As the Crow Flies (16 page)

On
the walk back to Daphne’s flat Becky couldn’t help feeling a little gully about
deserting Charlie on his first night home and began to think perhaps it had
been selfish of her to accept an invitation to go to a concert with Guy that
night. But the battalion didn’t give him dial many evenings off during the
week, and if she didn’t see him when he was free it often turned out to be
several days before they could spend another evening together.

As
she opened the front door of 97, Becky could hear Daphne splashing around in
the bath.

“Has
he changed?” her friend shouted on hearing the door close.

“Who?”
asked Becky, walking through to the bedroom.

“Charlie,
of course,” said Daphne, pushing open the bathroom door. She stood leaning
against the tiled wall with a towel wrapped around her body. She was almost enveloped
in a cloud of steam.

Becky
considered the question for a moment. “He’s changed, yes; a lot, in fact,
except for his clothes and voice.

“What
do you mean?”

“Well,
the voice is the same I’d recognize it anywhere. The clothes are the same I’d recognize
them anywhere. But he’s not the same.”

“Am
I meant to understand all that?” asked Daphne, as she began to rub her hair
vigorously.

“Well,
as he pointed out to me, Bob Makins is only a year younger than he is, but
Charlie seems about ten years older than either of us. It must be something
that happens to men once they’ve served on the Western Front.”

“You
shouldn’t be surprised by that, but what I want to know is: did the shop come
as a surprise to him?”

“Yes,
I think I can honestly say it did.” Becky slipped out of her dress. “Don’t
suppose you’ve got a pair of stockings I could borrow, have you?”

“Third
drawer down,” said Daphne. “But in exchange I’d like to borrow your legs.”

Becky
laughed.

“What’s
he like to look at?” Daphne continued as she threw her wet towel on the
bathroom floor.

Becky
considered the question. “An inch, perhaps two, under six feet, every bit as
large as his father, only in his case it’s muscle, not fat. He’s not exactly
Douglas Fairbanks, but some might consider him handsome.”

“He’s
beginning to sound my type,” said Daphne as she rummaged around among her
clothes to find something suitable.

“Hardly,
my dear,” said Becky. “I can’t see Brigadier Harcourt-Browne welcoming Charlie
Trumper to morning sherry before the Cottenham Hunt.”

“You’re
such a snob, Rebecca Salmon,” said Daphne, laughing. “We may share rooms, but
don’t forget you and Charlie originate from the same stable. Come to think of
it, you only met Guy because of me.”

“Too
true,” Becky said, “but surely I get a little credit for St. Paul’s and London
University?”

“Not
where I come from, you don’t,” said Daphne, as she checked her nails. “Can’t
stop and chatter with the working class now, darling,” she continued. “Must be
off. Henry Bromsgrove is taking me to a flapper dance in Chelsea. And wet as
our Henry is, I do enjoy an invitation to stalk at his country home in Scotland
every august. Tootle pip!”

As
Becky drew her bath, she thought about Daphne’s words, delivered with humor and
affection but still highlighting the problems she faced when trying to cross
the established social barriers for more than a ew momenta.

Daphne
had indeed introduced her to Guy, only a few weeks before, when Daphne had
persuaded her to make up a party to see La Boheme at Covent Garden. Becky could
still recall that first meeting clearly. She had tried so hard not to like him
as they shared a drink at the Crush Bar, especially after Daphne’s warning
about his reputation. She had tried not to stare too obviously at the slim
young man who stood before her. His thick blond hair, deep blue eyes and
effortless charm had probably captivated the hearts of a host of women that
evening, but as Becky assumed that every girl received exactly the same
treatment, she avoided allowing herself to be flattered by him. She regretted
her offhand attitude the moment he had resumed to his box, and found that
during the second act she spent a considerable amount of her time just staring
across at him, then turning her attention quickly back to the stage whenever
their eyes met.

The
following evening Daphne asked her what she had thought of the young of ricer
she had met at the opera.

“Remind
me of his name,” said Becky.

“Oh,
I see,” said Daphne. “Affected you that badly, did he?”

“Yes,”
she admitted. “But so what? Can you see a young man with a background like his
taking any interest in a girl from Whitechapel?”

“Yes,
I can actually, although I suspect he’s only after one thing.”

“Then
you’d better warn him I’m not that sort of girl,” said Becky.

“I
don’t think that’s ever put him off in the past,” replied Daphne. “However, to
start with he’s asking if you would care to accompany him to the theater along
with some friends from his regiment. How does that strike you?”

“I’d
love to.”

“I
thought you might,” said Daphne. “So I told him ‘yes’ without bothering to
consult you.”

Becky
laughed but had to wait another five days before she actually saw the young
officer again. After he had come to collect her at the flat they joined a party
of junior officers and debutantes at the Haymarket Theatre to see Pygmalion’ by
the fashionable playwright George Bernard Shawl Becky enjoyed the new play
despite a girl called Amanda giggling all the way through the first act and
then refusing to hold a conversation with her during the interval.

Over
dinner at the Cafe Royal, she sat next to Guy and told him everything about
herself from her birth in Whitechapel through to winning a place at Bedford
College the previous year.

After
Becky had bade her farewells to the rest of the party Guy drove her back to
Chelsea and having said, “Good night, Miss Salmon,” shook her by the hand.

Becky
assumed that she would not be seeing the young officer again.

But
Guy dropped her a note the next day, inviting her to a reception at the mess.
This was followed a week later by a dinner, then a ball, and after that regular
outings took place culminating in an invitation to spend the weekend with his
parents in Berkshire.

Daphne
did her best to brief Becky fully on the family. The major, Guy’s father, was a
sweetie, she assured her, farmed seven hundred acres of dairy land in
Berkshire, and was also master of the Buckhurst Hunt.

It
took Daphne several attempts to explain what “riding to hounds” actually meant,
though she had to admit that even Eliza Doolitde would have been hard pushed to
understand fully why they bothered with the exercise in the first place.

“Guy’s
mother, however, is not graced with the same generous instincts as the major,”
Daphne warned. “She is a snob of the first order.” Becky’s heart sank. “Second
daughter of a baronet, who was created by Lloyd George for making things they
stick on the end of tanks. Probably gave large donations to the Liberal Party at
the same time, I’ll be bound. Second generation, of course. They’re always the
worst.” Daphne checked the seams on her stockings. “My family have been around
for seventeen generations, don’t you know, so we feel we haven’t an awful lot
to prove. We’re quite aware that we don’t possess a modicum of brain between
us, but by God we’re rich, and by Harry we’re ancient. However, I fear the same
cannot be said for Captain Guy Trentham.”

B
ecky woke the
next morning before her alarm went off, and was up, dressed and had left the
flat long before Daphne had even stirred. She couldn’t wait to find out how
Charlie was coping on his first day. As she walked towards 147 she noticed that
the shop was already open, and a lone customer was receiving Charlie’s
undivided attention.

“Good
mornin’, partner,” shouted Charlie from behind the counter as Becky stepped
into the shop.

“Good
morning,” Becky replied. “I see you’re determined to spend your first day just
sitting back and watching how it all works.”

Charlie,
she was to discover, had begun serving customers before Gladys and Patsy had
arrived, while poor Bob Makins looked as if he had already completed a full day’s
work.

“‘Aven’t
the time to chatter to the idle classes at the moment,” said Charlie, his
cockney accent seeming broader than ever. “Any ‘ope of catching up with you
later this evening?”

“Of
course,” said Becky.

She
checked her watch, waved goodbye and departed for her first lecture of the
morning. She found it hard to concentrate on the history of the Renaissance
era, and even slides of Raphaelts work reflected from a magic lantern onto a
white sheet, couldn’t fully arouse her interest. Her mind kept switching from
the anxiety of eventually having to spend a weekend with Guy’s parents to the
problems of Charlie making enough of a profit to clear their debt with Daphne.
Becky admitted to herself that she felt more confident of the latter. She was
relieved to see the black hand of the clock pass four-thirty. Once again she ran
to catch the tram on the corner of Portland Place and continued to run after
the trudging vehicle had deposited her in Chelsea Terrace.

A
little queue had formed at Trumper’s and Becky could hear Charlie’s familiar
old catchphrases even before she reached the front door.

“‘Alf
a pound of your King Edward’s’ a juicy grapefruit from South Africa’ and why
don’t I throw in a nice Cox’s orange pippin’ all for a bob’ my lov?” Grand
dames’ ladies-in-waiting and nannies all who would have turnd their noses up
had anyone else called them “luv”, seemed to melt when Charlie uttered the
word. It was only after the last customer had left that Becky was able to take
in properly the changes Charlie had already made to the shop.

“Up
all night, wasn’t I?” he told her. “Removin’ ‘alf-empy boxes and unsaleable
items. Ended up with all the colorful vegetables’ your tomatoes your greens,
your peas’ all soft’ placed at the back; while all your tardy unattractive
variety you put up front. Potatoes’ Sweden and tumips. It’s a golden rule.”

“Granpa
Charlie,” she began with a smile, but stopped herself just in time.

Becky
began to study the rearranged counters and had to agree that it was far more
practical the way Charlie had insisted they should be laid out. And she certainly
couldn’t argue with the smiles on the faces of the customers.

Within
a month, a queue stretching out onto the pavement became part of Charlie’s
daily routine and within two he was already talking to Becky of expanding.

“Where
to?” she asked. “Your bedroom?”

“No
room for vegetables up there,” he replied with a grin. “Not since we’ve ‘ad
longer queues at Trumper’s than what they ‘ave outside 13g~nalion. What’s more,
we re gain’ to run forever.”

After
she had checked and rechecked the takings for the quarter, Becky couldn’t
believe how much they had turned over; she decided perhaps the time had come
for a little celebration.

“Why
don’t we all have dinner at that Italian restaurant?” suggested Daphne, after
she had received a far larger check for the past three months than she had
anticipated.

Becky
thought it a wonderful idea, but was surprised to find how reluctant Guy was to
fall in with her plans, and also how much trouble Daphne took getting herself
ready for the occasion.

“We’re
not expecting to spend all the profits in one evening,” Becky assured her.

“More’s
the pity,” said Daphne. “Because it’s beginning to look as if it might be the
one chance I’m given to enforce the penalty clause. Not that I’m complaining.
After all, Charlie will be quite a change from the usual chinless vicars’ sons
and stableboys with no legs that I have to endure most weekends.”

“Be
careful he doesn’t end up eating you for dessert.”

Becky
had warned Charlie that the table had been booked for eight o’clock and made
him promise he would wear his best suit. “My only suit,” he reminded her.

Guy
collected the two girls from Number 97 on the dot of eight, but seemed
unusually morose as he accompanied them to the restaurant, arriving a few
minutes after the appointed hour. They found Charlie sitting alone in the
corner fidgeting and looking as if it might be the first time he had ever been
to a restaurant.

Becky
introduced first Daphne to Charlie and then Charlie to Guy. The two men just
stood and stared at each other like prizefighters.

“Of
course, you were both in the same regiment,” said Daphne. “But I don’t suppose
you ever came across each other,” she added, staring at Charlie. Neither man
commented on her observation.

If
the evening started badly, it was only to become worse, as the four of them
were quite unable to settle on any subject with which they had something in
common. Charlie, far from being witty and sharp as he was with the customers in
the shop, became surly and uncommunicative. If Becky could have reached his
ankle she would have kicked him, and not simply because he kept putting a knife
covered with peas in his mouth.