As the Crow Flies (26 page)

Becky
also felt embarrassed that most people assumed Charlie was the father, and it
wasn’t helped by the fact that whenever he was asked, he refused to deny it.

Meanwhile,
Charlie had his eye on a couple of shops whose owners he felt might soon be
willing to sell, but Daphne wouldn’t hear of any further business transactions
until after the child had been born.

“I
don’t want Becky involved in any of your dubious business enterprises before
she’s had the child and completed her degree. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,
ma’am,” said Charlie, clicking his heels. He didn’t mention that only the week
before Becky had herself closed the deal with Mr. Sneddles so that the bookshop
would be theirs once the old man died. There was only one clause in the
agreement that Charlie remained concerned about, because he wasn’t quite sure
how he would get rid of that number of books.

“Miss
Becky has just phoned,” whispered Bob into the boss’s ear one afternoon when
Charlie was serving in the shop. “Says could you go round immediately. Thinks
the baby’s about to arrive.”

“But
it’s not due for another two weeks,” said Charlie as he pulled off his apron.

“I’m
sure I don’t know about that, Mr. Trumper, but all she said was to hurry.”

“Has
she sent for the midwife?” Charlie asked deserting a half-laden customer before
grabbing his coat.

“I’ve
no idea, sir.”

“Right,
take charge of the shop, because I may not be back again today.” Charlie left
the smiling queue of customers and ran down the road to 97, flew up the stairs,
pushed open the door and marched straight on into Becky’s bedroom.

He
sat down beside her on the bed and held her hand for some time before either of
them spoke.

“Have
you sent for the midwife?” he eventually asked.

“She
certainly has,” said a voice from behind them, as a vast woman entered the
room. She wore an old brown raincoat that was too small for her and carried a
black leather bag. From the heaving of her breasts she had obviously had a
struggle climbing the stairs. “I’m Mrs. Westlake, attached to St. Stephen’s
Hospital,” she declared. “I do hope I’ve got here in time.” Becky nodded as the
midwife turned her attention to Charlie. “Now you go away and boil me some
water, and quickly.” Her voice sounded as if she wasn’t in the habit of being
questioned. Without another word Charlie jumped off the end of the bed and left
the room.

Mrs.
Westlake placed her large Gladstone bag on the floor and started by taking
Becky’s pulse.

“How
long between the spasms?” she asked matter-of-factly.

“Down
to twenty minutes,” Becky replied.

“Excellent.
Then we don’t have much longer to wait.”

Charlie
appeared at the door canying a bowl of hot water. “Anything else I can do?”

“Yes,
there certainly is. I need every clean towel you can lay your hands on, and I wouldn’t
mind a cup of tea.”

Charlie
ran back out of the room.

“Husbands
are always a nuisance on these occasions,” Mrs. Westlake declared. “One must
simply keep them on the move.”

Becky
was about to explain to her about Charlie when another contraction gripped her.

“Breathe
deeply and slowly, my dear,” encouraged Mrs. Westlake in a gentler voice, as
Charlie came back with three towels and a kettle of hot water.

Without
turning to see who it was, Mrs. Westlake continued. “Leave the towels on the
sideboard, pour the water in the largest bowl you’ve got, then put the kettle
back on so that I’ve always got more hot water whenever I call for it.”

Charlie
disappeared again without a word.

“I
wish I could get him to do that,” gasped Becky admiringly.

“Oh,
don’t worry, my dear. I can’t do a thing with my own husband and we’ve got
seven children.”

A
couple of minutes later Charlie pushed open the door with a foot and carried
another bowl of steaming water over to the bedside.

“On
the side table,” said Mrs. Westlake, pointing. “And try not to forget my tea.
After that I shall still need more towels,” she added.

Becky
let out a loud groan.

“Hold
my hand and keep breathing deeply,” said the midwife.

Charlie
soon reappeared with another kettle of water, and was immediately instructed to
empty the bowl before refilling it with the new supply. After he had completed
the task, Mrs. Westlake said, “You can wait outside until I call for you.”

Charlie
left the room, gently pulling the door closed behind him.

He
seemed to be making countless cups of tea, and carrying endless kettles of
water, backwards and forwards, always arriving with the wrong one at the wrong
time until finally he was shut out of the bedroom and left to pace up and down
the kitchen fearing the worst. Then he heard the plaintive little cry.

Becky
watched from her bed as the midwife held up her child by one leg and nave it a
gentle smack on the bottom. “I always enjoy that,” said Mrs. Westlake. “Feels
good to know you’ve brought something new into the world.” She wrapped up the
child in a tea towel and handed the bundle back to its mother.

“It’s
?”

“A
boy, I’m afraid,” said the midwife. “So the world is unlikely to be advanced by
one jot or little. You’ll have to produce a daughter next time,” she said,
smiling broadly. “If he’s still up to it, of course.” She pointed a thumb
towards the closed door.

“But
he’s “ Becky tried again.

“Useless,
I know. Like all men.” Mrs. Westlake opened the bedroom door in search of
Charlie. “It’s all over, Mr. Salmon. You can stop skulking around and come and
have a look at your son.”

Charlie
came in so quickly that he nearly knocked the midwife over. He stood at the end
of the bed and stared down at the tiny figure in Becky’s arms.

“He’s
an ugly little fellow, isn’t he?” said Charlie.

“Well,
we know who to blame for that,” said the midwife. “Let’s just hope this one
doesn’t end up with a broken nose. In any case, as I’ve already explained to
your wife, what you need next is a daughter. By the way, what are you going to
call this one?”

“Daniel
George,” said Becky without hesitation. “After my father,” she explained,
looking up at Charlie.

“And
mine,” said Charlie, as he walked to the head of the bed and placed an arm
round Becky.

“Well,
I have to go now, Mrs. Salmon. But I shall be back first thing in the morning.”

“No,
it’s Mrs. Trumper actually,” said Becky quietly. “Salmon was my maiden name.”

“Oh,”
said the midwife, looking flustered for the first time. “They seem to have got
the names muddled up on my call sheet. Oh, well, see you tomorrow, Mrs.
Trumper,” she said as she closed the door.

“Mrs.
Trumper?” said Charlie.

“It’s
taken me an awful long time to come to my senses, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Trumper?”

W
hen I opened
the letter, I confess I didn’t immediately recall who Becky Salmon was. But
then I remembered that there had been an extremely bright, rather plump pupil
by that name at St. Paul’s, who always seemed to have an endless supply of
cream cakes. If I remember, the only thing I gave her in return was an art book
that had been a Christmas present from an aunt in Cumberland.

In
fact, by the time I had reached the upper sixth, the precocious little brighter
was already in the lower sixth, despite there being a good two years’
difference in our ages.

Having
read her letter a second time, I couldn’t imagine why the girl should want to
see me, and concluded that the only way I was likely to find out was to invite
her round to tea at my little place in Chelsea.

When
I first saw Becky again I hardly recognized her. Not only had she lost a couple
of stone, but she would have made an ideal model for one of those Pepsodent advertisements
that one saw displayed on the front of every tram you know, a fresh-faced girl
showing off a gleaming set of perfect teeth. I had to admit I was quite
envious.

Becky
explained to me that all she needed was a room in London while she was up at
the university. I was only too happy to oblige. After all, the mater had made
it clear on several occasions how much she disapproved of my being in the flat
on my own, and that she couldn’t for the life of her fathom what was wrong with
26 Lowndes Square, our family’s London residence. I couldn’t wait to tell Ma,
and Pa for that maker, the news that I had, as they so often requested, found
myself an appropriate companion.

“But
who is this girl?” inquired my mother, when I went down to Harcourt Hall for
the weekend. “Anyone we know?”

“Don’t
think so, Ma,” I replied. “An old school chum from St. Paul’s. Rather the
academic type.”

“Bluestockin’,
you mean?” my father chipped in.

“Yes,
you’ve got the idea, Pa. She’s attending someplace called Bedford College to
read the history of the Renaissance, or something like that.”

“Didn’t
know girls could get degrees,” my father said. “Must all be part of that damned
little Welshman’s ideas for a new Britain.”

“You
must stop describing Lloyd George in that way,” my mother reprimanded him. “He
is, after all, our prime minister.”

“He
may be yours, my dear, but he’s certainly not mine. I blame it all on those
suffragettes,” my father added, producing one of his habitual non sequiturs.

“My
dear, you blame most things on the suffragettes,” my mother reminded him, “even
last year’s harvest. However,” she continued, “coming back to this girl, she
sounds to me as if she could have a very beneficial influence on you, Daphne.
Where did you say her parents come from?”

“I
didn’t,” I replied. “But I think her father was a businessman out East
somewhere, and I’m going to take tea with her mother sometime next week.”

“Singapore
possibly?” said Pa. “There’s a lot of business gain’ on out there, rubber and
all that sort of thing.”

“No,
I don’t think he was in rubber, pa.”

“Well,
whatever, do bring the girl round for tea one afternoon,” Ma insisted. “Or even
down here for the weekend. Does she hunt?”

“No,
I don’t think so, Ma, but I’ll certainly invite her to tea in the near future,
so that you can both inspect her.”

I
must confess that I was equally amused by the idea of being asked along to tea
with Becky’s mother, so that she could be sure that I was the right sort of
girl for her daughter. After all, I was fairly confident that I wasn’t. I had
never been east of the Aldwych before, as far as I could recollect, so I found
the idea of going to Essex even more exciting than traveling abroad.

Luckily
the journey to Romford was without incident, mainly because Hoskins, my father’s
chauffeur, knew the road well. It turned out he had originated from somewhere
called Dagenham, which he informed me was even deeper inside the Essex jungle.

I
had no notion until that day that such people existed. They were neither
servants nor from the professional classes nor members of the gentry, and I can’t
pretend that I exactly fell in love with Romford. However, Mrs. Salmon and her
sister Miss Roach couldn’t have been more hospitable. Becky’s mother turned out
to be a practical, sensible, God-fearing woman who could also produce an
excellent spread for tea, so it was not an altogether wasted journey.

Becky
moved into my flat the following week, and I was horrified when I discovered
how hard the girl worked. She seemed to spend all day at that Bedford place,
returning home only to nibble a sandwich, sip a glass of milk and then continue
her studies until she fell asleep, long after I had gone to bed. I could never
quite work out what it was all in aid of.

It
was after her foolish visit to John D. Wood that I first learned about Charlie
Trumper and his ambitions. All that fuss, simply because she had sold off his
barrow without consulting him. I felt it nothing less than my duty to point out
that two of my ancestors had been beheaded for trying to steal counties, and
one sent to the Tower of London for high treason; well at least, I reflected, I
had a kinsman who had spent his final days in the vicinity of the East End.

As
always, Becky knew she was right. “But it’s only a hundred pounds,” she kept
repeating.

“Which
you don’t possess.”

“I’ve
got forty and I feel confident it’s such a good investment that I ought to be
able to raise the other sixty without much trouble. After all, Charlie could
sell blocks of ice to the Eskimos.”

“And
how are you planning to run the shop in his absence?” I asked. “Between
lectures perhaps?”

“Oh,
don’t be so frivolous, Daphne. Charlie will manage the shop just as soon as he
gets back from the war. After all, it can’t be long now.”

“The
war has been over for some weeks,” I reminded her. “And there doesn’t seem to
be much sign of your Charlie.”