"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.