Charlie put his cap back on and turned to go, the box under one arm, a brown paper parcel under the other and a ticket to London in his top pocket.
As he marched out of the barracks to make his way to the station—he wondered how long it would be before he could walk at a normal pace—when he reached the guardroom he stopped and turned round for one last look at the parade ground. A set of raw recruits was marching up and down with a new drill instructor who sounded every bit as determined as the late Sergeant Major Philpott had been to see that the snow was never allowed to settle.
Charlie turned his back on the parade ground and began his journey to London. He was nineteen years of age and had only just qualified to receive the King’s shilling; but now he was a couple of inches taller, shaved and had even come near to losing his virginity.
He’d done his bit, and at least felt able to agree with the Prime Minister on one matter. He had surely taken part in the war to end all wars.
The night sleeper from Edinburgh was full of men in uniform who eyed the civilian-clad Charlie with suspicion, as a man who hadn’t yet served his country or, worse, was a conscientious objector.
“They’ll be calling him up soon enough,” said a corporal to his mate in a loud whisper from the far side of the carriage. Charlie smiled but didn’t comment.
He slept intermittently, amused by the thought that he might have found it easier to rest in a damp, muddy trench with rats and cockroaches for companions. By the time the train pulled into King’s Cross Station at seven the following morning, he had a stiff neck and an aching back. He stretched himself before he picked up his large paper parcel along with Tommy’s life possessions.
At the station he bought a sandwich and a cup of tea. He was surprised when the girl asked him for three pence. “Tuppence for those what are in uniform,” he was told with undisguised disdain. Charlie downed the tea and left the station without another word.
The roads were busier and more hectic than he remembered, but he still jumped confidently on a tram that had “City” printed across the front. He sat alone on a trestled wooden bench, wondering what changes he would find on his return to the East End. Did his shop flourish, was it simply ticking over, had it been sold or even gone bankrupt? And what of the biggest barrow in the world?
He jumped off the tram at Poultry, deciding to walk the final mile. His pace quickened as the accents changed; City gents in long black coats and bowlers gave way to professional men in dark suits and trilbies, to be taken over by rough lads in ill-fitting clothes and caps, until Charlie finally arrived in the East End, where even the boaters had been abandoned by those under thirty.
As Charlie approached the Whitechapel Road, he stopped and stared at the frantic bustle taking place all around him. Hooks of meat, barrows of vegetables, trays of pies, urns of tea passed him in every direction.
But what of the baker’s shop, and his grandfather’s pitch? Would they be “all present and correct”? He pulled his cap down over his forehead and slipped quietly into the market.
When he reached the corner of the Whitechapel Road he wasn’t sure he had come to the right place. The baker’s shop was no longer there but had been replaced by a bespoke tailor who traded under the name of Jacob Cohen. Charlie pressed his nose against the window but couldn’t recognize anyone who was working inside. He swung round to stare at the spot where the barrow of “Charlie Trumper, the honest trader” had stood for nearly a century, only to find a gaggle of youths warming themselves round a charcoal fire where a man was selling chestnuts at a penny a bag. Charlie parted with a penny and was handed a bagful, but no one even gave him a second glance. Perhaps Becky had sold everything as he instructed, he thought, as he left the market to carry on down Whitechapel Road where at least he would have a chance to catch up with one of his sisters, rest and gather his thoughts.
When he arrived outside Number 112, he was pleased to find that the front door had been repainted. God bless Sal. He pushed the door open and walked straight into the parlor, where he came face to face with an overweight, half-shaven man dressed in a vest and trousers who was brandishing an open razor.
“What’s your game then?” asked the man, holding up the razor firmly.
“I live ’ere,” said Charlie.
“Like ’ell you do. I took over this dump six months ago.”
“But—”
“No buts,” said the man and without warning gave Charlie a shove in the chest which propelled him back into the street. The door slammed behind him, and Charlie heard a key turn in the lock. Not certain what to do next, he was beginning to wish he had never come home.
“’Ello, Charlie. It is Charlie, isn’t it?” said a voice from behind him. “So you’re not dead after all.”
He swung round to see Mrs. Shorrocks standing by her front door.
“Dead?” said Charlie.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Shorrocks. “Kitty told us you’d been killed on the Western Front and that was why she ’ad to sell 112. That was months ago—’aven’t seen ’er since. Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“No, no one told me,” said Charlie, at least glad to find someone who recognized him. He stared at his old neighbor trying to puzzle out why she looked so different.
“’Ow about some lunch, luv? You look starved.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Shorrocks.”
“I’ve just got myself a packet of fish and chips from Dunkley’s. You won’t ’ave forgotten how good they are. A threepenny lot, a nice piece of cod soaked in vinegar and a bag full of chips.”
Charlie followed Mrs. Shorrocks into Number 110, joined her in the tiny kitchen and collapsed onto a wooden chair.
“Don’t suppose you know what ’appened to my barrow or even Dan Salmon’s shop?”
“Young Miss Rebecca sold ’em both. Must ’ave been a good nine months back, not that long after you left for the front, come to think of it.” Mrs. Shorrocks placed the bag of chips and the fish on a piece of paper in the middle of the table. “To be fair, Kitty told us you were listed as killed on the Marne and by the time anyone found out the truth it was too late.”
“May as well ’ave been,” said Charlie, “for all there is to come ’ome to.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Shorrocks as she flicked the top off a bottle of ale, took a swig and then pushed it over to Charlie. “I ’ear there’s a lot of barrows up for sale nowadays and some still goin’ for bargain prices.”
“Glad to ’ear it,” said Charlie. “But first I must catch up with Posh Porky as I don’t ’ave much capital left of my own.” He paused to take his first mouthful of fish. “Any idea where she’s got to?”
“Never see her round these parts nowadays, Charlie. She always was a bit ’igh and mighty for the likes of us, but I did ’ear mention that Kitty had been to see her at London University.”
“London University, eh? Well, she’s about to discover Charlie Trumper’s very much alive, however ’igh and mighty she’s become. And she’d better ’ave a pretty convincing story as to what ’appened to my share of our money.” He rose from the table and gathered up his belongings, leaving the last two chips for Mrs. Shorrocks.
“Shall I open another bottle, Charlie?”
“Can’t stop now, Mrs. Shorrocks. But thanks for the beer and grub—and give my best to Mr. Shorrocks.”
“Bert?” she said. “’Aven’t you ’eard? ’E died of an ’eart attack over six months ago, poor man. I do miss ’im.” It was then that Charlie realized what was different about his old neighbor: no black eye and no bruises.
He left the house and set out to find London University, and see if he could track down Rebecca Salmon. Had she, as he’d instructed if he were listed as dead, divided the proceeds of the sale between his three sisters—Sal, now in Canada; Grace, still somewhere in France; and Kitty, God knows where? In which case there would be no capital for him to start up again other than Tommy’s back pay and a few pounds he’d managed to save himself. He asked the
first policeman he saw the way to London University and was pointed in the direction of the Strand. He walked another half mile until he reached an archway that had chiseled in the stone above it: “King’s College.” He strolled through the opening and knocked on a door marked “Inquiries,” walked in and asked the man behind the counter if they had a Rebecca Salmon registered at the college. The man checked a list and shook his head. “Not ’ere,” he said “But you could try the university registry in Malet Street.”
After another penny tram ride Charlie was beginning to wonder where he would end up spending the night.
“Rebecca Salmon?” said a man who stood behind the desk of the university registry dressed in a corporal’s uniform. “Doesn’t ring no bells with me.” He checked her name in a large directory he pulled out from under the desk. “Oh, yes, ’ere she is. Bedford College, ’istory of art.” He was unable to hide the scorn in his voice.
“Don’t have an address for ’er, do you, Corp?” asked Charlie.
“Get some service in, lad, before you call me ‘corp,’” said the older man. “In fact the sooner you join up the better.”
Charlie felt he had suffered enough insults for one day and suddenly let rip, “Sergeant Trumper, 7312087. I’ll call you ‘corp’ and you’ll call me ‘sergeant’. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” said the corporal, springing to attention.
“Now, what’s that address?”
“She’s in digs at 97 Chelsea Terrace, Sergeant.”
“Thank you,” said Charlie, and left the startled exserviceman staring after him as he began yet another journey across London.
A weary Charlie finally stepped off a tram on the corner of Chelsea Terrace a little after four o’clock. Had Becky got there before him, he wondered, even if she were only living in digs?
He walked slowly up the familiar road admiring the shops he had once dreamed of owning. Number 131—antiques, full of mahogany furniture, tables and chairs all beautifully polished. Number 133, women’s clothes and hosiery from Paris, with garments displayed in the window that Charlie didn’t consider it was right for a man to be looking at. On to Number 135—meat and poultry hanging from the rods at the back of the shop that looked so delicious Charlie almost forgot there was a food shortage. His eyes settled on a restaurant called “Mr. Scallini” which had opened at 139. Charlie wondered if Italian food would ever catch on in London.
Number 141—an old bookshop, musty, cob-webbed and with not a single customer to be seen. Then 143—a bespoke tailor. Suits, waistcoats, shirts and collars could, the message painted on the window assured him, be purchased by the discerning gentleman. Number 145—freshly baked bread, the smell of which was almost enough to draw one inside. He stared up and down the street in incredulity as he watched the finely dressed women going about their daily tasks, as if a World War had never taken place. No one seemed to have told them about ration books.
Charlie came to a halt outside 147 Chelsea Terrace. He gasped with delight at the sight that met his tired eyes—rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables that he would have been proud to sell. Two well-turned-out girls in green aprons and an even smarter-looking youth waited to serve a customer who was picking up a bunch of grapes.
Charlie took a pace backwards and stared up at the name above the shop. He was greeted by a sign printed in gold and blue which read: “Charlie Trumper, the honest trader, founded in 1823.”
BECKY
1918–1920
CHAPTER
6
“From 1480 to 1532,” he said.
I checked through my notes to make sure I had the correct dates, aware I had been finding it hard to concentrate. It was the last lecture of the day, and all I could think about was getting back to Chelsea Terrace.
The artist under discussion that afternoon was Bernardino Luini. I had already decided that my degree thesis would be on the life of this underrated painter from Milan. Milan…just another reason to be thankful that the war was finally over. Now I could plan excursions to Rome, Florence, Venice and yes, Milan, and study Luini’s work at first hand. Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Bellini, Caravaggio, Bernini—half the world’s art treasures in one country, and I hadn’t been able to travel beyond the walls of the Victoria and Albert.
At four-thirty a bell rang to mark the end of lectures for the day. I closed my books and watched Professor Tilsey as he pottered towards the door. I felt a little sorry for the old fellow. He had only been dragged out of retirement because so many young dons had left to fight on the Western Front. The death of Matthew Makepeace, the man who should have been lecturing that afternoon—“one of the most promising scholars of his generation,” the old Professor used to tell us—was “an inestimable loss to the department and the university as a whole.” I had to agree with him: Makepeace was one of the few men in England acknowledged as an authority on Luini. I had only attended three of his lectures before he had signed up to go to France…. The irony of such a man being riddled with German bullets while stretched over a barbed-wire fence somewhere in the middle of France was not lost on me.
I was in my first year at Bedford. It seemed there was never enough time to catch up, and I badly needed Charlie to return and take the shop off my hands. I had written to him in Edinburgh when he was in Belgium, to Belgium when he was in France and to France the very moment he arrived back in Edinburgh. The King’s mail never seemed to catch up with him, and now I didn’t want Charlie to find out what I had been up to until I had the chance to witness his reaction for myself.
Jacob Cohen had promised to send Charlie over to Chelsea the moment he reappeared in the Whitechapel Road. It couldn’t be too soon for me.
I picked up my books and stuffed them away in my old school satchel, the one my father—Tata—had given me when I won my open scholarship to St. Paul’s. The “RS” he had had so proudly stamped on the front was fading now, and the leather strap had almost worn through, so lately I had been carrying the satchel under my arm: Tata would never have considered buying me a new one while the old one still had a day’s life left in it.
How strict Tata had always been with me; even taken the strap to me on a couple of occasions, once for pinching “fress,” or buns as Mother called them, behind his back—he didn’t mind how much I took from the shop as long as I asked—and once for saying “damn” when I cut my finger peeling an apple. Although I wasn’t brought up in the Jewish faith—my mother wouldn’t hear of it—he still passed on to me all those standards that were part of his own upbringing and would never tolerate what he from time to time described as my “unacceptable behavior.”
It was to be many years later that I learned of the strictures Tata had accepted once he had proposed marriage to my mother, a Roman Catholic. He adored her and never once complained in my presence of the fact that he always had to attend shul on his own. “Mixed marriage” seems such an outdated expression nowadays but at the turn of the century it must have been quite a sacrifice for both of them to make.
I loved St. Paul’s from the first day I walked through the gates, I suppose partly because no one told me off for working too hard. The only thing I didn’t like was being called “Porky.” It was a girl from the class above me, Daphne Harcourt-Browne, who later explained its double connotation. Daphne was a curly-headed blonde known as “Snooty” and although we were not natural friends, our predilection for cream buns brought us together—especially when she discovered that I had a never-ending source of supply. Daphne would happily have paid for them but I wouldn’t consider it as I wanted my classmates to think we were pals. On one occasion she even invited me to her home in Chelsea, but I didn’t accept as I knew if I did I would only have to ask her back to my place in Whitechapel.
It was Daphne who gave me my first art book, The Treasures of Italy, in exchange for several cream wafers, and from that day on I knew I had stumbled across a subject I wanted to study for the rest of my life. I never asked Daphne but it always puzzled
me why one of the pages at the front of the book had been torn out.
Daphne came from one of the best families in London, certainly from what I understood to be the upper classes, so once I left St. Paul’s I assumed we would never come across each other again. After all, Lowndes Square was hardly a natural habitat for me. Although to be fair neither was the East End while it remained full of such people as the Trumpers and the Shorrocks.
And when it came to those Trumpers I could only agree with my father’s judgment. Mary Trumper, by all accounts, must have been a saint. George Trumper was a man whose behavior was unacceptable, not in the same class as his father, whom Tata used to describe as a “mensch.” Young Charlie—who was always up to no good as far as I could see—nevertheless had what Tata called “a future.” The magic must have skipped a generation, he suggested.
“The boy’s not bad for a goy,” he would tell me. “He’ll run his own shop one day, maybe even more than one, believe me.” I didn’t give this observation a lot of thought until my father’s death left me with no one else to whom I could turn.
Tata had complained often enough that he couldn’t leave his two assistants at the shop for more than an hour before something was certain to go wrong. “No saychel,” he would complain of those unwilling to take responsibility. “Can’t think what would happen to the shop if I take one day off.”
As Rabbi Glikstein read out the last rites at his levoyah, those words rang in my ears. My mother was still unconscious in hospital and they couldn’t tell me when or if she might recover. Meanwhile I was to be foisted on my reluctant Aunt Harriet, whom I had only previously met at family gatherings. It turned out that she lived in someplace called Romford and as she was due to take me back there the day after the funeral I had only been left with a few hours to make a decision. I tried to work out what my father would have done in the same circumstances and came to the conclusion that he would have taken what he so often called “a bold step.”
As the Crow Flies Page 9
