She was unable to control her tears as she read her words through a second time. As she folded the notepaper the bedroom door swung open and a sleepy Daphne appeared in front of her.
"You all right, darling?"
"Yes. Just felt a little queasy," explained Becky. "I decided that I needed a breath of fresh air." She deftly slipped the letter into an unmarked envelope.
"Now I'm up," said Daphne, "would you care for a cup of tea?"
"No, thank you. I've already had two cups."
"Well, I think I will . . ." Daphne disappeared into the kitchen. Becky immediately picked up her pen again and wrote on the envelope:
Captain Guy Trentham, M.C.
2nd Battalion Royal Fusiliers
Wellington Barracks
Poona
India
She had left the flat, posted the letter in the pillar box on the corner of Chelsea Terrace and returned to Number 97 even before the kettle had boiled.
Although Charlie received the occasional letter from Sal in Canada to tell him of the arrival of his latest nephew or niece, and the odd infrequent call from Grace whenever she could get away from her hospital duties, a visit from Kitty was rare indeed. But when she came to the flat it was always with the same purpose.
"I only need a couple of quid, Charlie, just to see me through," explained Kitty as she lowered herself into the one comfortable chair only moments after she had entered the room.
Charlie stared at his sister. Although she was only eighteen months older than he she already looked like a woman well into her thirties. Under the baggy shapeless cardigan there was no longer any sign of the figure that had attracted every wandering eye in the East End, and without makeup her face was already beginning to look splotchy and lined.
"It was only a pound last time," Charlie reminded her. "And that wasn't so long ago. "
"But my man's left me since then, Charlie. I'm on my own again, without even a roof over my head. Come on, do us a favor."
He continued to stare at her, thankful that Becky was not yet back from her afternoon lecture, although he suspected Kitty only came when she could be sure the till was full and Becky was safely out of the way.
"I won't be a moment," he said after a long period of silence. He slipped out of the room and headed off downstairs to the shop. Once he was sure the assistants weren't looking, he removed two pounds ten shillings from the till. He walked resignedly back upstairs to the net.
Kitty was already waiting by the door. Charlie handed over the four notes. She almost snatched the money before tucking the notes in her glove and leaving without another word.
Charlie followed her down the stairs and watched her remove a peach from the top of a neat pyramid in the corner of the shop before taking a bite, stepping out onto the pavement and hurrying off down the road.
Charlie would have to take responsibility for checking the till that night; no one must find out the exact amount he had given her.
"You'll end up having to buy this bench, Charlie Trumper," said Becky as she lowered herself down beside him.
"Not until I own every shop in the block, my lovely," he said, turning to look at her. "And how about you? When's the baby due?"
"About another five weeks, the doctor thinks."
"Got the flat all ready for the new arrival, have you?"
"Yes, thanks to Daphne letting me stay on."
"I miss her," said Charlie.
"So do I, although I've never seen her happier since Percy was discharged from the Scots guards."
"Bet it won't be long before they're engaged."
"Let's hope not," said Becky, looking across the road.
Three Trumper signs, all in gold on blue, shone back at her. The fruit and vegetable shop continued to make an excellent return and Bob Makins seemed to have grown in stature since returning from his spell of National Service. The butchers had lost a little custom after Mr. Kendrick retired, but had picked up again since Charlie had employed Mike Parker to take his place.
"Let's hope he's a better butcher than a dancer," Becky had remarked when Charlie told her the news of Sergeant Parker's appointment.
As for the grocer's, Charlie's new pride and joy, it had flourished from the first day, although as far as his staff could tell, their master seemed to be in all three shops at once.
"Stroke of genius," said Charlie, "turning that old antiques shop into a grocer's."
"So now you consider yourself to be a grocer, do you?"
"Certainly not. I'm a plain fruit and vegetable man, and always will be."
"I wonder if that's what you'll tell the girls when you own the whole block."
"That could take some time yet. So how's the balance sheet shaping up for the new shops?"
"They're both in the books to show a loss during their first year."
"But they could still make a profit, certainly break even." Charlie's voice rose in protest. "And the grocer's shop is set to—"
"Not so loud. I want Mr. Hadlow and his colleagues at the bank to discover that we've done far better than we originally predicted."
"You're an evil woman, Rebecca Salmon, that's no mistake."
"You won't be saying that, Charlie Trumper, when you need me to go begging for your next loan."
"If you're so clever, then explain to me why I can't get hold of the bookshop," said Charlie, pointing across the road at Number 141, where a single light was the only proof the building was still inhabited. "The place hasn't seen a customer in weeks from what I can tell, and even when they do it's only because someone had gone in to find directions back to Brompton Road."
"I've no idea," said Becky, laughing. "I've already had a long chat with Mr. Sneddles about buying the premises, but he just wasn't interested. You see, since his wife died, running the shop has become the only reason for him to carry on."
"But carry on doing what?" asked Charlie. "Dusting old books and stacking up ancient manuscripts?"
"He's happy just to sit around and read William Blake and his beloved war poets. As long as he sells a couple of books every month he's quite content to keep the shop open. Not everyone wants to be a millionaire, you know—as Daphne never stops reminding me.
"Possibly. So why not offer Mr. Sneddles one hundred and fifty guineas for the freehold, then charge him a rent of say ten guineas a year? That way it'll automatically fall into our hands the moment he dies."
"You're a hard man to please, Charlie Trumper, but if that's what you want, I'll give it a try."
"That is what I want, Rebecca Salmon, so get on with it."
"I'll do my best, although it may have slipped your notice that I'm about to have a baby while also trying to sit a bachelor's degree."
"That combination doesn't sound quite right to me. However, I still may need you to pull off another coup."
"Another coup?"
"Fothergill's."
"The corner shop."
"No less," said Charlie. "And you know how I feel about corner shops, Miss Salmon."
"I certainly do, Mr. Trumper. I am also aware that you know nothing about the fine art business, let alone being an auctioneer."
"Not a lot, I admit," said Charlie. "But after a couple of visits to Bond Street where I watched how they earn a living at Sotheby's, followed by a short walk down the road to St. James's to study their only real rivals, Christie's, I came to the conclusion that we might eventually be able to put that art degree of yours to some use."
Becky raised her eyebrows. "I can't wait to learn what you have planned for the rest of my life."
"Once you've finished that degree of yours," continued Charlie, ignoring the comment, "I want you to apply for a job at Sotheby's or Christie's, I don't mind which, where you can spend three to five years learning everything they're up to. The moment you consider that you're good and ready to leave, you could then poach anyone you felt was worth employing and return to run Number 1 Chelsea Terrace and open up a genuine rival to those two establishments."