"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—"