As the Crow Flies

Chapter 6

"From 1480 to 1532," he said. I checked through my notes to make sure I had the correct dates, aware I had been finding it hard to concentrate. It was the last lecture of the day, and all I could think about was getting back to Chelsea Terrace.

The artist under discussion that afternoon was Bernardino Luini. I had already decided that my degree thesis would be on the life of this underrated painter from Milan. Milan . . . just another reason to be thankful that the war was finally over. Now I could plan excursions to Rome, Florence, Venice and yes, Milan, and study Luini's work at first hand. Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Bellini, Caravaggio, Bernini—half the world's art treasures in one country, and I hadn't been able to travel beyond the walls of the Victoria and Albert.

At four-thirty a bell rang to mark the end of lectures for the day. I closed my books and watched Professor Tilsey as he pattered towards the door. I felt a little sorry for the old fellow. He had only been dragged out of retirement because so many young dons had left to fight on the Western Front. The death of Matthew Makepeace, the man who should have been lecturing that afternoon—"one of the most promising scholars of his generation," the old Professor used to tell us—was "an inestimable loss to the department and the university as a whole." I had to agree with him: Makepeace was one of the few men in England acknowledged as an authority on Luini. I had only attended three of his lectures before he had signed up to go to France . . . . The irony of such a man being riddled with German bullets while stretched over a barbed-wire fence somewhere in the middle of France was not lost on me.

I was in my first year at Bedford. It seemed there was never enough time to catch up, and I badly needed Charlie to return and take the shop off my hands. I had written to him in Edinburgh when he was in Belgium, to Belgium when he was in France and to France the very moment he arrived back in Edinburgh. The King's mail never seemed to catch up with him, and now I didn't want Charlie to find out what I had been up to until I had the chance to witness his reaction for myself.

Jacob Cohen had promised to send Charlie over to Chelsea the moment he reappeared in the Whitechapel Road. It couldn't be too soon for me.

I picked up my books and stuffed them away in my old school satchel, the one my father—Tata—had given me when I won my open scholarship to St. Paul's. The "RS" he had had so proudly stamped on the front was fading now, and the leather strap had almost worn through, so lately I had been carrying the satchel under my arm: Tata would never have considered buying me a new one while the old one still had a day's life left in it.

How strict Tata had always been with me; even taken the strap to me on a couple of occasions, once for pinching "fress," or buns as Mother called them, behind his back—he didn't mind how much I took from the shop as long as I asked—and once for saying "damn" when I cut my finger peeling an apple. Although I wasn't brought up in the Jewish faith—my mother wouldn't hear of it—he still passed on to me all those standards that were part of his own upbringing and would never tolerate what he from time to time described as my "unacceptable behavior."

It was to be many years later that I learned of the strictures Tata had accepted once he had proposed marriage to my mother, a Roman Catholic. He adored her and never once complained in my presence of the fact that he always had to attend shul on his own. "Mixed marriage" seems such an outdated expression nowadays but at the turn of the century it must have been quite a sacrifice for both of them to make.

I loved St. Paul's from the first day I walked through the gates, I suppose partly because no one told me off for working too hard. The only thing I didn't like was being called "Porky." It was a girl from the class above me, Daphne Harcourt-Browne, who later explained its double connotation. Daphne was a curly-headed blonde known as "Snooty" and although we were not natural friends, our predilection for cream buns brought us together—especially when she discovered that I had a never-ending source of supply. Daphne would happily have paid for them but I wouldn't consider it as I wanted my classmates to think we were pals. On one occasion she even invited me to her home in Chelsea, but I didn't accept as I knew if I did I would only have to ask her back to my place in Whitechapel.

It was Daphne who gave me my first art book, The Treasures of Italy, in exchange for several cream wafers, and from that day on I knew I had stumbled across a subject I wanted to study for the rest of my life. I never asked Daphne but it always puzzled me why one of the pages at the front of the book had been torn out.

Daphne came from one of the best families in London, certainly from what I understood to be the upper classes, so once I left St. Paul's I assumed we would never come across each other again. After all, Lowndes Square was hardly a natural habitat for me. Although to be fair neither was the East End while it remained full of such people as the Trumpers and the Shorrocks.

And when it came to those Trumpers I could only agree with my father's judgment. Mary Trumper, by all accounts, must have been a saint. George Trumper was a man whose behavior was unacceptable, not in the same class as his father, whom Tata used to describe as a "mensch." Young Charlie—who was always up to no good as far as I could see—nevertheless had what Tata called "a future." The magic must have skipped a generation, he suggested.

"The boy's not bad for a goy," he would tell me. "He'll run his own shop one day, maybe even more than one, believe me." I didn't give this observation a lot of thought until my father's death left me with no one else to whom I could turn.

Tata had complained often enough that he couldn't leave his two assistants at the shop for more than an hour before something was certain to go wrong. "No saychel," he would complain of those unwilling to take responsibility. "Can't think what would happen to the shop if I take one day off."

As Rabbi Glikstein read out the last rites at his levoyah, those words rang in my ears. My mother was still unconscious in hospital and they couldn't tell me when or if she might recover. Meanwhile I was to be foisted on my reluctant Aunt Harriet, whom I had only previously met at family gatherings. It turned out that she lived in someplace called Romford and as she was due to take me back there the day after the funeral I had only been left with a few hours to make a decision. I tried to work out what my father would have done in the same circumstances and came to the conclusion that he would have taken what he so often called "a bold step."

By the time I got up the next morning, I had determined to sell the baker's shop to the highest bidder unless Charlie Trumper was willing to take on the responsibility himself. Looking back, I certainly had my doubts about whether Charlie was capable of doing the job but in the end they were outweighed by Tata's high opinion of him.

During my lessons that morning I prepared a plan of action. As soon as school was over I took the train from Hammersmith to Whitechapel, then continued the rest of the journey on foot to Charlie's home.

Once at Number 112 I banged on the door with the palm of my hand and waited—I remember being surprised that the Trumpers didn't have a knocker. My call was eventually answered by one of those awful sisters, but I wasn't quite sure which one it was. I told her I needed to speak to Charlie, and wasn't surprised to be left standing on the doorstep while she disappeared back into the house. She returned a few minutes later and somewhat grudgingly led me into a little room at the back.

When I left twenty minutes later I felt I had come off with rather the worst of the bargain but another of my father's aphorisms came to mind: "shnorrers no choosers."

The following day I signed up for an accountancy course as an "extra option." The lessons took place during the evening and then only after I had finished my regular schoolwork for the day. To begin with I found the subject somewhat tedious, but as the weeks passed I became fascinated by how meticulously recording each transaction could prove to be so beneficial even to our little business. I had no idea so much money could be saved by simply understanding a balance sheet, debt repayments and how to make claims against tax. My only worry was that I suspected Charlie had never bothered to pay any tax in the first place.

I even began to enjoy my weekly visits to Whitechapel, where I would be given the chance to show off my newfound skills. Although I remained resolute that my partnership with Charlie would come to an end the moment I was offered a place at university, I still believed that with his energy and drive, combined with my levelheaded approach in all matters financial, we would surely have impressed my father and perhaps even Granpa Charlie.

As the time approached for me to concentrate on my matriculation, I decided to offer Charlie the opportunity to buy out my share of the partnership and even arranged for a qualified accountant to replace me in order that they could take over the bookkeeping. Then, yet again, those Germans upset my best laid plans.

This time they killed Charlie's father, which was a silly mistake because it only made the young fool sign up to fight the lot of them on his own. Typically he didn't even bother to consult anyone. Off he went to Great Scotland Yard, in that frightful double-breasted suit, silly flat cap and flashy green tie, carrying all the worries of the Empire on his shoulders, leaving me to pick up the pieces. It was little wonder I lost so much weight over the next year, which my mother considered a small compensation for having to associate with the likes of Charlie Trumper.

To make matters worse, a few weeks after Charlie had boarded the train for Edinburgh I was offered a place at London University.

Charlie had left me with only two choices: I could try to run the baker's shop myself and give up any thought of taking a degree, or I could sell out to the highest bidder. He had dropped me a note the day he left advising me to sell, so sell I did, but despite many hours spent traipsing round the East End I could only find one interested party: Mr. Cohen, who had for some years conducted his tailor's business from above my father's shop and wanted to expand. He made me a fair offer in the circumstances and I even picked up another two pounds from one of the street traders for Charlie's huge barrow; but hard though I tried I couldn't find a buyer for Granpa Charlie's dreadful old nineteenth-century relic.

I immediately placed all the money I had collected on deposit in the Bow Building Society at 102 Cheapside for a period of one year at a rate of four percent. I had had no intention of touching it while Charlie Trumper was still away at war, until some five months later Kitty Trumper visited me in Romford. She burst into tears and told me that Charlie had been killed on the Western Front. She added that she didn't know what would become of the family now that her brother was no longer around to take care of them. I immediately explained to her what my arrangement with Charlie had been, and that at least brought a smile to her face. She agreed to accompany me to the building society the next day so that we could withdraw Charlie's share of the money.

It was my intention to carry out Charlie's wishes and see that his share of the money was distributed equally between his three sisters. However, the manager of the society pointed out to us both in the politest possible terms that I was unable to withdraw one penny of the deposit until the first full year had been completed. He even produced the document I had signed to that effect, bringing to my attention the relevant clause. On learning this Kitty immediately leaped up, let out a stream of obscenities that caused the under-manager to turn scarlet, and then flounced out.

Later, I had cause to be grateful for that clause. I could so easily have divided Charlie's sixty percent between Sal, Grace, and that awful Kitty, who had so obviously lied about her brother's death. I only became aware of the truth when in July Grace wrote from the front to let me know that Charlie was being sent to Edinburgh following the second battle of the Marne. I vowed there and then to give him his share of the money the day he set foot in England; I wanted to be rid of all those Trumpers and their distracting problems once and for all.

I only wish Tata had lived to see me take up my place at Bedford College. His daughter at London University—Whitechapel would never have heard the end of it. But a German zeppelin had put paid to that and crippled my mother into the bargain. As it turned out, Mother was still delighted to remind all her friends that I had been among the first women from the East End to sign the register.

After I had written my letter of acceptance to Bedford I began to look for digs nearer the university: I was determined to show some independence. My mother, whose heart had never fully recovered from the shock of losing Tata, retired to the suburbs to live with Aunt Harriet in Romford. She couldn't understand why I needed to lodge in London at all, but insisted that any accommodation I settled on had to be approved by the university authorities. She emphasized that I could only share rooms with someone Tata would have considered "acceptable." Mother never stopped telling me she didn't care for the lax morals that had become so fashionable since the outbreak of the war.

Although I had kept in contact with several school friends from St. Paul's, I knew only one who was likely to have surplus accommodation in London, and I considered she might well turn out to be my one hope of not having to spend the rest of my life on a train somewhere between Romford and Regent's Park. I wrote to Daphne Harcourt-Browne the following day.

She replied inviting me round to tea at her little flat in Chelsea. When I first saw her again I was surprised to find that I was now a little taller than Daphne but that she had lost almost as much weight as I had. Daphne not only welcomed me with open arms but to my surprise expressed delight at the thought of my occupying one of her spare rooms. I insisted that I should pay her rent of five shillings a week and also asked her, somewhat tentatively, if she felt able to come and have tea with my mother in Romford. Daphne seemed amused by the thought and traveled down to Essex with me on the following Tuesday.

My mother and aunt hardly uttered a word the entire afternoon. A monologue that centered on hunt balls, riding to hounds, polo and the disgraceful decline of the manners of guards officers were hardly subjects about which they were often invited to give an opinion. By the time Aunt Harriet had served a second round of muffins I wasn't at all surprised to see my mother happily nodding her approval.

In fact, the only embarrassing moment the entire afternoon came when Daphne carried the tray out into the kitchen—something I suspected she had not done often before—and spotted my final school report pinned to the pantry door. Mother smiled and added to my humiliation by reading its contents out loud: "Miss Salmon displays an uncommon capacity for hard work which, combined with an inquiring and intuitive mind, should augur well for her future at Bedford College. Signed Miss Potter, Headmistress."

"Ma certainly didn't bother to display my final report anywhere" was all Daphne had to say on the subject.

After I had moved into Chelsea Terrace, life for both of us quickly settled into a routine. Daphne flitted from party to party while I walked at a slightly faster pace from lecture hall to lecture hall, our two paths rarely crossing.

Despite my apprehension, Daphne turned out to be a wonderful companion to share digs with. Although she showed little interest in my academic life—her energies were spent in the pursuit of foxes and guards officers—she was always brimful of common sense on every subject under the sun, not to mention having constant contact with a string of eligible young men who seemed to arrive in a never-ending convoy at the front door of 97 Chelsea Terrace.

Daphne treated them all with the same disdain, confiding in me that her one true love was still serving on the Western Front—not that she once mentioned his name in my presence.

Whenever I found time to break away from my books, she could always manage to supply a spare young officer to escort me to a concert, a play, even the occasional regimental dance. Although she never showed any interest in what I was up to at university, she often asked questions about the East End and seemed fascinated by my stories of Charlie Trumper and his barrow.

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."

"But there may not be any profits."

"In which case I will automatically take over sixty percent of the assets. Charlie will then own twenty-four percent and you sixteen. Everything you need to know is in this document." She handed over several pages of tightly worded copy, the last page of which had a seven on the top. "All it now requires is your signature on the bottom line."

I read through the papers slowly while Daphne poured herself a sherry. She or her advisers seemed to have considered every eventuality.

"There's only one difference between you and Charlie Trumper," I told her, penning my signature between two penciled crosses.

"And what's that?"

"You were born in a four-poster bed."

As I was quite unable to organize the shop myself and continue with my studies at the university, I quickly came to the conclusion that I would have to appoint a temporary manager. The fact that the three girls who were already employed at Number 147 just giggled whenever I gave any instructions only made the appointment more pressing.

The following Saturday I began a tour of Chelsea, Fulham and Kensington, staring into shop windows up and down the three boroughs and watching young men going about their business in the hope of eventually finding the right person to run Trumper's.

After keeping an eye on several possible candidates who were working in local shops, I finally selected a young man who was an assistant at a fruiterer's in Kensington. One evening in November I waited for him to finish his day's work. I then followed him as he began his journey home.

The ginger-haired lad was heading towards the nearest bus stop when I managed to catch up with him.

"Good evening, Mr. Makins," I said.

"Hello?" He looked round startled and was obviously surprised to discover that an unintroduced young woman knew his name. He carried on walking.

"I own a greengrocer's shop in Chelsea Terrace . . ." I said, keeping up with him stride for stride as he continued on towards the bus stop. He showed even more surprise but didn't say anything, only quickened his pace. "And I'm looking for a new manager."

This piece of information caused Makins to slow down for the first time and look at me more carefully.

"Chapman's," he said. "Was it you who bought Chapman's?"

"Yes, but it's Trumper's now," I told him. "And I'm offering you the job as manager at a pound a week more than your present salary." Not that I had any idea what his present salary was.

It took several miles on the bus and a lot of questions still to be answered outside his front door before he invited me in to meet his mother. Bob Makins joined us two weeks later as manager of Trumper's.

Despite this coup I was disappointed to find at the end of our first month that the shop had made a loss of over three pounds which meant I wasn't able to return a penny piece to Daphne.

"Don't be despondent," she told me. "Just keep going and there must still be an outside chance the penalty clause will never come into force, especially if on Mr. Trumper's return he proves half as good as you claim he is."

During the previous six months I had been able to keep a more watchful eye on the whereabouts of the elusive Charlie, thanks to the help of a young officer Daphne had introduced me to who worked in the war office. He always seemed to know exactly where Sergeant Charles Trumper of the Royal Fusiliers could be located at any time of the day or night. But I still remained determined to have Trumper's running smoothly and declaring a profit long before Charlie set foot in the premises.

However I learned from Daphne's friend that my errant partner was to be discharged on 20 February 1919, leaving me with little or no time to balance the books. And worse, we had recently found it necessary to replace two of the three giggling girls who had sadly fallen victim to the Spanish flu epidemic, and sack the third for incompetence.

I tried to recall all the lessons Tata had taught me when I was a child. If a queue was long then you must serve the customers quickly, but if short you had to take your time: that way the shop would never be empty. People don't like to go into empty shops, he explained; it makes them feel insecure.

"On your awning," he would insist, "should be printed in bold lettering the words 'Dan Salmon, freshly baked bread, founded in 1879.' Repeat name and date at every opportunity; the sort of people who live in the East End like to know you've been around for some time. Queues and history: the British have always appreciated the value of both."

I tried to implement this philosophy, as I suspected Chelsea was no different from the East End. But in our case the blue awning read, "Charlie Trumper, the honest trader, founded in 1823." For a few days I had even considered calling the shop "Trumper and Salmon," but dropped that idea when I realized it would only tie me in with Charlie for life.

One of the big differences I discovered between the East and the West End was that in Whitechapel the names of debtors were chalked up on a slate, whereas in Chelsea they opened an account. To my surprise, bad debts turned out to be more common in Chelsea than in Whitechapel. By the following month I was still unable to pay anything back to Daphne. It was becoming daily more apparent that my only hope now rested with Charlie.

On the day he was due back I had lunch in the college dining hall with two friends from my year. I munched away at my apple and toyed with a piece of cheese as I tried to concentrate on their views on Karl Marx. Once I had sucked my third of a pint of milk dry I picked up my books and returned to the lecture theater. Despite being normally mesmerized by the subject of the early Renaissance artists, on this occasion I was grateful to see the professor stacking up his papers a few minutes before the lecture was scheduled to end.

The tram back to Chelsea seemed to take forever, but at last it came to a halt on the corner of Chelsea Terrace.

I always enjoyed walking the full length of the street to check how the other shops were faring. First I had to pass the antiques shop where Mr. Rutherford resided. He always raised his hat when he saw me. Then there was the women's clothes shop at Number 133 with its dresses in the window that I felt I would never be able to afford. Next came Kendrick's, the butcher's, where Daphne kept an account; and a few doors on from them was the Italian restaurant with its empty cloth-covered tables. I knew the proprietor must be struggling to make a living, because we could no longer afford to extend him any credit. Finally came the bookshop where dear Mr. Sneddles tried to eke out a living. Although he hadn't sold a book in weeks he would happily sit at the counter engrossed in his beloved William Blake until it was time to turn the sign on the front door from "Open" to "Closed." I smiled as I passed by but he didn't see me.

I calculated that if Charlie's train had arrived at King's Cross on time that morning, he should have already reached Chelsea by now, even if he had had to cover the entire journey on foot.

I hesitated only for a moment as I approached the shop, then walked straight in. To my chagrin, Charlie was nowhere to be seen. I immediately asked Bob Makins if anyone had called in asking for me.

"No one, Miss Becky," Bob confirmed. "Don't worry, we all remember exactly what was expected of us if Mr. Trumper shows up." His two new assistants, Patsy and Gladys, nodded their agreement.

I checked my watch—a few minutes past five—and decided that if Charlie hadn't turned up by now he was unlikely to appear before the next day. I frowned and told Bob he could start closing up. When six chimed on the clock above the door, I reluctantly asked him to push the blind back in and to lock up while I checked over the day's takings.

"Strange that," said Bob as he arrived by my side at the front door clutching the shop door keys.

"Strange?"

"Yes. That man over there. He's been sitting on the bench for the last hour and has never once taken his eyes off the shop. I only hope there's nothing wrong with the poor fellow."

I glanced across the road. Charlie was sitting, arms folded, staring directly at me. When our eyes met he unfolded his arms, stood up and walked slowly over to join me.

Neither of us spoke for some time until he said, "So what's the deal?"

Chapter 7

"How do you do, Mr. Trumper? Pleased to make your acquaintance, I'm sure," said Bob Makins, rubbing his palm down a green apron before shaking his new master's outstretched hand.

Gladys and Patsy both stepped forward and gave Charlie a half curtsy, which brought a smile to Becky's lips.

"There'll be no need for anything like that," said Charlie. "I'm up from Whitechapel and the only bowing and scraping you'll be doing in future will be for the customers."

"Yes, sir," said the girls in unison, which left Charlie speechless.

"Bob, will you take Mr. Trumper's things up to his room?" Becky asked. "While I show him round the shop."

"Certainly, miss," said Bob, looking down at the brown paper parcel and the little box that Charlie had left on the floor by his side. "Is that all there is, Mr. Trumper?" he asked in disbelief.

Charlie nodded.

He stared at the two assistants in their smart white blouses and green aprons. They were both standing behind the counter looking as if they weren't quite sure what to do next. "Off you go, both of you," said Becky. "But be sure you're in first thing tomorrow morning. Mr. Trumper's a stickler when it comes to timekeeping."

The two girls collected their little felt bags and scurried away as Charlie sat himself down on a stool next to a box of plums.

"Now we're alone," he said, "you can tell me 'ow all this came about."

"Well," replied Becky, "foolish pride was how it all began but . . ."

Long before she had come to the end of her story Charlie was saying, "You're a wonder, Becky Salmon, a positive wonder.

She continued to tell Charlie everything that had taken place during the past year and the only frown to appear on his forehead came when Charlie reamed the details of Daphne's investment.

"So I've got just about two and a half years to pay back the full sixty pounds plus interest?"

"Plus the first six months' losses," said Becky sheepishly.

"I repeat, Rebecca Salmon, you're a wonder. If I can't do something that simple then I'm not worthy to be called your partner."

A smile of relief crossed Becky's face.

"And do you live 'ere as well?" Charlie asked as he looked up the stairs.

"Certainly not. I share digs with an old school friend of mine, Daphne Harcourt-Browne. We're just up the road at 97."

"The girl who supplied you with the money?"

Becky nodded.

"She must be a good friend," said Charlie.

Bob reappeared at the bottom of the stairs.

"I've put Mr. Trumper's things in the bedroom and checked over the flat. Everything seems to be in order."

"Thank you, Bob," said Becky. "As there's nothing else you can do today, I'll see you in the morning."

"Will Mr. Trumper be coming to the market, miss?"

"I doubt it," said Becky. "So why don't you do the ordering for tomorrow as usual? I'm sure Mr. Trumper will join you some time later in the week."

"Covent Garden?" asked Charlie.

"Yes, sir," said Bob.

"Well, if they 'aven't moved it I'll see you there at four-thirty tomorrow morning."

Becky watched Bob turn white. "I don't suppose Mr. Trumper will expect you to be there every morning at four-thirty." She laughed. "Just until he's got back in the swing of things. Good night, Bob."

"Good night, miss, good night, sir," said Bob, who left the shop with a perplexed look on his face.

"What's all this 'sir' and 'miss' nonsense?" asked Charlie. "I'm only about a year older than Bob."

"So were many of the officers on the Western Front that you called 'sir.'"

"But that's the point. I'm not an officer."

"No, but you are the boss. What's more, you're no longer in Whitechapel, Charlie. Come on, it's time you saw your rooms."

"Rooms?" said Charlie. "I've never had 'rooms' in my life. It's been just trenches, tents and gymnasiums lately."

"Well, you have now." Becky led her partner up the wooden staircase to the first floor and began a guided tour. "Kitchen," she said. "Small, but ought to serve your purposes. By the way, I've seen to it that there are enough knives, forks and crockery for three and I've told Gladys that it's also her responsibility to keep the flat clean and tidy. The front room," she announced opening a door, "if one has the nerve to describe something quite this small as a front room."

Charlie stared at a sofa and three chairs, all obviously new. "What happened to all my old things?"

"Most of them were burned on Armistice Day," admitted Becky. "But I managed to get a shilling for the horsehair chair, with the bed thrown in."

"And what about my granpa's barrow? You didn't burn that as well?"

"Certainly not. I tried to sell it, but no one was willing to offer me more than five shillings, so Bob uses it for picking up the produce from the market every morning. "

"Good," said Charlie, with a look of relief.

Becky turned and moved on to the bathroom.

"Sorry about the stain below the cold water tap," she said. "None of us could find anything that would shift it however much elbow grease we used. And I must warn you, the lavatory doesn't always flush."

"I've never 'ad a toilet inside the 'ouse before," said Charlie. "Very posh."

Becky continued on into the bedroom.

Charlie tried to take in everything at once, but his eyes settled on a colored picture that had hung above his bed in Whitechapel Road and had once belonged to his mother. He felt there was something familiar about it. His eyes moved on to a chest of drawers, two chairs and a bed he had never seen before. He desperately wanted to show Becky how much he appreciated all she had done, and he settled for bouncing up and down on the corner of the bed.

"Another first," said Charlie.

"Another first?"

"Yes, curtains. Granpa wouldn't allow them, you know. He used to say—"

"Yes, I remember," said Becky. "Kept you asleep in the morning and prevented you from doing a proper day's work."

"Well, somethin' like that, except I'm not sure my granpa would 'ave known what the word 'prevented' meant," said Charlie as he began to unpack Tommy's little box. Becky's eyes fell on the picture of the Virgin Mary and Child the moment Charlie placed the little painting on the bed. She picked up the oil and began to study it more closely.

"Where did you get this, Charlie? It's exquisite."

"A friend of mine who died at the front left it to me," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Your friend had taste." Becky kept holding on to the picture. "Any idea who painted it?"

"No, I 'aven't." Charlie stared up at his mother's framed photo that Becky had hung on the wall. "Blimey," he said, "it's exactly the same picture."

"Not quite," said Becky, studying the magazine picture above his bed. "You see, your mother's is a photograph of a masterpiece by Bronzino, while your friend's painting, although it looks similar, is actually a damned good copy of the original." She checked her watch. "I must be off," she said without warning. "I've promised I'd be at the Queen's Hall by eight o'clock. Mozart."

"Mozart. Do I know 'im?"

"I'll arrange an introduction in the near future."

"So you won't be 'anging around to cook my first dinner then?" asked Charlie. "You see, I've still got so many questions I need to 'ave answered. So many things I want to find out about. To start with—"

"Sorry, Charlie. I mustn't be late. See you in the morning though—when I promise I'll answer all your questions."

"First thing?"

"Yes, but not by your standards," laughed Becky. "Some time round eight would be my guess."

"Do you like this fellow Mozart?" Charlie asked, as Becky felt his eyes studying her more closely.

"Well, to be honest I don't know a lot about him myself, but Guy likes him."

"Guy?" said Charlie.

"Yes, Guy. He's the young man who's taking me to the concert and I haven't known him long enough to be late. I'll tell you more about both of them tomorrow. Bye, Charlie."

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 that 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 few moments.

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 Bohème 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 officer 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 Shaw. 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 Doolittle 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."

Chapter 8

Becky 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 Raphael's 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 luv?" Grand dames, ladies-in-waiting and nannies, all who would have turned 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 'ardy unattractive variety you put up front. Potatoes, swedes, and turnips. 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 Pygmalion. What's more, we're goin' 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 stable boys 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.

Guy's particular brand of sullen silence didn't help matters either, despite Daphne laughing away, bubbly as ever, whatever anyone said. By the time the bill was finally presented, Becky was only too relieved that the evening was coming to an end. She even had discreetly to leave a tip, because Charlie didn't seem to realize it was expected of him.

She left the restaurant at Guy's side and the two of them lost contact with Daphne and Charlie as they strolled back towards 97. She assumed that her companions were only a few paces behind, but stopped thinking about where they might be when Guy took her in his arms, kissed her gently and said, "Good night, my darling. And don't forget, we're going down to Ashurst for the weekend." How could she forget? Becky watched Guy look back furtively in the direction that Daphne and Charlie had been walking, but then without another word he hailed a hansom and instructed the cabbie to take him to the Fusiliers' barracks in Hounslow.

Becky unlocked the front door and sat down on the sofa to consider whether or not she should return to 147 and tell Charlie exactly what she thought of him. A few minutes later Daphne breezed into the room.

"Sorry about this evening," said Becky before her friend had had the chance to offer an opinion. "Charlie's usually a little more communicative than that. I can't think what came over him."

"Not easy for him to have dinner with an officer from his old regiment, I suspect," said Daphne.

"I'm sure you're right," said Becky. "But they'll end up friends. I feel sure of that."

Daphne stared at Becky thoughtfully.

The following Saturday morning, after he had completed guard duty, Guy arrived at 97 Chelsea Terrace to collect Becky and drive her down to Ashurst. The moment he saw her in one of Daphne's stylish red dresses he remarked on how beautiful she looked, and he was so cheerful and chatty on the tourney down to Berkshire that Becky even began to relax. They arrived in the village of Ashurst just before three and Guy turned to wink at her as he swung the car into the mile-long drive that led up to the hall.

Becky hadn't expected the house to be quite that large.

A butler, under butler and two footmen were waiting on the top step to greet them. Guy brought the car to a halt on the graveled drive and the butler stepped forward to remove Becky's two small cases from the boot, before handing them over to a footman who whisked them away. The butler then led Captain Guy and Becky at a sedate pace up the stone steps, into the front hall and on up the wide wooden staircase to a bedroom on the first floor landing.

"The Wellington Room, madam," he intoned as he opened the door for her.

"He's meant to have spent the night here once," explained Guy, as he strolled up the stairs beside her. "By the way, no need for you to feel lonely. I'm only next door, and much more alive than the late general."

Becky walked into a large comfortable room where she found a young girl in a long black dress with a white collar and cuffs unpacking her bags. The girl turned, curtsied and announced, "I'm Nellie, your maid. Please let me know if you need anything, ma'am."

Becky thanked her, walked over to the bay window and stared out at the green acres that stretched as far as her eye could see. There was a knock on the door and Becky turned to find Guy entering the room even before she had been given the chance to say "Come in."

"Room all right, darling?"

"Just perfect," said Becky as the maid curtsied once again. Becky thought she detected a slight look of apprehension in the young girl's eyes as Guy walked across the room.

"Ready to meet Pa?" he asked.

"As ready as I'm ever likely to be," Becky admitted as she accompanied Guy back downstairs to the morning room where a man in his early fifties stood in front of a blazing log fire waiting to greet them.

"Welcome to Ashurst Hall," said Major Trentham.

Becky smiled at her host and said, "Thank you."

The major was slightly shorter than his son, but had the same slim build and fair hair, though there were some strands of gray appearing at the sides. But that was where the likeness ended. Whereas Guy's complexion was fresh and pale, Major Trentham's skin had the ruddiness of a man who had spent most of his life outdoors, and when Becky shook his hand she felt the roughness of someone who obviously worked on the land.

"Those fine London shoes won't be much good for what I have in mind," declared the major. "You'll have to borrow a pair of my wife's riding boots, or perhaps Nigel's Wellingtons."

"Nigel?" Becky inquired.

"Trentham minor. Hasn't Guy told you about him? He's in his last year at Harrow, hoping to go on to Sandhurst and outshine his brother, I'm told."

"I didn't know you had a—"

"The little brat isn't worthy of a mention," Guy interrupted with a half smile, as his father guided them back through the hall to a cupboard below the stairs. Becky stared at the row of leather riding boots that were even more highly polished than her shoes.

"Take your pick, m'dear," said Major Trentham.

After a couple of attempts Becky found a pair that fitted perfectly, then followed Guy and his father out into the garden. It took the best part of the afternoon for Major Trentham to show his young guest round the seven-hundred-acre estate, and by the time Becky resumed she was more than ready for the hot punch that awaited them in a large silver tureen in the morning room.

The butler informed them that Mrs.Trentham had phoned to say that she had been held up at the vicarage and would be unable to join them for tea.

By the time Becky resumed to her room in the early evening to take a bath and change for dinner, Mrs. Trentham still hadn't made an appearance.

Daphne had loaned Becky two dresses for the occasion, and even an exquisite semicircular diamond brooch about which Becky had felt a little apprehensive. But when she looked at herself in the mirror all her fears were quickly forgotten.

When Becky heard eight o'clock chiming in chorus from the numerous clocks around the house she returned to the drawing room. The dress and the brooch had a perceptible and immediate effect on both men. There was still no sign of Guy's mother.

"What a charming dress, Miss Salmon," said the major.

"Thank you, Major Trentham," said Becky, as she warmed her hands by the fire before glancing around the room.

"My wife will be joining us in a moment," the major assured Becky, as the butler proffered a glass of sherry on a silver tray.

"I did enjoy being shown round the estate."

"Hardly warrants that description, my dear," the major replied with a warm smile. "But I'm glad you enjoyed the walk," he added as his attention was diverted over her shoulder.

Becky swung round to see a tall, elegant lady, dressed in black from the nape of her neck to her ankles, enter the room. She walked slowly and sedately towards them.

"Mother," said Guy, stepping forward to give her a kiss on the cheek, "I should like you to meet Becky Salmon."

"How do you do?" said Becky.

"May I be permitted to inquire who removed my best riding boots from the hall cupboard?" asked Mrs. Trentham, ignoring Becky's outstretched hand. "And then saw fit to return them covered in mud?"

"I did," said the major. "Otherwise Miss Salmon would have had to walk round the farm in a pair of high heels. Which might have proved unwise in the circumstances. "

"It might have proved wiser for Miss Salmon to have come properly equipped with the right footwear in the first place."

"I'm so sorry . . ." began Becky.

"Where have you been all day, Mother?" asked Guy, jumping in. "We had rather hoped to see you earlier."

"Trying to sort out some of the problems that our new vicar seems quite unable to cope with," replied Mrs. Trentham. "He has absolutely no idea of how to go about organizing a harvest festival. I can't imagine what they are teaching them at Oxford nowadays."

"Theology, perhaps," suggested Major Trentham.

The butler cleared his throat. "Dinner is served, madam."

Mrs. Trentham turned without another word and led them through into the dining room at a brisk pace. She placed Becky on the right of the major and opposite herself. Three knives, four forks and two spoons shone up at Becky from the large square table. She had no trouble in selecting which one she should start with, as the first course was soup, but, from then on she knew she would simply have to follow Mrs. Trentham's lead.

Her hostess didn't address a word to Becky until the main course had been served. Instead she spoke to her husband of Nigel's efforts at Harrow—not very impressive; the new vicar—almost as bad; and Lady Lavinia Malim—a judge's widow who had recently taken residence in the village and had been causing even more trouble than usual.

Becky's mouth was full of pheasant when Mrs. Trentham suddenly asked, "And which of the professions is your father associated with, Miss Salmon?"

"He's dead," Becky spluttered.

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that," she said indifferently. "Am I to presume he died serving with his regiment at the front?"

"No, he didn't."

"Oh, so what did he do during the war?"

"He ran a baker's shop. In Whitechapel," added Becky, mindful of her father's warning: "If you ever try to disguise your background, it will only end in tears."

"Whitechapel?" Mrs. Trentham queried. "If I'm not mistaken, isn't that a sweet little village, just outside Worcester?"

"No, Mrs. Trentham, it's in the heart of the East End of London," said Becky, hoping that Guy would come to her rescue, but he seemed more preoccupied with sipping his glass of claret.

"Oh," said Mrs. Trentham, her lips remaining in a straight line. "I remember once visiting the Bishop of Worcester's wife in a place called Whitechapel, but I confess I have never found it necessary to travel as far as the East End. I don't suppose they have a bishop there." She put down her knife and fork. "However," she continued, "my father, Sir Raymond Hardcastle—you may have heard of him, Miss Salmon—"

"No, I haven't actually," said Becky honestly.

Another disdainful look appeared on the face of Mrs. Trentham, although it failed to stop her flow, "—who was created a baronet for his services to King George V—"

"And what were those services?" asked Becky innocently, which caused Mrs. Trentham to pause for a moment before explaining, "He played a small part in His Majesty's efforts to see that we were not overrun by the Germans."

"He's an arms dealer," said Major Trentham under his breath.

If Mrs. Trentham heard the comment she chose to ignore it.

"Did you come out this year, Miss Salmon?" she asked icily.

"No, I didn't," said Becky. "I went up to university instead."

"I don't approve of such goings-on myself. Ladies shouldn't be educated beyond the three 'Rs' plus an adequate understanding of how to manage servants and survive having to watch a cricket match."

"But if you don't have servants—" began Becky, and would have continued if Mrs. Trentham hadn't rung a silver bell that was by her right hand.

When the butler reappeared she said curtly, "We'll take coffee in the drawing room, Gibson." The butler's face registered a hint of surprise as Mrs.Trentham rose and led everyone out of the dining room, down a long corridor and back into the drawing room where the fire no longer burned so vigorously.

"Care for some port or brandy, Miss Salmon?" asked Major Trentham, as Gibson poured out the coffee.

"No, thank you," said Becky quietly.

"Please excuse me," said Mrs. Trentham, rising from the chair in which she had just sat down. "I seem to have developed a slight headache and will therefore retire to my room, if you'll forgive me."

"Yes, of course, my dear," said the major flatly.

As soon as his mother had left the room Guy walked quickly over to Becky, sat down and took her hand. "She'll be better in the morning, when her migraine has cleared up, you'll see."

"I doubt it," replied Becky in a whisper, and turning to Major Trentham said, "Perhaps you'll excuse me as well. It's been a long day, and in any case I'm sure the two of you have a lot to catch up on."

Both men rose as Becky left the room and climbed the long staircase to her bedroom. She undressed quickly and after washing in a basin of near freezing water crept across the unheated room to slide between the sheets of her cold bed.

Becky was already half asleep when she heard the door handle turning. She blinked a few times and tried to focus on the far side of the room. The door opened slowly, but all she could make out was the figure of a man entering, then the door closing silently behind him.

"Who's that?" she whispered sharply.

"Only me," murmured Guy. "Thought I'd pop in and see how you were."

Becky pulled her top sheet up to her chin. "Good night, Guy," she said briskly.

"That's not very friendly," said Guy, who had already crossed the room and was now sitting on the end of her bed. "Just wanted to check that everything was all right. Felt you had rather a rough time of it tonight."

"I'm just fine, thank you," said Becky flatly. As he leaned over to kiss her she slid away from him, so he ended up brushing her left ear.

"Perhaps this isn't the right time?"

"Or place," added Becky, sliding even farther away so that she was nearly falling out of the far side of the bed.

"I only wanted to kiss you good night."

Becky reluctantly allowed him to take her in his arms and kiss her on the lips, but he held on to her far longer than she had anticipated and eventually she had to push him away.

"Good night, Guy," she said firmly.

At first Guy didn't move, but then he rose slowly and said, "Perhaps another time." A moment later she heard the door close behind him.

Becky waited for a few moments before getting out of bed. She walked over to the door, turned the key in the lock and removed it before going back to bed. It was some time before she was able to sleep.

When Becky came down for breakfast the following morning she quickly discovered from Major Trentham that a restless night had not improved his wife's migraine: she had therefore decided to remain in bed until the pain had completely cleared.

Later, when the major and Guy went off to church, leaving Becky to read the Sunday newspapers in the drawing room, she couldn't help noticing that the servants were whispering among themselves whenever she caught their eye.

Mrs. Trentham appeared for lunch, but made no attempt to join in the conversation that was taking place at the other end of the table. Unexpectedly, just as the custard was being poured onto the summer pudding, she asked, "And what was the vicar's text this morning?"

"Do unto others as you expect them to do unto you," the major replied with a slight edge to his voice.

"And how did you find the service at our local church, Miss Salmon?" asked Mrs. Trentham, addressing Becky for the first time.

"I didn't—" began Becky.

"Ah, yes, of course, you are one of the chosen brethren."

"No, actually if anything I'm a Roman Catholic," said Becky.

"Oh," said Mrs. Trentham, feigning surprise, "I assumed, with the name of Salmon . . . In any case you wouldn't have enjoyed St. Michael's. You see, it's very down to earth."

Becky wondered if every word Mrs. Trentham uttered and every action she took was rehearsed in advance.

Once lunch had been cleared away Mrs. Trentham disappeared again and Guy suggested that he and Becky should take a brisk walk. Becky went up to her room and changed into her oldest shoes, far too terrified to suggest she might borrow a pair of Mrs. Trentham's Wellingtons.

"Anything to get away from the house," Becky told him when she returned downstairs and she didn't open her mouth again until she felt certain that Mrs. Trentham was well out of earshot.

"What does she expect of me?" Becky finally asked.

"Oh, it's not that bad," Guy insisted, taking her hand. "You're overreacting. Pa's convinced she'll come round given time and in any case, if I have to choose between you and her I know exactly which one of you is more important to me."

Becky squeezed his hand. "Thank you, darling, but I'm still not certain I can go through another evening like the last one."

"We could always leave early and spend the rest of the day at your place," Guy said. Becky turned to look at him, unsure what he meant. He added quickly, "Better get back to the house or she'll only grumble that we left her alone all afternoon." They both quickened their pace.

A few minutes later they were climbing the stone steps at the front of the hall. As soon as Becky had changed back into her house shoes and checked her hair in the mirror on the hallstand, she rejoined Guy in the drawing room. She was surprised to find a large tea already laid out. She checked her watch: it was only three-fifteen.

"I'm sorry you felt it necessary to keep everyone waiting, Guy," were the first words that Becky heard as she entered the room.

"Never known us to have tea this early before," offered the major, from the other side of the fireplace.

"Do you take tea, Miss Salmon?" Mrs. Trentham asked, even managing to make her name sound like a petty offense.

"Yes, thank you," replied Becky.

"Perhaps you could call Becky by her first name," Guy suggested.

Mrs. Trentham's eyes came to rest on her son. "I cannot abide this modern-day custom of addressing everyone by their Christian name especially when one has only just been introduced. Darjeeling, Lapsang or Earl Grey, Miss Salmon?" she asked before anyone had a chance to react. She looked up expectantly for Becky's reply, but no answer was immediately forthcoming because Becky still hadn't quite recovered from the previous jibe. "Obviously you're not given that much choice in Whitechapel," Mrs. Trentham added.

Becky considered picking up the pot and pouring the contents all over the woman but somehow she managed to hold her temper, if only because she knew that making her lose it was exactly what Mrs. Trentham was hoping to achieve.

After a further silence Mrs. Trentham asked, "Do you have any brothers or sisters, Miss Salmon?"

"No, I'm an only child," replied Becky.

"Surprising, really."

"Why's that?" asked Becky innocently.

"I always thought the lower classes bred like rabbits," said Mrs. Trentham, dropping another lump of sugar into her tea.

"Mother, really—" began Guy.

"Just my little joke," she said quickly. "Guy will take me so seriously at times, Miss Salmon. However, I well remember my father, Sir Raymond, once saying—"

"Not again," said the major.

"—that the classes were not unlike water and wine. Under no circumstances should one attempt to mix them."

"But I thought it was Christ who managed to turn water into wine," said Becky.

Mrs. Trentham chose to ignore this observation. "That's exactly why we have officers and other ranks in the first place; because God planned it that way."

"And do you think that God planned that there should be a war, in order that those same officers and other ranks could then slaughter each other indiscriminately?" asked Becky.

"I'm sure I don't know, Miss Salmon," Mrs. Trentham replied. "You see, I don't have the advantage of being an intellectual like yourself. I am just a plain, simple woman who speaks her mind. But what I do know is that we all made sacrifices during the war."

"And what sacrifices did you make, Mrs. Trentham?" Becky inquired.

"A considerable number, young lady," Mrs. Trentham replied, stretching to her full height. "For a start, I had to go without a lot of things that were quite fundamental to one's very existence."

"Like an arm or a leg?" said Becky, quickly regretting her words the moment she realized that she had fallen into Mrs. Trentham's trap.

Guy's mother rose from her chair and walked slowly over to the fireplace, where she tugged violently on the servants' bell-pull. "I do not have to sit around and be insulted in my own home," she said. As soon as Gibson reappeared she turned to him and added, "See that Alfred collects Miss Salmon's belongings from her room. She will be returning to London earlier than planned."

Becky remained silently by the fire, not sure what she should do next. Mrs. Trentham stood coolly staring at her until finally Becky walked over to the major, shook him by the hand and said, "I'll say goodbye, Major Trentham. I have a feeling we won't be seeing each other again."

"My loss, Miss Salmon," he said graciously before kissing her hand. Then Becky turned and walked slowly out of the drawing room without giving Mrs. Trentham a second look. Guy followed Becky into the hall.

On their journey back to London Guy made every excuse he could think of for his mother's behavior, but Becky knew he didn't really believe his own words. When the car came to a halt outside Number 97 Guy jumped out and opened the passenger door.

"May I come up?" he asked. "There's something I still have to tell you."

"Not tonight," said Becky. "I need to think and I'd rather like to be on my own."

Guy sighed. "It's just that I wanted to tell you how much I love you and perhaps talk about our plans for the future."

"Plans that include your mother?"

"To hell with my mother," he replied. "Don't you realize how much I love you?"

Becky hesitated.

"Let's announce our engagement in The Times as soon as possible, and to hell with what she thinks. What do you say?"

She turned and threw her arms around him. "Oh, Guy, I do love you too, but you'd better not come up tonight. Not while Daphne is expected back at any moment. Another time perhaps?"

A look of disappointment crossed Guy's face. He kissed her before saying good night. She opened the front door and ran up the stairs.

Becky unlocked the flat door to find that Daphne had not returned from the country. She sat alone on the sofa, not bothering to turn the gas up when the light faded. It was to be a further two hours before Daphne sailed in.

"How did it all go?" were the first words Daphne uttered as she entered the drawing room, a little surprised to find her friend sitting in the dark.

"A disaster."

"So it's all over?"

"No, not exactly," said Becky. "In fact I have a feeling Guy proposed to me."

"But did you accept?" asked Daphne.

"I rather think I did."

"And what do you intend to do about India?"

The following morning when Becky unpacked her overnight case, she was horrified to discover that the delicate brooch Daphne had lent her for the weekend was missing. She assumed she must have left it at Ashurst Hall.

As she had no desire to make contact with Mrs. Trentham again, she dropped a note to Guy at his regimental mess to alert him of her anxiety. He replied the next day to assure her that he would check on Sunday when he planned to have lunch with his parents at Ashurst.

Becky spent the next five days worrying about whether Guy would be able to find the missing piece: thankfully Daphne didn't seem to have noticed its absence. Becky only hoped she could get the brooch back before her friend felt the desire to wear it again.

Guy wrote on Monday to say that despite an extensive search of the guest bedroom he had been unable to locate the missing brooch, and in any case Nellie had informed him that she distinctly remembered packing all of Becky's jewelry.

This piece of news puzzled Becky because she remembered packing her own case following her summary dismissal from Ashurst Hall. With considerable trepidation she sat up late into the night, waiting for Daphne to return from her long weekend in the country so that she could explain to her friend what had happened. She feared that it might be months, even years before she could save enough to replace what was probably a family heirloom.

By the time her flatmate breezed into Chelsea Terrace a few minutes after midnight, Becky had already drunk several cups of black coffee and almost lit one of Daphne's Du Maunes.

"You're up late, my darling," were Daphne's opening words. "Are exams that close?"

"No," said Becky, then blurted out the whole story of the missing diamond brooch. She finished by asking Daphne how long she thought it might take to repay her.

"About a week would be my guess," said Daphne.

"A week?" said Becky, looking puzzled.

"Yes. It was only stage jewelry—all the rage at the moment. If I remember correctly, it cost me every penny of three shillings."

A relieved Becky told Guy over dinner on Tuesday why finding the missing piece of jewelry was no longer of such importance.

The following Monday Guy brought the piece round to Chelsea Terrace, explaining that Nellie had found it under the bed in the Wellington Room.

Chapter 9

Becky began to notice small changes in Charlie's manner, at first subtle and then more obvious.

Daphne made no attempt to hide her involvement in what she described as "the social discovery of the decade, my very own Charlie Doolittle. Why, only this weekend," she declared, "I took him down to Harcourt Hall, don't you know, and he was a wow. Even Mother thought he was fantastic."

"Your mother approves of Charlie Trumper?" said Becky in disbelief.

"Oh, yes, darling, but then you see Mummy realizes that I have no intention of marrying Charlie."

"Be careful, I had no intention of marrying Guy."

"My darling, never forget you spring from the romantic classes, whereas I come from a more practical background, which is exactly why the aristocracy have survived for so long. No, I shall end up marrying a certain Percy Wiltshire and it's got nothing to do with destiny or the stars, it's just good old-fashioned common sense."

"But is Mr. Wiltshire aware of your plans for his future?"

"Of course the marquise of Wiltshire isn't. Even his mother hasn't told him yet."

"But what if Charlie were to fall in love with you?"

"That's not possible. You see, there's another woman in his life."

"Good heavens," said Becky. "And to think I've never met her."

The shop's six-month and nine-month figures showed a considerable improvement on the first quarter's, as Daphne discovered to her cost when she received her next dividends. She told Becky that at this rate she couldn't hope to make any long-term profit from her loan. As for Becky herself, she spent less and less of her time thinking about Daphne, Charlie or the shop as the hour drew nearer for Guy's departure to India.

India . . . Becky hadn't slept the night she had learned of Guy's three-year posting and she certainly might have wished to discover something that would so disrupt their future from his lips and not Daphne's. In the past Becky had accepted, without question, that because of Guy's duties with the regiment it would not be possible for them to see each other on a regular basis, but as the time of his departure drew nearer she began to resent guard duty, night exercises and most of all, any weekend operations in which the Fusiliers were expected to take part.

Becky had feared that Guy's attentions would cool after her distressing visit to Ashurst Hall, but if anything he became even more ardent and kept repeating how different it would all be once they were married.

But then, as if without warning, the months became weeks, the weeks days, until the dreaded circle Becky had penciled around 3 February 1920 on the calendar by the side of her bed was suddenly upon them.

"Let's have dinner at the Cafe Royal, where we spent our first evening together," Guy suggested, the Monday before he was due to leave.

"No," said Becky. "I don't want to share you with a hundred strangers on our last evening." She hesitated before adding, "If you can face the thought of my cooking, I'd rather give you dinner at the flat. At least that way we can be on our own."

Guy smiled.

Once the shop seemed to be running smoothly Becky didn't drop in every day, but she couldn't resist a glance through the window whenever she passed Number 147. She was surprised to find at eight o'clock that particular Monday morning that Charlie wasn't to be seen behind the counter.

"Over here," she heard a voice cry and turned to find Charlie sitting on the same bench opposite the shop where she had first spotted him the day he returned to London. She crossed the road to join him.

"What's this, taking early retirement before we've repaid the loan?"

"Certainly not. I'm working."

"Working? Please explain, Mr. Trumper, how lounging about on a park bench on a Monday morning can be described as work?"

"It was Henry Ford who taught us that 'For every minute of action, there should be an hour of thought,"' said Charlie, with only a slight trace of his old Cockney accent; Becky also couldn't help noticing how he had pronounced "Henry."

"And where are those Fordian-like thoughts taking you at this particular moment?" she asked.

"To that row of shops opposite."

"All of them?" Becky looked over at the block. "And what conclusion would Mr. Ford have come to had he been sitting on this bench, pray?"

"That they represent thirty-six different ways of making money."

"I've never counted them, but I'll take your word for it."

"But what else do you see when you look across the road?"

Becky's eyes returned to Chelsea Terrace. "Lots of people walking up and down the pavement, mainly ladies with parasols, nannies pushing prams, and the odd child with a skipping rope or hoop." She paused. "Why, what do you see?"

"Two 'For Sale' signs."

"I confess I hadn't noticed them." Once again she looked across the road.

"That's because you're looking with a different pair of eyes," Charlie explained.

"First there's Kendrick's the butcher. Well, we all know about him, don't we? Heart attack, been advised by his doctor to retire early or he can't hope to live much longer."

"And then there's Mr. Rutherford," said Becky, spotting the second "For Sale" sign.

"The antiques dealer. Oh, yes, dear Julian wants to sell up and join his friend in New York, where society is a little more sympathetic when it comes to his particular proclivities—like that word?"

"How did you find?"

"Information," said Charlie, touching his nose. "The life blood of any business."

"Another Fordian principle?"

"No, much nearer home than that," admitted Charlie. "Daphne Harcourt-Browne."

Becky smiled. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to get hold of them both, aren't I?"

"And how do you intend to do that?"

"With my cunning and your diligence."

"Are you being serious, Charlie Trumper?"

"Never more." Charlie turned to face her once again. "After all, why should Chelsea Terrace be any different from Whitechapel?"

"Just the odd decimal point, perhaps," suggested Becky.

"Then let's move that decimal point, Miss Salmon. Because the time has come for you to stop being a sleeping partner and start fulfilling your end of the bargain."

"But what about my exams?"

"Use the extra time you'll have now that your boyfriend has departed for India."

"He goes tomorrow, actually."

"Then I'll grant you a further day's leave. Isn't that how officers describe a day off? Because tomorrow I want you to return to John D. Wood and make an appointment to see that pimply young assistant—what was his name?"

"Palmer," said Becky.

"Yes, Palmer," said Charlie. "Instruct him to negotiate a price on our behalf for both those shops, and warn him that we're also interested in anything else that might come up in Chelsea Terrace."

"Anything else in Chelsea Terrace?" said Becky, who had begun making notes on the back of her textbook.

"Yes, and we'll also need to raise nearly all the money it's going to cost to purchase the freeholds, so visit several banks and see that you get good terms. Don't consider anything above four percent."

"Nothing above four percent," repeated Becky. Looking up, she added, "But thirty-six shops, Charlie?"

"I know, it could take an awful long time."

In the Bedford College library, Becky tried to push Charlie's dreams of being the next Mr. Selfridge to one side as she attempted to complete an essay on the influence of Bernini on seventeenth-century sculpture. But her mind kept switching from Bernini to Charlie and then back to Guy. Unable to grapple with the modern, Becky felt she was having even less success with the ancient so she came to the conclusion that her essay would have to be postponed until she could find more time to concentrate on the past.

During her lunch break she sat on the red brick wall outside the library, munching a Cox's orange pippin while continuing to think. She took one last bite before tossing the core into a nearby wastepaper basket and everything else back into her satchel before beginning her journey westward to Chelsea.

Once she had reached the Terrace her first stop was the butcher's shop, where she picked up a leg of lamb and told Mrs. Kendrick how sorry she was to hear about her husband. When she paid the bill she noted that the assistants, though well trained, didn't show a great deal of initiative. Customers escaped with only what they had come in for, which Charlie would never have allowed them to do. She then joined the queue at Trumper's and drew Charlie to serve her.

"Something special, madam?"

"Two pounds of potatoes, one pound of button mushrooms, a cabbage and a cantaloupe melon."

"It's your lucky day, madam. The melon should be eaten this very evening," he said, just pressing the top lightly. "Can I interest madam in anything else? A few oranges, a grapefruit perhaps?"

"No, thank you, my good man."

"Then that'll be three shillings and fourpence, madam."

"But don't I get a Cox's orange pippin thrown in like all the other girls?"

"No, sorry, madam, such privileges are reserved only for our regular customers. Mind you, I could be persuaded, if I was asked to share that melon with you tonight. Which would give me the chance to explain in detail my master plan for Chelsea Terrace, London, the world—"

"Can't tonight, Charlie. Guy's leaving for India in the morning."

"Of course, 'ow silly of me, sorry. I forgot." He sounded uncharacteristically flustered. "Tomorrow, perhaps?"

"Yes, why not?"

"Then as a special treat I'll take you out to dinner. Pick you up at eight."

"It's a deal, partner," said Becky, hoping she sounded like Mae West.

Charlie was suddenly distracted by a large lady who had taken her place at the front of the queue.

"Ah, Lady Nourse," said Charlie, returning to his cockney accent, "your usual swedes and turnips, or are we going to be a little more adventurous today, m'lady?"

Becky looked back to watch Lady Nourse, who wasn't a day under sixty, blush as her ample breast swelled with satisfaction.

Once she had returned to her flat, Becky quickly checked the drawing room over to be sure that it was clean and tidy. The maid had done a thorough job and as Daphne hadn't yet returned from one of her long weekends at Harcourt Hall there was little for her to do other than plumping up the odd cushion and drawing the curtains.

Becky decided to prepare as much of the evening meal as possible before having a bath. She was already regretting turning down Daphne's offer of the use of a cook and a couple of maids from Lowndes Square to help her out, but she was determined to have Guy to herself for a change, although she knew her mother wouldn't approve of having dinner with a male friend without Daphne or a chaperone to keep an eye on them.

Melon, followed by leg of lamb with potatoes, cabbage and some button mushrooms: surely that would have met with her mother's approval. But she suspected that approval would not have been extended to wasting hard-earned money on the bottle of Nuits St. George that she had purchased from Mr. Cuthbert at Number 101. Becky peeled the potatoes, basted the lamb and checked she had some mint before removing the stalk on the cabbage.

As she uncorked the wine she decided that in future she would have to purchase all her goods locally, to be sure that her information on what was taking place in the Terrace was as up to date as Charlie's. Before going to undress she also checked there was still some brandy left over in the bottle she had been given the previous Christmas.

She lay soaking in a hot bath for some time as she thought through which banks she would approach and, more important, how she would present her case. The detailed figures both of Trumper's income and a time schedule required for the repayment of any loan . . . Her mind drifted back from Charlie to Guy, and why it was that neither of them would ever talk about the other.

When Becky heard the bedroom clock chime the half hour she leaped out of the bath in a panic, suddenly realizing how much time her thoughts must have occupied and only too aware that Guy was certain to appear on the doorstep as the clock struck eight. The one thing you could guarantee with a soldier, Daphne had warned her, was that he always turned up on time.

Clothes were strewn all over both their bedroom floors as Becky emptied half Daphne's wardrobe and most of her own in a desperate attempt to find something to wear. In the end she chose the dress Daphne had worn at the Fusiliers Ball, and never worn since. Once she had managed to do up the top button she checked herself in the mirror. Becky felt confident she would "pass muster." The clock on the mantelpiece struck eight and the doorbell rang.

Guy, wearing a double-breasted regimental blazer and cavalry twills, entered the room carrying another bottle of red wine as well as a dozen red roses. Once he had placed both offerings on the table, he took Becky in his arms.

"What a beautiful dress," he said. "I don't think I've seen it before."

"No, it's the first time I've worn it," said Becky, feeling guilty about not asking Daphne's permission to borrow it.

"No one to help you?" asked Guy, looking around.

"To be honest, Daphne volunteered to act as chaperone, but I didn't accept as I hadn't wanted to share you with anyone on our last evening together."

Guy smiled. "Can I do anything?"

"Yes, you could uncork the wine while I put the potatoes on."

"Trumper's potatoes?"

"Of course," replied Becky, as she walked back through into the kitchen and dropped the cabbage into a pot of boiling water. She hesitated for a moment before calling back, "You don't like Charlie, do you?"

Guy poured out a glass of wine for each of them but either hadn't heard what she had said or made no attempt to respond.

"What's your day been like?" Becky asked when she resumed to the drawing room and took the glass of wine he handed her.

"Packing endless trunks in preparation for tomorrow's journey," he replied. "They expect you to have four of everything in that bloody country."

"Everything?" Becky sipped the wine. "Um, good."

"Everything. And you, what have you been up to?"

"Talked to Charlie about his plans for taking over London without actually declaring war; dismissed Caravaggio as second-rate; and selected some button mushrooms, not to mention Trumper's deal of the day." As she finished speaking, Becky placed half a melon on Guy's mat and the other half at her place as he refilled their glasses.

Over a lingering dinner, Becky became more and more conscious that this would probably be their last evening together for the next three years. They talked of the theater, the regiment, the problems in Ireland, Daphne, even the price of melons, but never India.

"You could always come and visit me," he said finally, bringing up the taboo subject himself as he poured her another glass of wine, nearly emptying the bottle.

"A day trip, perhaps?" she suggested, removing the empty dinner plates from the table and taking them back to the kitchen.

"I suspect even that will be possible at some time in the future."

Guy filled his own glass once again, then opened the bottle he had brought with him.

"What do you mean?"

"By airplane. After all, Alcock and Brown have crossed the Atlantic nonstop, so India must be any pioneer's next ambition."

"Perhaps I could sit on a wing," said Becky when she resumed from the kitchen.

Guy laughed. "Don't worry. I'm sure three years will pass by in a flash, and then we can be married just as soon as I return." He raised his glass and watched her take another drink. For some time they didn't speak.

Becky rose from the table feeling a little giddy. "Must put the kettle on," she explained.

When she returned Becky didn't notice that her glass had been refilled. "Thank you for a wonderful evening," Guy said, and for a moment Becker was anxious that he might be thinking of leaving.

"Now I fear the time has come to do the washing up, as you don't seem to have any staff around tonight and I left my batman back at barracks."

"No, don't let's bother with that." Becky hiccupped. "After all, I can spend a year on the washing up, followed by a year on the drying and still put aside a year for stacking."

Guy's own laugh was interrupted by the rising whistle of the kettle.

"Won't be a minute. Why don't you pour yourself some brandy?" Becky added, as she disappeared back into the kitchen and selected two cups that didn't have chips in them. She returned with them full of strong hot coffee, and thought for a moment that the gaslight might have been turned down a little. She placed the two cups on the table next to the sofa. "The coffee's so hot that it will be a couple of minutes before we can drink it," she warned.

He passed her a brandy balloon that was half full. He raised his glass and waited. She hesitated, then took a sip before sitting down beside him. For some time again neither of them spoke and then suddenly he put down his glass, took her in his arms and this time began kissing her passionately, first on her lips, then on her neck and then on her bare shoulders. Becky only began to resist when she felt a hand move from her back on to one of her breasts.

Guy broke away and said, "I have a special surprise for you, darling, which I've been saving for tonight."

"What's that?"

"Our engagement is to be announced in The Times tomorrow."

For a moment Becky was so stunned she could only stare at Guy. "Oh, darling, how wonderful." She took him back in her arms and made no effort to resist when his hand resumed to her breast. She broke away again. "But how will your mother react?"

"I don't give a damn how she reacts," said Guy, and once more began to kiss her neck. His hand moved to her other breast as her lips parted and their tongues touched.

She began to feel the buttons on the back of her dress being undone, slowly at first, then with more confidence before Guy released her again. She blushed as he removed his regimental blazer and tie and threw them over the back of the sofa, and began to wonder if she shouldn't make it clear they had already gone too far.

When Guy started to undo the front of his shirt she panicked for a moment: things were getting a little out of control.

Guy leaned forward and slipped the top of Becky's dress off her shoulders. Once he had resumed to kissing her again, she felt his hand trying to undo the back of her bodice.

Becky felt she might be saved by the fact that neither of them knew where the fasteners were. However, it became abundantly clear that Guy had overcome such problems before, as he deftly undid the offending clips and hesitated only for a moment before transferring his attention to her legs. He stopped quite suddenly when he reached the top of her stockings, and looking into her eyes murmured, "I had only imagined until now what this would be like, but I had no idea you would be quite so beautiful."

"Thank you," said Becky, and sat bolt upright. Guy handed over her brandy and she took another sip, wondering if it might not be wise for her to make some excuse about the coffee going cold and to slip back into the kitchen to make another pot.

"However there's still been a disappointment for me this evening," he added, one hand remaining on her thigh.

"A disappointment?" Becky put down her brandy glass. She was beginning to feel distinctly woozy.

"Yes," said Guy. "Your engagement ring."

"My engagement ring?"

"I ordered it from Garrard's over a month ago, and they promised it would be ready for me to collect by this evening. But only this afternoon they informed me that I wouldn't be able to pick it up until first thing tomorrow."

"It doesn't matter," said Becky.

"It does," said Guy. "I'd wanted to slip it on your finger tonight, so I do hope you can be at the station a little earlier than we had planned. I intend to fall on one knee and present it to you."

Becky stood up and smiled as Guy quickly rose and took her in his arms. "I'll always love you, you know that, don't you?" Daphne's dress slipped off and fell to the floor. Guy took her by the hand and she led him into the bedroom.

He quickly pushed back the top sheet, jumped in and held up his arms. Once she had climbed in to join him Guy quickly removed the rest of her clothes and began kissing her all over her body before making love with an expertise that Becky suspected could only have come from considerable practice.

Although the act itself was painful, Becky was surprised how quickly the promised sensation was over and she clung to Guy for what seemed an eternity. He kept repeating how much he cared for her, which made Becky feel less guilty—after all, they were engaged.

Becky was half asleep when she thought she heard a door slam, and turned over assuming the sound must have come from the flat above them. Guy hardly stirred. Quite suddenly the bedroom door was flung open, and Daphne appeared in front of them.

"So sorry, I didn't realize," she said in a whisper and closed the door quietly behind her. Becky looked across at her lover apprehensively.

He smiled and took her in his arms. "No need to worry about Daphne. She won't tell anyone." He stretched out an arm and pulled her towards him.

Waterloo Station was already crowded with men in uniforms when Becky walked onto platform one. She was a couple of minutes late, so a little surprised not to find Guy waiting for her. Then she remembered that he'd have had to go to Albemarle Street to pick up the ring.

She checked the board: chalked up in white capital letters were the words "Southampton Boat Train, PO to India, departure time 11:30." Becky continued to look anxiously up and down the platform before her eyes settled on a band of helpless girls. They were huddled together under the station clock, their shrill strained voices all talking at once of hunt balls, polo and who was coming out that season—all of them only too aware that farewells must be said at the station because it wasn't the done thing for a girl to accompany an officer on the train to Southampton unless she was married or officially engaged. But The Times that morning would prove that she and Guy were engaged, thought Becky, so perhaps she would be invited to travel on as far as the coast . . .

She checked her watch yet again: eleven twenty-one. For the first time she began to feel slightly uneasy. Then suddenly she saw him striding across the platform towards her followed by a man dragging two cases, and a porter wheeling even more luggage.

Guy apologized, but gave no explanation for why he was so late, only ordering his batman to place his trunks on the train and wait for him. For the next few minutes they talked of nothing in particular and Becky even felt he was a little distant, but she was well aware that there were several brother officers on the platform, also bidding their farewells, some even to their wives.

A whistle blew and Becky noticed a guard check his watch. Guy leaned forward, brushed her cheek with his lips, then suddenly turned away. She watched him as he stepped quickly onto the train, never once looking back, while all she could think of was their naked bodies lodged together in that tiny bed and Guy saying, "I'll always love you. You know that, don't you?"

A final whistle blew and a green flag was waved. Becky stood quite alone. She shivered from the gust of wind that came as the engine wound its snakelike path out of the station and began its journey to Southampton. The giggling girls also departed, but in another direction, towards their hansom cabs and chauffeur-driver cars.

Becky walked over to a booth on the corner of platform seven, purchased a copy of The Times for two pence, and checked, first quickly, then slowly, down the list of forthcoming weddings.

From Arbuthnot to Yelland there was no mention of a Trentham, or a Salmon.

Chapter 10

Even before the first course had been served Becky regretted accepting Charlie's invitation to dinner at Mr. Scallini's, the only restaurant he knew: Charlie was trying so hard to be considerate, which only made her feel more guilty.

"I like your dress," he said, admiring the pastel-colored frock she had borrowed from Daphne's wardrobe.

"Thank you."

A long pause followed.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have thought twice before inviting you out the same day as Captain Trentham was leaving for India."

"Our engagement will be announced in The Times tomorrow," she said, not looking up from her untouched bowl of soup.

"Congratulations," said Charlie without feeling.

"You don't like Guy, do you?"

"I never was much good with officers."

"But your paths had crossed during the war. In fact, you knew him before I did, didn't you?" said Becky without warning. Charlie didn't reply, so she added, "I sensed it the first time we all had dinner together."

"'Knew him' would be an exaggeration," said Charlie. "We served in the same regiment, but until that night we'd never eaten at the same table."

"But you fought in the same war."

"Along with four thousand other men from our regiment," said Charlie, refusing to be drawn.

"And he was a brave and respected officer?"

A waiter appeared uninvited by their side. "What would you like to drink with your fish, sir?"

"Champagne," said Charlie. "After all, we do have something to celebrate."

"Do we?" said Becky, unaware that he had used the ploy simply to change the subject.

"Our first year's results. Or have you forgotten that Daphne's already been paid back more than half her loan?"

Becky managed a smile, realizing that while she had been worrying about Guy's departure for India, Charlie had been concentrating on solving her other problem. But despite this news the evening continued in silence, occasionally punctuated with comments from Charlie that didn't always receive a reply. She occasionally sipped the champagne, toyed with her fish, ordered no dessert and could barely hide her relief when the bill was eventually presented.

Charlie paid the waiter and left a handsome tip. Daphne would have been proud of him, Becky thought.

As she rose from her chair, she felt the room starting to go round in circles.

"Are you all right?" asked Charlie, placing an arm around her shoulder.

"I'm fine, just fine," said Becky. "I'm not used to drinking so much wine two nights in a row."

"And you didn't eat much dinner either," said Charlie, guiding her out of the restaurant and into the cold night air.

They proceeded arm in arm along Chelsea Terrace and Becky couldn't help thinking any casual passerby might have taken them for lovers. When they arrived at the entrance to Daphne's flat Charlie had to dig deep into Becky's bag to find her keys. Somehow he managed to get the door open, while at the same time still keeping her propped up against the wall. But then Becky's legs gave way and he had to cling to her to stop her from falling. He gathered her up and carried her in his arms to the first floor. When he reached her flat, he had to perform a contortion to open the door without actually dropping her. At last he staggered into the drawing room and lowered her onto the sofa. He stood up and took his bearings, not sure whether to leave her on the sofa or to investigate where her bedroom might be.

Charlie was about to leave when she slipped off onto the floor, muttering something incoherent, the only word of which he caught was "engaged."

He returned to Becky's side, but this time lifted her firmly up over his shoulder. He carried her towards a door which, when he opened it, he discovered led to a bedroom. He placed her gently on top of the bed. As he began to tiptoe back to the door, she turned and Charlie had to rush back and pull her onto the middle of the bed to prevent her falling off. He hesitated, then bent over to lift up her shoulders before undoing the buttons down the back of her dress with his free hand. Once he had reached the bottom button he lowered her onto the bed, then lifted her legs high in the air with one hand before he pulled with the other, inch by inch, until her dress was off. He left her only for a moment while he placed the dress neatly over a chair.

"Charlie Trumper," he said in a whisper, looking down at her, "you're a blind man, and you've been blind for an awfully long time."

He pulled back the blanket and placed Becky between the sheets, the way he had seen nurses on the Western Front carry out the same operation with wounded men.

He tucked her in securely, making sure that the whole process could not repeat itself. His final action was to lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

You're not only blind, Charlie Trumper, you're a fool, he told himself as he closed the front door behind him.

"Be with you in a moment," said Charlie as he threw some potatoes onto the weighing machine, while Becky waited patiently in the corner of the shop.

"Anythin' else, madam?" he asked the customer at the front of the queue. "A few tangerines, per'aps? Some apples? And I've got some lovely grapefruit straight from South Africa, only arrived in the market this mornin'."

"No, thank you, Mr. Trumper, that will be all for today."

"Then that'll be two shillings and five pence, Mrs. Symonds. Bob, could you carry on serving the next customer while I 'ave a word with Miss Salmon?"

"Sergeant Trumper."

"Sir," was Charlie's instant reaction when he heard the resonant voice. He turned to face the tall man who stood in front of him, straight as a ramrod, dressed in a Harris tweed jacket and cavalry twill trousers and carrying a brown felt hat.

"I never forget a face," the man said, although Charlie would have remained perplexed if it hadn't been for the monocle.

"Good God," said Charlie, standing to attention.

"No, 'colonel' will do," the other man said, laughing. "And no need for any of that bull. Those days have long gone. Although it's been some time since we last met, Trumper."

"Nearly two years, sir."

"Seems longer than that to me," the colonel said wistfully. "You certainly turned out to be right about Prescott, didn't you? And you were a good friend to him."

"'E was a good friend to me."

"And a first-class soldier. Deserved his MM."

"Couldn't agree with you more, sir."

"Would have got one yourself, Trumper, but the rations were up after Prescott. Afraid it was only 'mentioned in dispatches' for you."

"The right man got the medal."

"Terrible way to die, though. The thought of it still haunts me, you know," said the colonel. "Only yards from the tape."

"Not your fault, sir. If anyone's, it was mine."

"If it was anyone's fault, it was certainly not yours," said the colonel. "And best forgotten, I suspect," he added without explanation.

"So 'ow's the regiment comin' along?" asked Charlie. "Survivin' without me?"

"And without me, I'm afraid," said the colonel, placing some apples into the shopping bag he was carrying. "They've departed for India, but not before they put this old horse out to grass."

"I'm sorry to 'ear that, sir. Your 'ole life was the regiment."

"True, though even Fusiliers have to succumb to the Geddes axe. To be honest with you, I'm an infantryman myself, always have been, and I never did get the hang of those newfangled tanks."

"If we'd only 'ad 'em a couple of years earlier, sir, they might 'ave saved a few lives."

"Played their part, I'm bound to admit." The colonel nodded. "Like to think I played my part as well." He touched the knot of his striped tie. "Will we be seeing you at the regimental dinner, Trumper?"

"I didn't even know there was one, sir."

"Twice annually. First one in January, men only, second one in May with the memsahibs, which is also a ball. Gives the comrades a chance to get together and have a chinwag about old times. Would be nice if you could be on parade, Trumper. You see, I'm the president of the ball committee this year and rather hoping for a respectable turnout."

"Then count me in, sir."

"Good man. I'll see that the office gets in touch with you pronto, ten shillings a ticket, and all you can drink thrown in, which I'm sure will be no hardship for you," added the colonel, looking round the busy shop.

"And can I get you anythin' while you're 'ere, sir?" Charlie asked, suddenly aware a long queue was forming behind the colonel.

"No, no, your able assistant has already taken excellent care of me, and as you can see I have completed the memsahib's written instructions." He held up a thin slip of paper bearing a list with a row of ticks down one side.

"Then I'll look forward to seeing you on the night of the ball, sir," said Charlie.

The colonel nodded and then stepped out onto the pavement without another word.

Becky strolled over to join her partner, only too aware that he had quite forgotten that she had been waiting to have a word with him. "You're still standing to attention, Charlie," she teased.

"That was my commanding officer, Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton," said Charlie a little pompously. "Led us at the front, 'e did, a gentleman, and 'e remembered my name."

"Charlie, if you could only hear yourself. A gentle man he may be, but he's the one who's out of work, while you're running a thriving business. I know which I'd rather be."

"But 'e's the commanding officer. Don't you understand?"

"Was," said Becky. "And he was also quick to point out the regiment has gone to India without him."

"That doesn't change anythin'."

"Mark my words, Charlie Trumper, that man will end up calling you 'sir.'"

Guy had been away almost a week, and sometimes Becky could now go a whole hour without thinking about him.

She had sat up most of the previous night composing a letter to him although when she left for her morning lecture the following day she walked straight past the pillar box. She had managed to convince herself that the blame for failing to complete the letter should be placed firmly on the shoulders of Mr. Palmer.

Becky had been disappointed to find their engagement had not been announced in The Times the next day, and became quite desperate when it failed to appear on any other day during that week. When in desperation she phoned Garrard's on the following Monday they claimed they knew nothing of a ring ordered in the name of a Captain Trentham of the Royal Fusiliers. Becky decided she would wait a further week before she wrote to Guy. She felt there must be some simple explanation.

Guy was still very much on her mind when she entered the offices of John D. Wood in Mount Street. She palmed the flat bell on the counter and asked an inquiring assistant if she could speak to Mr. Palmer.

"Mr. Palmer? We don't have a Mr. Palmer any longer," she was told. "He was called up nearly a year ago, miss. Can I be of any assistance?"

Becky gripped the counter. "All right then, I'd like to speak to one of the partners," she said firmly.

"May I know the nature of your inquiry?" asked the assistant.

"Yes," said Becky. "I've come to discuss the instructions for the sale of 131 and 135 Chelsea Terrace."

"Ah yes, and may I ask who it is inquiring?"

"Miss Rebecca Salmon."

"I won't be a moment," the young man promised her, but didn't return for several minutes. When he did he was accompanied by a much older man, who wore a long black coat and horn-rimmed spectacles. A silver chain dangled from his waistcoat pocket.

"Good morning, Miss Salmon," the older man said. "My name is Crowther. Perhaps you'd be good enough to join me." He raised the counter lid and ushered her through. Becky duly followed in his wake.

"Good weather for this time of the year, wouldn't you say, madam?"

Becky stared out of the window and watched the umbrellas bobbing up and down along the pavement, but decided not to comment on Mr. Crowther's meteorological judgment.

Once they had reached a poky little room at the back of the building he announced with obvious pride, "This is my office. Won't you please be seated, Miss Salmon?" He gestured towards an uncomfortably low chair placed opposite his desk. He then sat down in his own high-backed chair. "I'm a partner of the firm," he explained, "but I must confess a very junior partner." He laughed at his own joke. "Now, how can I help you?

"My colleague and I want to acquire Numbers 131 and 135 Chelsea Terrace," she said.

"Quite so," said Mr. Crowther, looking down at his file. "And on this occasion will Miss Daphne Harcourt-Browne—"

"Miss Harcourt-Browne will not be involved in this transaction and if, because of that, you feel unable to deal with Mr. Trumper or myself, we shall be happy to approach the vendors direct." Becky held her breath.

"Oh, please don't misunderstand me, madam. I'm sure we will have no trouble in continuing to do business with you."

"Thank you."

"Now, let us start with Number 135," said Mr. Crowther, pushing his spectacles back up his nose before he leafed through the file in front of him. "Ah yes, dear Mr. Kendrick, a first-class butcher, you know. Sadly he is now considering an early retirement."

Becky sighed, and Mr. Crowther looked up at her over his spectacles.

"His doctor has told him that he has no choice if he hopes to live more than a few more months," she said.

"Quite so," said Mr. Crowther, resuming to his file. "Well, it seems that his asking price is one hundred and fifty pounds for the freehold, plus one hundred pounds for the goodwill of the business."

"And how much will he take?"

"I'm not quite sure I catch your drift, madam." The junior partner raised his eyebrows.

"Mr. Crowther, before we waste another minute of each other's time I feel I should let you know in confidence that it is our intention to purchase, if the price is right, every shop that becomes available in Chelsea Terrace, with the long-term aim of owning the entire block, even if it takes us a lifetime to achieve. It is not my intention to visit your office regularly for the next twenty years for the sole purpose of shadowboxing with you. By then I suspect you will be a senior partner, and both of us will have better things to do. Do I make myself clear?"

"Abundantly," said Mr. Crowther, glancing at the note Palmer had attached to the sale of 147: the lad hadn't exaggerated in the forthright opinion of his client. He pushed his spectacles back up his nose.

"I think Mr. Kendrick might be willing to accept one hundred and twenty-five pounds if you would also agree to a pension of twenty-five pounds a year until his death."

"But he might live forever."

"I feel I should point out, madam, that it was you, not I, who referred to Mr. Kendrick's present state of health." For the first time the junior partner leaned back in his chair.

"I have no desire to rob Mr. Kendrick of his pension," Becky replied. "Please offer him one hundred pounds for the freehold of the shop and twenty pounds a year for a period of eight years as a pension. I'm flexible on the latter part of the transaction but not on the former. Is that understood, Mr. Crowther?"

"It certainly is, madam."

"And if I'm to pay Mr. Kendrick a pension I shall also expect him to be available to offer advice from time to time as and when we require it."

"Quite so," said Crowther, making a note of her request in the margin.

"So what can you tell me about 131?"

"Now that is a knotty problem," said Crowther, opening a second file. "I don't know if you are fully aware of the circumstances, madam, but . . ."

Becky decided not to help him on this occasion. She smiled sweetly.

"Um, well," continued the junior partner, "Mr. Rutherford is off to New York with a friend to open an antiques gallery, in somewhere called the 'Village.'" He hesitated.

"And their partnership is of a somewhat unusual nature?" assisted Becky after a prolonged silence. "And he might prefer to spend the rest of his days in an apartment in New York, rather than a cell in Brixton?"

"Quite so," said Mr. Crowther, as a bead of perspiration appeared on his forehead. "And in this particular gentleman's case, he wishes to remove everything from the premises, as he feels his merchandise might well fetch a better price in Manhattan. Therefore all that he would leave for your consideration would be the freehold."

"Then can I presume in his case there will be no pension?"

"I think we may safely presume that."

"And may we therefore expect his price to be a little more reasonable, remembering some of the pressures he is under?"

"I would have thought not," replied Mr. Crowther, "as the shop in question is rather larger than most of the others in Chelsea—"

"One thousand, four hundred and twenty-two square feet, to be precise," said Becky, "compared with one thousand square feet at Number 147, which we acquired for—"

"A very reasonable price at the time, if I may be so bold as to suggest, Miss Salmon."

"However . . ."

"Quite so," said Mr. Crowther. Another bead of sweat appeared on his forehead.

"So how much is he hoping to raise for the freehold, now that we have established that he won't be requiring a pension?"

"His asking price," said Mr. Crowther, whose eyes had once again returned to the file, "is two hundred pounds. However, I suspect," he added before Becky had the chance to challenge him, "that if you were able to close the negotiations quickly he might allow the property to go for as little as one hundred and seventy-five." His eyebrows arched. "I am given to understand that he is anxious to join his friend as quickly as possible."

"If he's that anxious to join his friend I suspect he will be only too happy to lower his price to one hundred and fifty for a quick sale, and he might even accept one hundred and sixty, despite it taking a few days longer."

"Quite so." Mr. Crowther removed his handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his brow. Becky couldn't help noticing that it was still raining outside. "Will there be anything else, madam?" he asked, the handkerchief having been returned to the safety of his pocket.

"Yes, Mr. Crowther," said Becky. "I should like you to keep a watching brief on all the properties in Chelsea Terrace and approach either Mr. Trumper or myself the moment you hear of anything likely to come on the market."

"Perhaps it might be helpful if I were to prepare a full assessment of the properties on the block, then let you and Mr. Trumper have a comprehensive written report for your consideration?"

"That would be most useful," said Becky, hiding her surprise at this sudden piece of initiative.

She rose from her chair to make it clear she considered the meeting to be over.

As they walked back to the front desk, Mr. Crowther ventured, "I am given to understand that Number 147 is proving most popular with the inhabitants of Chelsea."

"And how would you know that?" asked Becky, surprised for a second time.

"My wife," Mr. Crowther explained, "refuses to shop for her fruit and vegetables anywhere else, despite the fact that we live in Fulham."

"A discerning lady, your wife," said Becky.

"Quite so," said Mr. Crowther.

Becky assumed that the banks would react to her approach with much the same enthusiasm as the estate agent had. However, having selected eight she thought might be possibilities, she quickly discovered that there is a considerable difference between offering yourself as a buyer and prostrating oneself as a borrower. Every time she presented her plans―to someone so junior as to be most unlikely to be able to make a decision―she received only a dismissive shake of the head. This included the bank that already held the Trumper account. "In fact," as she recounted to Daphne later that evening, "one of the junior assistants at the Penny Bank even had the nerve to suggest that should I ever become a married woman then they'd be only too delighted to do business with my husband."

"Come up against the world of men for the first time, have we?" asked Daphne, dropping her magazine on the floor. "Their cliques, their clubs? A woman's place is in the kitchen, and, if you're half attractive, perhaps occasionally in the bedroom."

Becky nodded glumly as she placed the magazine back on a side table.

"It's an attitude of mind that's never worried me, I must confess," Daphne admitted as she pushed her feet into a pair of shoes with stylish pointed toes. "But then I wasn't born overly ambitious like you, my darling. However, perhaps it's time to throw you another lifeline."

"Lifeline?"

"Yes. You see, what you need to solve your problem is an old school tie."

"Wouldn't it look a bit silly on me?"

"Probably look rather fetching actually, but that's not the point. The dilemma you seem to be facing is your gender not to mention Charlie's accent, although I've nearly cured the dear boy of that problem. However, one thing's for sure, they haven't yet found a way to change people's sex."

"Where is all this leading?" asked Becky innocently.

"You're so impatient, darling. Just like Charlie. You must allow us lesser mortals a little more time to explain what we're about."

Becky took a seat on the corner of the sofa and placed her hands in her lap.

"First you must realize that all bankers are frightful snobs" continued Daphne. "Otherwise they'd be out there like you, running their own businesses. So what you require, to have them eating out of your hand, is a respectable front man."

"Front man?"

"Yes. Someone who'll accompany you on your trips to the bank whenever it should prove necessary." Daphne rose and checked herself in the mirror before continuing. "Such a person may not be blessed with your brains, but then on the other hand he won't be encumbered by your gender or by Charlie's accent. What he will have, however, is an old school tie, and preferably a tide of some kind to go with it. Bankers do like a 'Bart' but most important of all you must secure someone who has a definite need of cash. For services rendered, you understand."

"Do such people exist?" asked Becky in disbelief.

"They most certainly do. In fact, there are far more of that type around than there are those who are willing to do a day's work." Daphne smiled reassuringly. "Give me a week or two and I feel confident I'll be able to come up with a shortlist of three. You'll see."

"You're a wonder," said Becky.

"In return I shall expect a small favor from you."

"Anything."

"Never use that word when dealing with a praying mantis like myself, darling. However, my request on this occasion is quite simple, and well within your power to grant. If Charlie should ask you to accompany him to his regimental dinner and dance, you are to accept."

"Why?"

"Because Reggie Arbuthnot has been stupid enough to invite me to the blithering occasion and I can't refuse him if I'm to hope for a little stalking on his estate in Scotland come November." Becky laughed as Daphne added, "I don't mind being taken to the ball by Reggie, but I do object to having to leave with him. So, if we have reached an agreement, I'll supply you with your necessary chinless Bart and all you have to do when Charlie asks you is say 'yes.'"

"Yes."

Charlie wasn't surprised when Becky agreed without hesitation to be escorted to the regimental ball. After all, Daphne had already explained the details of their agreement to him. But it did come as a shock that, when Becky took her seat at the table, his fellow sergeants couldn't take their eyes off her.

The dinner had been laid out in a massive gymnasium, which prompted Charlie's mates to tell story after story of their early days of training in Edinburgh. However, there the comparison ended, because the food was of a far higher standard than Charlie remembered being offered in Scotland.

"Where's Daphne?" asked Becky, as a portion of apple pie liberally covered in custard was placed in front of her.

"Up there on the top table with all the notes," said Charlie, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. "Can't afford to be seen with the likes of us, can she?" he added with a grin.

Once the dinner was over there followed a series of toasts to everyone, it seemed to Becky, except the King. Charlie explained that the regiment had been granted dispensation from the loyal toast by King William IV in 1835 as their allegiance to the crown was without question. However, they did raise their glasses to the armed forces, each battalion in turn, and finally to the regiment, coupled with the name of their former colonel, each toast ending in rousing cheers. Becky watched the reactions of the men seated around her at the table and came to realize for the first time how many of that generation considered themselves lucky simply to be alive.

The former Colonel of the Regiment, Sir Danvers Hamilton, Bt., DSO, CBE, monocle in place, made a moving speech about all their fellow comrades who were for different reasons unable to be present that night. Becky saw Charlie visibly stiffen at the mention of his friend Tommy Prescott. Finally they all rose and toasted absent friends. Becky found herself unexpectedly moved.

Once the colonel had sat down the tables were cleared to one side so that dancing could begin. No sooner had the first note struck up from the regimental band than Daphne appeared from the other end of the room.

"Come on, Charlie. I haven't the time to wait for you to find your way up to the top table."

"Delighted, I'm sure, madam," said Charlie, when he rose from his seat, "but what has happened to Reggie what's-his-name?"

"Arbuthnot," she said. "I have left the silly man clinging on to a deb from Chelmsford. And quite dreadful she was, I can tell you."

"What was so 'dreadful' about her?" mimicked Charlie.

"I never thought the day would come," said Daphne, "when His Majesty would allow anyone from Essex to be presented at court. But worse than that was her age."

"Why? How old is she?" asked Charlie, as he waltzed Daphne confidently round the floor.

"I can't altogether be certain, but she had the nerve to introduce me to her widowed father."

Charlie burst out laughing.

"You're not supposed to find it funny, Charles Trumper, you're meant to show some sympathy. There's still so much you have to learn."

Becky watched Charlie as he danced smoothly round the floor. "That Daphne's a bit of all right," said the man sitting next to her, who had introduced himself as Sergeant Mike Parker and turned out to be a butcher from Camberwell who had served alongside Charlie on the Marne. Becky accepted his judgment without comment, and when he later bowed and asked Becky for the pleasure of the next dance she reluctantly accepted. He proceeded to march her around the ballroom floor as if she were a leg of mutton on the way to the refrigeration room. The only thing he managed to do in time with the music was to tread on her toes. At last he resumed Becky to the comparative safety of their beer-stained table. Becky sat in silence while she watched everyone enjoying themselves, hoping that no one else would ask her for the pleasure. Her thoughts returned to Guy, and the meeting that she could no longer avoid if in another two weeks . . .

"May I have the honor, miss?"

Every man round the table shot to attention as the Colonel of the Regiment escorted Becky onto the dance floor.

She found Colonel Hamilton an accomplished dancer and an amusing companion, without showing any of those tendencies to patronize her that the string of bank managers had recently displayed. After the dance was over he invited Becky to the top table and introduced her to his wife.

"I must warn you," Daphne told Charlie, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the colonel and Lady Hamilton. "It's going to be quite a challenge for you to keep pace with the ambitious Miss Salmon. But as long as you stick with me and pay attention we'll give her a damned good run for her money."

After a couple more dances Daphne informed Becky that she had more than done her duty and the time had come for them all to leave. Becky, for her part, was only too pleased to escape the attention of so many young officers who had seen her dance with the colonel.

"I've some good news for you," Daphne told the two of them as the hansom trundled down the King's Road in the direction of Chelsea Terrace, with Charlie still clinging to his half-empty bottle of champagne.

"What's that, my girl?" he asked, after a burp.

"I'm not your girl," Daphne remonstrated. "I may be willing to invest in the lower classes, Charlie Trumper, but never forget I'm not without breeding."

"So what's your news?" asked Becky, laughing.

"You've kept your part of the bargain, so I must keep to mine."

"What do you mean?" asked Charlie, half asleep.

"I can now produce my shortlist of three to be considered as your front man, and thus, I hope, solve your banking problem."

Charlie immediately sobered up.

"My first offer is the second son of an earl," began Daphne. "Penniless but presentable. My second is a Bart, who will take the exercise on for a professional fee, but my pièce de résistance is a viscount whose luck has run out at the tables in Deauville and now finds it necessary to involve himself in the odd piece of vulgar commercial work."

"When do we get to meet them?" asked Charlie, trying not to slur his words.

"As soon as you wish," promised Daphne. "Tomorrow—"

"That won't be necessary," said Becky quietly.

"Why not?" asked Daphne, surprised.

"Because I have already chosen the man who will front for us."

"Who've you got in mind, darling? The Prince of Wales?"

"No. Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton, Bt., DSO, CBE."

"But 'e's the bleedin' Colonel of the Regiment," said Charlie, dropping the bottle of champagne on the floor of the hansom cab. "It's impossible, 'e'd never agree."

"I can assure you he will."

"What makes you so confident?" asked Daphne.

"Because we have an appointment to see him tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock."

Chapter 11

Daphne waved her parasol as a hansom approached them. The driver brought the cab to a halt and raised his hat. "Where to, miss?"

"Number 172 Harley Street," she instructed, before the two women climbed aboard.

He raised his hat again, and with a gentle flick of his whip headed the horse off in the direction of Hyde Park Corner.

"Have you told Charlie yet?" Becky asked.

"No, I funked it," admitted Daphne.

They sat in silence as the cabbie guided the horse towards Marble Arch.

"Perhaps it won't be necessary to tell him anything."

"Let's hope not," said Becky.

There followed another prolonged silence until the horse trotted into Oxford Street.

"Is your doctor an understanding man?"

"He always has been in the past."

"My God, I'm frightened."

"Don't worry. It will be over soon, then at least you'll know one way or the other."

The cabbie came to a halt outside Number 172 Harley Street, and the two women got out. While Becky stroked the horse's mane Daphne paid the man sixpence. Becky turned when she heard the rap on the brass knocker and climbed the three steps to join her friend.

A nurse in a starched blue uniform, white cap and collar answered their call, and asked the two ladies to follow her. They were led down a dark corridor, lit by a single gaslight, then ushered into an empty waiting room. Copies of Punch and Tatler were displayed in neat rows on a table in the middle of the room. A variety of comfortable but unrelated chairs circled the low table. They each took a seat, but neither spoke again until the nurse had left the room.

"I—" began Daphne.

"If—" said Becky simultaneously.

They both laughed, a forced sound that echoed in the high-ceilinged room.

"No, you first," said Becky.

"I just wanted to know how the colonel's shaping up."

"Took his briefing like a man," said Becky. "We're off to our first official meeting tomorrow. Child and Company in Fleet Street. I've told him to treat the whole exercise like a dress rehearsal, as I'm saving the one I think we have a real chance with for later in the week."

"And Charlie?"

"All a bit much for him. He can't stop thinking of the colonel as his commanding officer."

"It would have been the same for you, if Charlie had suggested that the man teaching you accountancy should drop in and check the weekly takings at 147."

"I'm avoiding that particular gentleman at the moment," said Becky. "I'm only just putting in enough academic work to avoid being reprimanded; lately my commendeds have become passes, while my passes are just not good enough. If I don't manage to get a degree at the end of all this there will be only one person to blame."

"You'll be one of the few women who's a bachelor of arts. Perhaps you should demand they change the degree to SA."

"SA?"

"Spinster of arts."

They laughed at what they both knew to be a hoary chestnut, as they continued to avoid the real reason they were in that waiting room. Suddenly the door swung open and they looked up to see that the nurse had resumed.

"The doctor will see you now."

"May I come as well?"

"Yes, I'm sure that will be all right."

Both women rose and followed the nurse farther down the same corridor until they reached a white door with a small brass plate almost worn away with rubbing which read "Fergus Gould, MD." A gentle knock from the nurse elicited a "yes" and Daphne and Becky entered the room together.

"Good morning, good morning," said the doctor cheerfully in a soft Scottish burr, shaking hands with the two of them in turn. "Won't you please be seated? The tests have been completed and I have excellent news for you." He resumed to the seat behind his desk and opened a file in front of him. They both smiled, the taller of the two relaxing for the first time in days.

"I'm happy to say that you are physically in perfect health, but as this is your first child"—he watched both women turn white—"you will have to behave rather more cautiously over the coming months. But as long as you do, I can see no reason why this birth should have any complications. May I be the first to congratulate you?"

"Oh God, no," she said, nearly fainting. "I thought you said the news was excellent."

"Why, yes," replied Dr. Gould. "I assumed you would be delighted."

Her friend interjected. "You see, Doctor, there's a problem. She's not married."

"Oh yes, I do see," said the doctor, his voice immediately changing tone. "I'm so sorry, I had no idea. Perhaps if you had told me at our first meeting—"

"No, I'm entirely to blame, Dr. Gould. I had simply hoped—"

"No, it is I who am to blame. How extremely tactless of me." Dr. Gould paused thoughtfully. "Although it remains illegal in this country, I am assured that there are excellent doctors in Sweden who—"

"That is not possible," said the pregnant woman. "You see, it's against everything my parents would have considered 'acceptable behavior.'"

"Good morning, Hadlow," said the colonel, as he marched into the bank, handing the manager his top-coat, hat and cane.

"Good morning, Sir Danvers," replied the manager, passing the hat, coat and cane on to an assistant. "May I say how honored we are that you thought our humble establishment worthy of your consideration."

Becky couldn't help reflecting that it was not quite the same greeting she had received when visiting another bank of similar standing only a few weeks before.

"Would you be kind enough to come through to my office?" the manager continued, putting his arm out as if he were guiding wayward traffic.

"Certainly, but first may I introduce Mr. Trumper and Miss Salmon, both of whom are my associates in this venture."

"Delighted, I'm sure," the manager said as he pushed his glasses back up his nose before shaking hands with Charlie and Becky in turn.

Becky noticed that Charlie was unusually silent and kept pulling at his collar, which looked as though it might be half an inch too tight for comfort. However, after spending a morning in Savile Row the previous week being measured from head to foot for a new suit, he had refused to wait a moment longer when Daphne suggested he should be measured for a shirt, so in the end Daphne was left to guess his neck size.

"Coffee?" inquired the manager, once they had all settled in his office.

"No, thank you," said the colonel.

Becky would have liked a cup of coffee but realized that the manager had assumed Sir Danvers had spoken for all three of them. She bit her lip.

"Now, how can I be of assistance, Sir Danvers?" The manager nervously touched the knot of his tie.

"My associates and I currently own a property in Chelsea Terrace Number 147 which although a small venture at present is nevertheless progressing satisfactorily." The manager's smile remained in place. "We purchased the premises some eighteen months ago at a cost of one hundred pounds and that investment has shown a profit this year of a little over forty-three pounds."

"Very satisfactory," said the manager. "Of course, I have read your letter and the accounts you so kindly had sent over by messenger."

Charlie was tempted to tell him who the messenger had been.

"However, we feel the time has come to expand," continued the colonel. "And in order to do so we will require a bank that can show a little more initiative than the establishment with which we're presently dealing as well as one that has its eye on the future. Our current bankers, I sometimes feel, are still living in the nineteenth century. Frankly, they are little more than holders of deposits, while what we are looking for is the service of a real bank."

"I understand."

"It's been worrying me—" said the colonel, suddenly breaking off and fixing his monocle to his left eye.

"Worrying you?" Mr. Hadlow sat forward anxiously in his chair.

"Your tie."

"My tie?" The manager once again fingered the knot nervously.

"Yes, your tie. Don't tell me—the Buffs?"

"You are correct, Sir Danvers."

"Saw some action, did you, Hadlow?"

"Well, not exactly, Sir Danvers. My sight, you understand." Mr. Hadlow began fiddling with his glasses.

"Bad luck, old chap," said the colonel, his monocle dropping back down. "Well, to continue. My colleagues and I are of a mind to expand, but I feel it would only be the honorable thing to let you know that we have an appointment with a rival establishment on Thursday afternoon."

"Thursday afternoon," repeated the manager, after dipping his quill pen once more into the inkwell on the front of his desk and adding this to the other pieces of information he had already recorded.

"But I had rather hoped it would not have gone unnoticed," continued the colonel, "that we chose to come and see you first."

"I'm most flattered," said Mr. Hadlow. "And what terms were you hoping this bank might offer, Sir Danvers, that your own could not?"

The colonel paused for a moment and Becky glanced towards him alarmed, as she couldn't remember if she had briefed him on terms. Neither of them had expected to have reached quite this far at the first meeting.

The colonel cleared his throat. "We would naturally expect competitive terms, if we are to move our business to your bank, being aware of the long-term implications."

This answer seemed to impress Hadlow. He looked down at the figures in front of him and pronounced: "Well, I see you are requesting a loan of two hundred and fifty pounds for the purchase of 131 and 135 Chelsea Terrace, which, bearing in mind the state of your account, would require an overdraft facility"—he paused, appearing to be making a calculation—"of at least one hundred and seventy pounds."

"Correct, Hadlow. I see you have mastered our present predicament admirably."

The manager allowed himself a smile. "Given the circumstances, Sir Danvers, I feel we could indeed advance such a loan, if a charge of four percent interest per annum would be acceptable to you and your colleagues."

Again the colonel hesitated, until he caught Becky's half smile.

"Our present bankers provide us with a facility of three and a half percent," said the colonel. "As I'm sure you know."

"But they are taking no risk," pointed out Mr. Hadlow. "As well as refusing to allow you to be overdrawn more than fifty pounds. However," he added before the colonel could reply, "I feel in this particular case we might also offer three and a half percent. How does that sound to you?"

The colonel did not comment until he had observed the expression on Becky's face. Her smile had widened to a grin.

"I think I speak for my colleagues, Hadlow, when I say we find your proposition acceptable, most acceptable."

Becky and Charlie nodded their agreement.

"Then I shall begin to process all the paperwork. It may take a few days, of course."

"Of course," said the colonel. "And I can tell you, Hadlow, that we look forward to a long and profitable association with your bank."

The manager somehow rose and bowed all in one movement, an action Becky felt even Sir Henry Irving would have found difficult to accomplish.

Mr. Hadlow then proceeded to escort the colonel and his young associates to the front hall.

"Old Chubby Duckworth still with this outfit?" inquired the colonel.

"Lord Duckworth is indeed our chairman," murmured Mr. Hadlow, reverentially.

"Good man—served with him in South Africa. Royal Rifles. I shall, with your permission, mention our meeting to him, when I next see Chubby at the club."

"That would be most kind of you, Sir Danvers."

When they reached the door the manager dispensed with his assistant and helped the colonel on with his topcoat himself, then handed him his hat and cane before bidding farewell to his new customers. "Do feel free to call me at any time," were his final words as he bowed once again. He stood there until the three of them were out of sight.

Once they were back on the street the colonel marched quickly round the corner, coming to a halt behind the nearest tree. Becky and Charlie ran after him, not quite sure what he was up to.

"Are you feeling all right, sir?" Charlie asked, as soon as he had caught up.

"I'm fine, Trumper," replied the colonel. Just fine. But I can tell you, I would rather face a bunch of marauding Afghan natives than go through that again. Still, how did I do?"

"You were magnificent," said Becky. "I swear, if you had taken off your shoes and told Hadlow to polish them, he would have removed his handkerchief and started rubbing little circles immediately."

The colonel smiled. "Oh, good. Thought it went all right, did you?"

"Perfect," said Becky. "You couldn't have done better. I shall go round to John D. Wood this afternoon and put down the deposit on both shops."

"Thank God for your briefing, Miss Salmon," said the colonel, standing his full height. "You know what? You would have made a damned fine staff officer."

Becky smiled. "I take that as a great compliment, Colonel."

"Don't you agree, Trumper? Some partner you've found yourself," he added.

"Yes, sir," said Charlie as the colonel began to stride off down the road swinging his umbrella. "But may I ask you something that's been worrying me?"

"Of course, Trumper, fire away."

"If you're a friend of the chairman of the bank," said Charlie, matching him stride for stride, "why didn't we go direct to him in the first place?"

The colonel came to a sudden halt. "My dear Trumper," he explained, "you don't visit the chairman of the bank when you require a loan of only two hundred and fifty pounds. Nevertheless, let it be said that I have every confidence that it will not be long before we shall need to seek him out. However, at this very moment other needs are more pressing."

"Other needs?" said Charlie.

"Yes, Trumper. I require a whisky, don't you know?" said the colonel, eyeing a sign flapping above a pub on the opposite side of the road. "And while we're at it, let's make it a double."

"How far gone are you?" asked Charlie, when the following day Becky came round to tell him the news.

"About four months." She avoided looking him directly in the eye.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" He sounded a little hurt as he turned the open sign to closed, and marched up the stairs.

"I hoped I wouldn't need to," said Becky as she followed him into the flat.

"You've written to tell Trentham, of course?"

"No. I keep meaning to, but I haven't got round to it yet." She began to tidy up the room rather than face him.

"Keep meaning to?" said Charlie. "You should have told the bastard weeks ago. He's the first person who ought to know. After all, he's the one who's responsible for the bleedin' mess, if you'll excuse the expression."

"It's not that easy, Charlie."

"Why not, for heaven's sake?"

"It would mean the end of his career, and Guy lives for the regiment. He's like your colonel: it would be unfair to ask him to give up being a soldier at the age of twenty-three."

"He's nothing like the colonel," said Charlie. "in any case, he's still young enough to settle down and do a day's work like the rest of us."

"He's married to the army, Charlie, not to me. Why ruin both our lives?"

"But he should still be told what has happened and at least be given the choice."

"He wouldn't be left with any choice, Charlie, surely you see that? He'd sail home on the next boat and marry me. He's an honorable man."

"An honorable man, is he?" said Charlie. "Well, if he's so honorable you can afford to promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"You'll write to him tonight and tell him the truth." Becky hesitated for some time before saying, "All right I will."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, tonight."

"And you should also let his parents know while you're at it."

"No, I can't be expected to do that, Charlie," she said, facing him for the first time.

"So what's the reason this time? Some fear that their careers might be ruined?"

"No, but if I did his father would insist that Guy return home and marry me."

"And what's so wrong with that?"

"His mother would then claim that I had tricked her son into the whole thing, or worse—"

"Worse?"

"—that it wasn't even his child."

"And who'd believe her?"

"All those who wanted to."

"But that isn't fair," said Charlie.

"Life isn't, to quote my father. I had to grow up some time, Charlie. For you it was the Western Front."

"So what are we going to do now?"

"We?" said Becky.

"Yes, we. We're still partners, you know. Or had you forgotten?"

"To start with I'll have to find somewhere else to live; it wouldn't be fair to Daphne—"

"What a friend she's turned out to be," said Charlie.

"To both of us," said Becky as Charlie stood up, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to march around the little room. It reminded Becky of when they had been at school together.

"I don't suppose . . ." said Charlie. It was his turn to be unable to look her in the face.

"Suppose? Suppose what?"

"I don't suppose . . ." he began again.

"Yes?"

"You'd consider marrying me?"

There was a long silence before a shocked Becky felt able to reply. She eventually said, "But what about Daphne?"

"Daphne? You surely never believed we had that sort of relationship? It's true she's been giving me night classes but not the type you think. In any case, there's only ever been one man in Daphne's life, and it's certainly not Charlie Trumper for the simple reason she's known all along that there's only been one woman in mine."

"But—"

"And I've loved you for such a long time, Becky."

"Oh, my God," said Becky, placing her head in her hands.

"I'm sorry," said Charlie. "I thought you knew. Daphne told me women always know these things."

"I had no idea, Charlie. I've been so blind as well as stupid."

"I haven't looked at another woman since the day I came back from Edinburgh. I suppose I just 'oped you might love me a little," he said.

"I'll always love you a little, Charlie, but I'm afraid it's Guy I'm in love with."

"Lucky brighter. And to think I saw you first. Your father once chased me out of 'is shop, you know, when he 'eard me calling you 'Posh Porky' behind your back." Becky smiled. "You see, I've always been able to grab everything I really wanted in life, so 'ow did I let you get away?"

Becky was unable to look up at him.

"He's an officer, of course, and I'm not. That would explain it." Charlie had stopped pacing round the room and came to halt in front of her.

"You're a general, Charlie."

"It's not the same, though, is it?"

Chapter 12

Becky stopped, checked carefully over the few sentences she had written, groaned, crumpled up the notepaper and dropped it in the wastepaper basket that rested at her feet. She stood up, stretched and started to pace around the room in the hope that she might be able to dream up some new excuse for not continuing with her task. It was already twelve-thirty so she could now go to bed, claiming that she had been too weary to carry on—only Becky knew that she wouldn't be able to sleep until the letter had been completed. She returned to her desk and tried to settle herself again before reconsidering the opening line. She picked up her pen.

Oh no, thought Becky, and tore up her latest effort before once again dropping the scraps of paper into the wastepaper basket. She traipsed off to the kitchen to make herself a pot of tea. After her second cup, she reluctantly returned to her writing desk and settled herself again.

"And by the way I'm pregnant," said Becky out loud, and tore up her third attempt. She replaced the top on her pen, deciding the time had come to take a walk round the square. She picked up her coat from its hook in the hall, ran down the stairs and let herself out. She strolled aimlessly up and down the deserted road seemingly unaware of the hour. She was pleased to find that "Sold" signs now appeared in the windows of Numbers 131 and 135. She stopped outside the old antiques shop for a moment, cupped her hands round her eyes and peered in through the window. To her horror she discovered that Mr. Rutherford had removed absolutely everything, even the gas fittings and the mantelpiece that she had assumed were fixed to the wall. That'll teach me to study an offer document more carefully next time, she thought. She continued to stare at the empty space as a mouse scurried across the floorboards. "Perhaps we should open a pet shop," she said aloud.

"Beg pardon, miss."

Becky swung round to find a policeman rattling the doorknob of 133, to be certain the premises were locked.

"Oh, good evening, Constable," said Becky sheepishly, feeling guilty without any reason.

"It's nearly two in the morning, miss. You just said 'Good evening.'"

"Oh, is it?" said Becky, looking at her watch. "Oh, yes, so it is. How silly of me. You see, I live at 97." Feeling some explanation was necessary she added, "I couldn't sleep, so I decided to take a walk."

"Better join the force then. They'll be happy to keep you walking all night."

Becky laughed. "No, thank you, Constable. I think I'll just go back to my flat and try and get some sleep. Good night."

"Good night, miss," said the policeman, touching his helmet in a half salute before checking that the empty antiques shop was also safely locked up.

Becky turned and walked determinedly back down Chelsea Terrace, opened the front door of 97, climbed the staircase to the flat, took off her coat and resumed immediately to the little writing desk. She paused only for a moment before picking up her pen and starting to write.

For once the words flowed easily because she now knew exactly what needed to be said.

She was unable to control her tears as she read her words through a second time. As she folded the notepaper the bedroom door swung open and a sleepy Daphne appeared in front of her.

"You all right, darling?"

"Yes. Just felt a little queasy," explained Becky. "I decided that I needed a breath of fresh air." She deftly slipped the letter into an unmarked envelope.

"Now I'm up," said Daphne, "would you care for a cup of tea?"

"No, thank you. I've already had two cups."

"Well, I think I will . . ." Daphne disappeared into the kitchen. Becky immediately picked up her pen again and wrote on the envelope:

She had left the flat, posted the letter in the pillar box on the corner of Chelsea Terrace and returned to Number 97 even before the kettle had boiled.

Although Charlie received the occasional letter from Sal in Canada to tell him of the arrival of his latest nephew or niece, and the odd infrequent call from Grace whenever she could get away from her hospital duties, a visit from Kitty was rare indeed. But when she came to the flat it was always with the same purpose.

"I only need a couple of quid, Charlie, just to see me through," explained Kitty as she lowered herself into the one comfortable chair only moments after she had entered the room.

Charlie stared at his sister. Although she was only eighteen months older than he she already looked like a woman well into her thirties. Under the baggy shapeless cardigan there was no longer any sign of the figure that had attracted every wandering eye in the East End, and without makeup her face was already beginning to look splotchy and lined.

"It was only a pound last time," Charlie reminded her. "And that wasn't so long ago. "

"But my man's left me since then, Charlie. I'm on my own again, without even a roof over my head. Come on, do us a favor."

He continued to stare at her, thankful that Becky was not yet back from her afternoon lecture, although he suspected Kitty only came when she could be sure the till was full and Becky was safely out of the way.

"I won't be a moment," he said after a long period of silence. He slipped out of the room and headed off downstairs to the shop. Once he was sure the assistants weren't looking, he removed two pounds ten shillings from the till. He walked resignedly back upstairs to the net.

Kitty was already waiting by the door. Charlie handed over the four notes. She almost snatched the money before tucking the notes in her glove and leaving without another word.

Charlie followed her down the stairs and watched her remove a peach from the top of a neat pyramid in the corner of the shop before taking a bite, stepping out onto the pavement and hurrying off down the road.

Charlie would have to take responsibility for checking the till that night; no one must find out the exact amount he had given her.

"You'll end up having to buy this bench, Charlie Trumper," said Becky as she lowered herself down beside him.

"Not until I own every shop in the block, my lovely," he said, turning to look at her. "And how about you? When's the baby due?"

"About another five weeks, the doctor thinks."

"Got the flat all ready for the new arrival, have you?"

"Yes, thanks to Daphne letting me stay on."

"I miss her," said Charlie.

"So do I, although I've never seen her happier since Percy was discharged from the Scots guards."

"Bet it won't be long before they're engaged."

"Let's hope not," said Becky, looking across the road.

Three Trumper signs, all in gold on blue, shone back at her. The fruit and vegetable shop continued to make an excellent return and Bob Makins seemed to have grown in stature since returning from his spell of National Service. The butchers had lost a little custom after Mr. Kendrick retired, but had picked up again since Charlie had employed Mike Parker to take his place.

"Let's hope he's a better butcher than a dancer," Becky had remarked when Charlie told her the news of Sergeant Parker's appointment.

As for the grocer's, Charlie's new pride and joy, it had flourished from the first day, although as far as his staff could tell, their master seemed to be in all three shops at once.

"Stroke of genius," said Charlie, "turning that old antiques shop into a grocer's."

"So now you consider yourself to be a grocer, do you?"

"Certainly not. I'm a plain fruit and vegetable man, and always will be."

"I wonder if that's what you'll tell the girls when you own the whole block."

"That could take some time yet. So how's the balance sheet shaping up for the new shops?"

"They're both in the books to show a loss during their first year."

"But they could still make a profit, certainly break even." Charlie's voice rose in protest. "And the grocer's shop is set to—"

"Not so loud. I want Mr. Hadlow and his colleagues at the bank to discover that we've done far better than we originally predicted."

"You're an evil woman, Rebecca Salmon, that's no mistake."

"You won't be saying that, Charlie Trumper, when you need me to go begging for your next loan."

"If you're so clever, then explain to me why I can't get hold of the bookshop," said Charlie, pointing across the road at Number 141, where a single light was the only proof the building was still inhabited. "The place hasn't seen a customer in weeks from what I can tell, and even when they do it's only because someone had gone in to find directions back to Brompton Road."

"I've no idea," said Becky, laughing. "I've already had a long chat with Mr. Sneddles about buying the premises, but he just wasn't interested. You see, since his wife died, running the shop has become the only reason for him to carry on."

"But carry on doing what?" asked Charlie. "Dusting old books and stacking up ancient manuscripts?"

"He's happy just to sit around and read William Blake and his beloved war poets. As long as he sells a couple of books every month he's quite content to keep the shop open. Not everyone wants to be a millionaire, you know—as Daphne never stops reminding me.

"Possibly. So why not offer Mr. Sneddles one hundred and fifty guineas for the freehold, then charge him a rent of say ten guineas a year? That way it'll automatically fall into our hands the moment he dies."

"You're a hard man to please, Charlie Trumper, but if that's what you want, I'll give it a try."

"That is what I want, Rebecca Salmon, so get on with it."

"I'll do my best, although it may have slipped your notice that I'm about to have a baby while also trying to sit a bachelor's degree."

"That combination doesn't sound quite right to me. However, I still may need you to pull off another coup."

"Another coup?"

"Fothergill's."

"The corner shop."

"No less," said Charlie. "And you know how I feel about corner shops, Miss Salmon."

"I certainly do, Mr. Trumper. I am also aware that you know nothing about the fine art business, let alone being an auctioneer."

"Not a lot, I admit," said Charlie. "But after a couple of visits to Bond Street where I watched how they earn a living at Sotheby's, followed by a short walk down the road to St. James's to study their only real rivals, Christie's, I came to the conclusion that we might eventually be able to put that art degree of yours to some use."

Becky raised her eyebrows. "I can't wait to learn what you have planned for the rest of my life."

"Once you've finished that degree of yours," continued Charlie, ignoring the comment, "I want you to apply for a job at Sotheby's or Christie's, I don't mind which, where you can spend three to five years learning everything they're up to. The moment you consider that you're good and ready to leave, you could then poach anyone you felt was worth employing and return to run Number 1 Chelsea Terrace and open up a genuine rival to those two establishments."

"I'm still listening, Charlie Trumper."

"You see, Rebecca Salmon, you've got your father's business acumen. I hope you like that word. Combine that with the one thing you've always loved and also have a natural talent for, how can you fail?"

"Thank you for the compliment, but may I, while we're on the subject, ask where Mr. Fothergill fits into your master plan?"

"He doesn't."

"What do you mean?"

"He's been losing money hand over fist for the past three years," said Charlie. "At the moment the value of the property and sale of his best stock would just about cover his losses, but that state of affairs can't last too much longer. So now you know what's expected of you."

"I certainly do, Mr. Trumper."

When September had come and gone, even Becky began to accept that Guy had no intention of responding to her letter.

As late as August Daphne reported to them that she had bumped into Mrs. Trentham at Goodwood. Guy's mother had claimed that her son was not only reveling in his duties in India but had every reason to expect an imminent announcement concerning his promotion to major. Daphne found herself only just able to keep her promise and remain silent about Becky's condition.

As the day of the birth drew nearer, Charlie made sure that Becky didn't waste any time shopping for food and even detailed one of the girls at Number 147 to help her keep the flat clean, so much so that Becky began to accuse them both of pampering her.

By the ninth month Becky didn't even bother to check the morning post, as Daphne's long-held view of Captain Trentham began to gain more credibility. Becky was surprised to find how quickly he faded from her memory, despite the fact that it was his child she was about to give birth to.

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 carrying 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?"