"Kitty disappeared off the face of the earth and then without warning turned up in Whitechapel with a man in a motorcar, neither of them seemed to be hers but she looked very pleased with life."
Charlie couldn't understand his sister's P.S.: "Where will you live when you get back to the East End?"
Sergeant Charles Trumper was discharged from active service on 20 February 1919, one of the early ones: the missing toe had at last counted for something. He folded up his uniform, placed his helmet on top, boots by the side, marched across the parade ground and handed them in to the quartermaster.
"I hardly recognized you, Sarge, in that old suit and cap. Don't fit any longer, do they? You must have grown during your time with the Fussies."
Charlie looked down and checked the length of his trousers: they now hung a good inch above the laces of his boots.
"Must have grown durin' my time with the Fussies," he repeated pondering the words.
"Bet your family will be glad to see you when you get back to civvy street."
"Whatever's left of them," said Charlie as he turned to go. His final task was to report to the paymaster's office and receive his last pay packet and travel voucher before relinquishing the King's shilling.
"Trumper, the duty officer would like a word with you," said the sergeant major, after Charlie had completed what he had assumed was his last duty.
Lieutenant Makepeace and Lieutenant Harvey would always be his duty officers, thought Charlie as he made his way back across the parade ground in the direction of the company offices. Some fresh-faced youth, who had not been properly introduced to the enemy, now had the nerve to try and take their place.
Charlie was about to salute the lieutenant when he remembered he was no longer in uniform, so he simply removed his cap.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
"Yes, Trumper, a personal matter." The young officer touched a large box that lay on his desk. Charlie couldn't quite see what was inside.
"It appears, Trumper, that your friend Private Prescott made a will in which he left everything to you."
Charlie was unable to hide his surprise as the lieutenant pushed the box across the table.
"Would you be kind enough to check through its contents and then sign for them?"
Another buff form was placed in front of him. Above the typed name of Private Thomas Prescott was a paragraph written in a bold large hand. An "X" was scrawled below it, witnessed by Sergeant Major Philpott.
Charlie began to remove the objects from the box one by one. Tommy's mouth organ, rusty and falling apart, seven pounds eleven shillings and sixpence in back pay, followed by a German officer's helmet. Next Charlie took out a small leather box and opened the lid to discover Tommy's Military Medal and the simple words "For bravery in the field" printed across the back. He removed the medal and held it in the palm of his hand.
"Must have been a jolly brave chap, Prescott," said the lieutenant. "Salt of the earth and all that."
"And all that," agreed Charlie.
"A religious man as well?"
"No, can't pretend 'e was," said Charlie, allowing himself a smile. "Why do you ask?"
"The picture," said the lieutenant, pointing back into the box. Charlie leaned forward and stared down in disbelief at a painting of the Virgin Mary and Child. It was about eight inches square and framed in black teak. He took the portrait out and held it in his hands.
He gazed at the deep reds, purples and blues that dominated the central figure in the painting, feeling certain he'd seen the image somewhere before. It was several moments before he replaced the little oil in the box along with Tommy's other possessions.
Charlie put his cap back on and turned to go, the box under one arm, a brown paper parcel under the other and a ticket to London in his top pocket.
As he marched out of the barracks to make his way to the station—he wondered how long it would be before he could walk at a normal pace—when he reached the guardroom he stopped and turned round for one last look at the parade ground. A set of raw recruits was marching up and down with a new drill instructor who sounded every bit as determined as the late Sergeant Major Philpott had been to see that the snow was never allowed to settle.
Charlie turned his back on the parade ground and began his journey to London. He was nineteen years of age and had only just qualified to receive the King's shilling; but now he was a couple of inches taller, shaved and had even come near to losing his virginity.
He'd done his bit, and at least felt able to agree with the Prime Minister on one matter. He had surely taken part in the war to end all wars.
The night sleeper from Edinburgh was full of men in uniform who eyed the civilian-clad Charlie with suspicion, as a man who hadn't yet served his country or, worse, was a conscientious objector.
"They'll be calling him up soon enough," said a corporal to his mate in a loud whisper from the far side of the carriage. Charlie smiled but didn't comment.
He slept intermittently, amused by the thought that he might have found it easier to rest in a damp muddy trench with rats and cockroaches for companions. By the time the train pulled into King's Cross Station at seven the following morning, he had a stiff neck and an aching back. He stretched himself before he picked up his large paper parcel along with Tommy's life possessions.
At the station he bought a sandwich and a cup of tea. He was surprised when the girl asked him for three pence. "Tuppence for those what are in uniform," he was told with undisguised disdain. Charlie downed the tea and left the station without another word.
The roads were busier and more hectic than he remembered, but he still jumped confidently on a tram that had "City" printed across the front. He sat alone on a trestled wooden bench, wondering what changes he would find on his return to the East End. Did his shop flourish, was it simply ticking over, had it been sold or even gone bankrupt? And what of the biggest barrow in the world?
He jumped off the tram at Poultry, deciding to walk the final mile. His pace quickened as the accents changed, City gents in long black coats and bowlers gave way to professional men in dark suits and trilbies, to be taken over by rough lads in ill-fitting clothes and caps, until Charlie finally arrived in the East End, where even the boaters had been abandoned by those under thirty.
As Charlie approached the Whitechapel Road, he stopped and stared at the frantic bustle taking place all around him. Hooks of meat, barrows of vegetables, trays of pies, urns of tea passed him in every direction.
But what of the baker's shop, and his grandfather's pitch? Would they be "all present and correct"? He pulled his cap down over his forehead and slipped quietly into the market.
When he reached the corner of the Whitechapel Road he wasn't sure he had come to the right place. The baker's shop was no longer there but had been replaced by a bespoke tailor who traded under the name of Jacob Cohen. Charlie pressed his nose against the window but couldn't recognize anyone who was working inside. He swung round to stare at the spot where the barrow of "Charlie Trumper, the honest trader" had stood for nearly a century, only to find a gaggle of youths warming themselves round a charcoal fire where a man was selling chestnuts at a penny a bag.
Charlie parted with a penny and was handed a bagful, but no one even gave him a second glance. Perhaps Becky had sold everything as he instructed, he thought, as he left the market to carry on down Whitechapel Road where at least he would have a chance to catch up with one of his sisters, rest and gather his thoughts.
When he arrived outside Number 112, he was pleased to find that the front door had been repainted. God bless Sal. He pushed the door open and walked straight into the parlor, where he came face to face with an overweight, half-shaven man dressed in a vest and trousers who was brandishing an open razor.