"I'm still listening, Charlie Trumper."
"You see, Rebecca Salmon, you've got your father's business acumen. I hope you like that word. Combine that with the one thing you've always loved and also have a natural talent for, how can you fail?"
"Thank you for the compliment, but may I, while we're on the subject, ask where Mr. Fothergill fits into your master plan?"
"He doesn't."
"What do you mean?"
"He's been losing money hand over fist for the past three years," said Charlie. "At the moment the value of the property and sale of his best stock would just about cover his losses, but that state of affairs can't last too much longer. So now you know what's expected of you."
"I certainly do, Mr. Trumper."
When September had come and gone, even Becky began to accept that Guy had no intention of responding to her letter.
As late as August Daphne reported to them that she had bumped into Mrs. Trentham at Goodwood. Guy's mother had claimed that her son was not only reveling in his duties in India but had every reason to expect an imminent announcement concerning his promotion to major. Daphne found herself only just able to keep her promise and remain silent about Becky's condition.
As the day of the birth drew nearer, Charlie made sure that Becky didn't waste any time shopping for food and even detailed one of the girls at Number 147 to help her keep the flat clean, so much so that Becky began to accuse them both of pampering her.
By the ninth month Becky didn't even bother to check the morning post, as Daphne's long-held view of Captain Trentham began to gain more credibility. Becky was surprised to find how quickly he faded from her memory, despite the fact that it was his child she was about to give birth to.
Becky also felt embarrassed that most people assumed Charlie was the father, and it wasn't helped by the fact that whenever he was asked, he refused to deny it.
Meanwhile, Charlie had his eye on a couple of shops whose owners he felt might soon be willing to sell, but Daphne wouldn't hear of any further business transactions until after the child had been born.
"I don't want Becky involved in any of your dubious business enterprises before she's had the child and completed her degree. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Charlie, clicking his heels. He didn't mention that only the week before Becky had herself closed the deal with Mr. Sneddles so that the bookshop would be theirs once the old man died. There was only one clause in the agreement that Charlie remained concerned about, because he wasn't quite sure how he would get rid of that number of books.
"Miss Becky has just phoned," whispered Bob into the boss's ear one afternoon when Charlie was serving in the shop. "Says could you go round immediately. Thinks the baby's about to arrive."
"But it's not due for another two weeks," said Charlie as he pulled off his apron.
"I'm sure I don't know about that, Mr. Trumper, but all she said was to hurry."
"Has she sent for the midwife?" Charlie asked deserting a half-laden customer before grabbing his coat.
"I've no idea, sir."
"Right, take charge of the shop, because I may not be back again today." Charlie left the smiling queue of customers and ran down the road to 97, flew up the stairs, pushed open the door and marched straight on into Becky's bedroom.
He sat down beside her on the bed and held her hand for some time before either of them spoke.
"Have you sent for the midwife?" he eventually asked.
"She certainly has," said a voice from behind them, as a vast woman entered the room. She wore an old brown raincoat that was too small for her and carried a black leather bag. From the heaving of her breasts she had obviously had a struggle climbing the stairs. "I'm Mrs. Westlake, attached to St. Stephen's Hospital," she declared. "I do hope I've got here in time." Becky nodded as the midwife turned her attention to Charlie. "Now you go away and boil me some water, and quickly." Her voice sounded as if she wasn't in the habit of being questioned. Without another word Charlie jumped off the end of the bed and left the room.
Mrs. Westlake placed her large Gladstone bag on the floor and started by taking Becky's pulse.
"How long between the spasms?" she asked matter-of-factly.
"Down to twenty minutes," Becky replied.
"Excellent. Then we don't have much longer to wait."
Charlie appeared at the door carrying a bowl of hot water. "Anything else I can do?"
"Yes, there certainly is. I need every clean towel you can lay your hands on, and I wouldn't mind a cup of tea."
Charlie ran back out of the room.
"Husbands are always a nuisance on these occasions," Mrs. Westlake declared. "One must simply keep them on the move."
Becky was about to explain to her about Charlie when another contraction gripped her.
"Breathe deeply and slowly, my dear," encouraged Mrs. Westlake in a gentler voice, as Charlie came back with three towels and a kettle of hot water.
Without turning to see who it was, Mrs. Westlake continued. "Leave the towels on the sideboard, pour the water in the largest bowl you've got, then put the kettle back on so that I've always got more hot water whenever I call for it."
Charlie disappeared again without a word.
"I wish I could get him to do that," gasped Becky admiringly.
"Oh, don't worry, my dear. I can't do a thing with my own husband and we've got seven children."
A couple of minutes later Charlie pushed open the door with a foot and carried another bowl of steaming water over to the bedside.
"On the side table," said Mrs. Westlake, pointing. "And try not to forget my tea. After that I shall still need more towels," she added.
Becky let out a loud groan.
"Hold my hand and keep breathing deeply," said the midwife.
Charlie soon reappeared with another kettle of water, and was immediately instructed to empty the bowl before refilling it with the new supply. After he had completed the task, Mrs. Westlake said, "You can wait outside until I call for you."
Charlie left the room, gently pulling the door closed behind him.
He seemed to be making countless cups of tea, and carrying endless kettles of water, backwards and forwards, always arriving with the wrong one at the wrong time until finally he was shut out of the bedroom and left to pace up and down the kitchen fearing the worst. Then he heard the plaintive little cry.
Becky watched from her bed as the midwife held up her child by one leg and nave it a gentle smack on the bottom. "I always enjoy that," said Mrs. Westlake. "Feels good to know you've brought something new into the world." She wrapped up the child in a tea towel and handed the bundle back to its mother.
"It's?"
"A boy, I'm afraid," said the midwife. "So the world is unlikely to be advanced by one jot or little. You'll have to produce a daughter next time," she said, smiling broadly. "If he's still up to it, of course." She pointed a thumb towards the closed door.
"But he's—" Becky tried again.
"Useless, I know. Like all men." Mrs. Westlake opened the bedroom door in search of Charlie. "It's all over, Mr. Salmon. You can stop skulking around and come and have a look at your son."
Charlie came in so quickly that he nearly knocked the midwife over. He stood at the end of the bed and stared down at the tiny figure in Becky's arms.
"He's an ugly little fellow, isn't he?" said Charlie.
"Well, we know who to blame for that," said the midwife. "Let's just hope this one doesn't end up with a broken nose. In any case, as I've already explained to your wife, what you need next is a daughter. By the way, what are you going to call this one?"