"What's your game then?" asked the man, holding up the razor firmly.
"I live 'ere," said Charlie.
"Like 'ell you do. I took over this dump six months ago."
"But—"
"No buts," said the man and without warning gave Charlie a shove in the chest which propelled him back into the street. The door slammed behind him, and Charlie heard a key turn in the lock. Not certain what to do next, he was beginning to wish he had never come home.
"'Ello, Charlie. It is Charlie, isn't it?" said a voice from behind him. "So you're not dead after all."
He swung round to see Mrs. Shorrocks standing by her front door.
"Dead?" said Charlie.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Shorrocks. "Kitty told us you'd been killed on the Western Front and that was why she 'ad to sell 112. That was months ago—'aven't seen 'er since. Didn't anyone tell you?"
"No, no one told me," said Charlie, at least glad to find someone who recognized him. He stared at his old neighbor trying to puzzle out why she looked so different.
"'Ow about some lunch, lov? You look starved."
"Thanks, Mrs. Shorrocks."
"I've just got myself a packet of fish and chips from Dunkley's. You won't 'ave forgotten how good they are. A threepenny lot, a nice piece of cod soaked in vinegar and a bag full of chips."
Charlie followed Mrs. Shorrocks into Number 110, joined her in the tiny kitchen and collapsed onto a wooden chair.
"Don't suppose you know what 'appened to my barrow or even Dan Salmon's shop?"
"Young Miss Rebecca sold 'em both. Must 'ave been a good nine months back, not that long after you left for the front, come to think of it." Mrs. Shorrocks placed the bag of chips and the fish on a piece of paper in the middle of the table. "To be fair, Kitty told us you were listed as killed on the Marne and by the time anyone found out the truth it was too late."
"May as well 'ave been," said Charlie, "for all there is to come 'ome to."
"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Shorrocks as she flicked the top off a bottle of ale, took a swig and then pushed it over to Charlie. "I 'ear there's a lot of barrows up for sale nowadays and some still goin' for bargain prices."
"Glad to 'ear it," said Charlie. "But first I must catch up with Posh Porky as I don't 'ave much capital left of my own." He paused to take his first mouthful of fish. "Any idea where she's got to?"
"Never see her round these parts nowadays, Charlie. She always was a bit 'igh and mighty for the likes of us, but I did 'ear mention that Kitty had been to see her at London University."
"London University, eh? Well, she's about to discover Charlie Trumper's very much alive, however 'igh and mighty she's become. And she'd better 'ave a pretty convincing story as to what 'appened to my share of our money." He rose from the table and gathered up his belongings, leaving the last two chips for Mrs. Shorrocks.
"Shall I open another bottle, Charlie?"
"Can't stop now, Mrs. Shorrocks. But thanks for the beer and grub—and give my best to Mr. Shorrocks."
"Bert?" she said. "'Aven't you 'eard? 'E died of an 'eart attack over six months ago, poor man. I do miss 'im." It was then that Charlie realized what was different about his old neighbor: no black eye and no bruises.
He left the house and set out to find London University, and see if he could track down Rebecca Salmon. Had she, as he'd instructed if he were listed as dead, divided the proceeds of the sale between his three sisters—Sal, now in Canada; Grace, still somewhere in France; and Kitty, God knows where? In which case there would be no capital for him to start up again other than Tommy's back pay and a few pounds he'd managed to save himself. He asked the first policeman he saw the way to London University and was pointed in the direction of the Strand. He walked another half mile until he reached an archway that had chiseled in the stone above it: "King's College." He strolled through the opening and knocked on a door marked "Inquiries," walked in and asked the man behind the counter if they had a Rebecca Salmon registered at the college. The man checked a list and shook his head. "Not 'ere," he said "But you could try the university registry in Malet Street."
After another penny tram ride Charlie was beginning to wonder where he would end up spending the night.
"Rebecca Salmon?" said a man who stood behind the desk of the university registry dressed in a corporal's uniform. "Doesn't ring no bells with me." He checked her name in a large directory he pulled out from under the desk. "Oh, yes, 'ere she is. Bedford College, 'istory of art." He was unable to hide the scorn in his voice.
"Don't have an address for 'er, do you, Corp?" asked Charlie.
"Get some service in, lad, before you call me 'corp,'" said the older man. "In fact the sooner you join up the better."
Charlie felt he had suffered enough insults for one day and suddenly let rip, "Sergeant Trumper, 7312087. I'll call you 'corp' and you'll call me 'sergeant'. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Sergeant," said the corporal, springing to attention.
"Now, what's that address?"
"She's in digs at 97 Chelsea Terrace, Sergeant."
"Thank you," said Charlie, and left the startled ex-serviceman staring after him as he began yet another journey across London.
A weary Charlie finally stepped off a tram on the corner of Chelsea Terrace a little after four o'clock. Had Becky got there before him, he wondered, even if she were only living in digs?
He walked slowly up the familiar road admiring the shops he had once dreamed of owning. Number 131—antiques, full of mahogany furniture, tables and chairs all beautifully polished. Number 133, women's clothes and hosiery from Paris, with garments displayed in the window that Charlie didn't consider it was right for a man to be looking at. On to Number 135—meat and poultry hanging from the rods at the back of the shop that looked so delicious Charlie almost forgot there was a food shortage. His eyes settled on a restaurant called "Mr. Scallini" which had opened at 139. Charlie wondered if Italian food would ever catch on in London.
Number 141—an old bookshop, musty, cobwebbed and with not a single customer to be seen. Then 143—a bespoke tailor. Suits, waistcoats, shirts and collars could, the message painted on the window assured him, be purchased by the discerning gentleman. Number 145—freshly baked bread, the smell of which was almost enough to draw one inside. He stared up and down the street in incredulity as he watched the finely dressed women going about their daily tasks, as if a World War had never taken place. No one seemed to have told them about ration books.
Charlie came to a halt outside 147 Chelsea Terrace. He gasped with delight at the sight that met his tired eyes—rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables that he would have been proud to sell. Two well-turned-out girls in green aprons and an even smarter-looking youth waited to serve a customer who was picking up a bunch of grapes.
Charlie took a pace backwards and stared up at the name above the shop. He was greeted by a sign printed in gold and blue which read: "Charlie Trumper, the honest trader, founded in 1823."
Becky
1918–1920
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.