I
tried to recall all the lessons Tata had taught me when I was a child. If a
queue was long then you must serve the customers quickly, but if short you had
to take your time: that way the shop would never be empty. People don’t like to
go into empty shops, he explained; it makes them feel insecure.
“On
your awning,” he would insist, “should be printed in bold lettering the words ‘Dan
Salmon, freshly baked bread, Founded in 1879.’ Repeat name and date at every
opportunity; the sort of people who live in the East End like to know you’ve
been around for some time. Queues and history: the British have always
appreciated the value of both.”
I
tried to implement this philosophy, as I suspected Chelsea was no different
from the East End. But in our case the blue awning read, “Charlie Trumper, the
honest trader, founded in 1823.” For a few days I had even considered calling
the shop “Trumper and Salmon,” but dropped that idea when I realized it would
only tie me in with Charlie for life.
One
of the big differences I discovered between the East and the West End was that
in Whitechapel the names of debtors were chalked up on a slate, whereas in
Chelsea they opened an account. To my surprise, bad debts turned out to be more
common in Chelsea than in Whitechapel. By the following month I was still
unable to pay anything back to Daphne. It was becoming daily more apparent that
my only hope now rested with Charlie.
On
the day he was due back I had lunch in the college dining hall with two friends
from my year. I munched away at my apple and toyed with a piece of cheese as I
tried to concentrate on their views on Karl Marx. Once I had sucked my third of
a pint of milk dry I picked up my books and returned to the lecture then ater.
Despite being normally mesmerized by the subject of the early Renaissance
artists, on this occasion I was grateful to see the professor stacking up his
papers a few minutes before the lecture was scheduled to end.
The
tram back to Chelsea seemed to take forever, but at last it came to a halt on
the corner of Chelsea Terrace.
I
always enjoyed walking the full length of the street to check how the other
shops were faring. First I had to pass the antiques shop where Mr. Rutherford
resided. He always raised his hat when he saw me. Then there was the women’s
clothes shop at Number 133 with its dresses in the window that I felt I would
never be able to afford. Next came Kendrick’s, the butcher’s, where Daphne kept
an account; and a few doors on from them was the Italian restaurant with its
empty cloth-covered tables. I knew the proprietor must be struggling to make a
living, because we could no longer afford to extend him any credit. Finally
came the bookshop where dear Mr. Sneddles tried to eke out a living. Although he
hadn’t sold a book in weeks he would happily sit at the counter engrossed in
his beloved William Blake until it was time to turn the sign on the front door
from “Open” to “Closed.” I smiled as I passed by but he didn’t see me.
I
calculated that if Charlie’s train had arrived at King’s Cross on time that
morning, he should have already reached Chelsea by now, even if he had had to
cover the entire journey on foot.
I
hesitated only for a moment as I approached the shop, then walked straight in.
To my chagrin, Charlie was nowhere to be seen. I immediately asked Bob Makins
if anyone had called in asking for me.
“No
one, Miss Becky,” Bob confirmed. “Don’t worry, we all remember exactly what was
expected of us if Mr. Trumper shows up.” His two new assistants, Patsy and
Gladys, nodded their agreement.
I
checked my watch a few minutes past five and decided that if Charlie hadn’t
turned up by now he was unlikely to appear before the next day. I frowned and
told Bob he could start closing up. When six chimed on the clock above the
door, I reluctantly asked him to push the blind back in and to lock up while I
checked over the day’s takings.
“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?”
“
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 Becly. “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
turnd 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 fnend’s
painting, although it looks similar, is actually a damned good copy of the
onginal.” She checked her watch. “I must be off,” she said without waming. “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 ‘angina 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... “
“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.”