it closely.
"A greengrocer's shop," he said.
"Yes."
"The shop frontage," the young man went on to explain in a tired voice, "is twenty-two feet. The shop itself is a little under one thousand square feet, which includes a small flat on the first floor overlooking the park."
"What park?" I asked, not certain we were discussing the same property.
"Princess Gardens, madam," he said.
"That's a patch of grass a few feet by a few feet," I informed him, suddenly aware that Mr. Palmer had never visited Chelsea Terrace in his life.
"The premises are freehold," he continued, not responding to my comment, but at least no longer leaning on the counter. "And the owner would allow vacant possession within thirty days of contracts being signed."
"What price is the owner asking for the property?" I asked. I was becoming more and more annoyed by being so obviously patronized.
"Our client, a Mrs. Chapman—" continued the assistant.
"Wife of Able Seaman Chapman, late of HMS Boxer," I informed him. "Killed in action on 8 February 1918, leaving a daughter aged seven and a son aged five."
Mr. Palmer had the grace to turn white.
"I also know that Mrs. Chapman has arthritis which makes it almost impossible for her to climb those stairs to the little flat," I added for good measure.
He now looked considerably perplexed. "Yes," he said. "Well, yes."
"So how much is Mrs. Chapman hoping the property will fetch?" I insisted. By now Mr. Palmer's three colleagues had stopped what they were doing in order to follow our conversation.
"One hundred and fifty guineas is being asked for the freehold," stated the assistant, his eyes fixed on the bottom line of the schedule.
"One hundred and fifty guineas," I repeated in mock disbelief, without a clue as to what the property was really worth. "She must be living in cloud cuckoo land. Has she forgotten there's a war on? Offer her one hundred, Mr. Palmer, and don't bother me again if she expects a penny more."
"Guineas?" he said hopefully.
"Pounds," I replied as I wrote out my name and address on the back of the particulars and left it on the counter. Mr. Palmer seemed incapable of speech, and his mouth remained wide open as I turned and walked out of the office.
I made my way back to Chelsea only too aware that I had no intention of buying a shop in the Terrace. In any case, I hadn't got one hundred pounds, or anything like it. I had just over forty pounds in the bank and not much prospect of raising another bean, but the silly man's attitude had made me so angry. Still, I decided, there wasn't much fear of Mrs. Chapman accepting so insulting an offer.
Mrs. Chapman accepted my offer the following morning. Blissfully unaware that I had no obligation to sign any agreement, I put down a ten-pound deposit the same afternoon. Mr. Palmer explained that the money was not returnable, should I fail to complete the contract within thirty days.
"That won't be a problem," I told him with bravado, though I hadn't a clue how I would get hold of the balance of the cash.
For the following twenty-seven days I approached everyone I knew, from the Bow Building Society to distant aunts, even fellow students, but none of them showed the slightest interest in backing a young woman undergraduate to the tune of sixty pounds in order that she could buy a fruit and vegetable shop.
"But it's a wonderful investment," I tried to explain to anyone who would listen. "What's more, Charlie Trumper comes with the deal, the finest fruit and vegetable man the East End has ever seen." I rarely got beyond this point in my sales patter before expressions of incredulity replaced polite disinterest.
After the first week I came to the reluctant conclusion that Charlie Trumper wasn't going to be pleased that I had sacrificed ten pounds of our money—six of his and four of mine—just to appease my female vanity. I decided I would carry the six-pound loss myself rather than admit to him I'd made such a fool of myself.
"But why didn't you talk it over with your mother or your aunt before you went ahead with something quite so drastic?" inquired Daphne on the twenty-sixth day. "After all, they both seemed so sensible to me."
"And be killed for my trouble? No, thank you," I told her sharply. "In any case, I'm not that sure they have sixty pounds between them. Even if they did, I don't think they'd be willing to invest a penny in Charlie Trumper."
At the end of the month I crept back round to John D. Wood to explain that the ninety pounds would not be forthcoming and they should feel free to place the property back on the market. I dreaded the "I knew as much" smirk that would appear on Mr. Palmer's face once he learned my news.
"But your representative completed the transaction yesterday," Mr. Palmer assured me, looking as if he would never understand what made me tick.
"My representative?" I said.
The assistant checked the file. "Yes, a Miss Daphne Harcourt-Browne of—"
"But why?" I asked.
"I hardly feel that I'm the person to answer that particular question," offered Mr. Palmer, "as I've never set eyes on the lady before yesterday."
"Quite simple really," Daphne replied when I put the same question to her that evening. "If Charlie Trumper is half as good as you claim then I'll have made a very sound investment."
"Investment?"
"Yes. You see, I require that my capital plus four percent interest should be returned within three years."
"Four percent?"
"Correct. After all, that's the amount I am receiving on my war loan stock. On the other hand, should you fail to return my capital plus interest in full, I will require ten percent of the profits from the fourth year onwards."