"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."