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.”
By the time I got up the next morning, I had determined to sell the baker’s shop to the highest bidder—unless Charlie Trumper was willing to take on the responsibility himself. Looking back, I certainly had my doubts about whether Charlie was capable of doing the job but in the end they were outweighed by Tata’s high opinion of him.
During my lessons that morning I prepared a plan of action. As soon as school was over I took the train from Hammersmith to Whitechapel, then continued the rest of the journey on foot to Charlie’s home.
Once at Number 112 I banged on the door with the palm of my hand and waited—I remember being surprised that the Trumpers didn’t have a knocker. My call was eventually answered by one of those awful sisters, but I wasn’t quite sure which one it was. I told her I needed to speak to Charlie, and wasn’t surprised to be left standing on the doorstep while she disappeared back into the house. She returned a few minutes later and somewhat grudgingly led me into a little room at the back.
When I left twenty minutes later I felt I had come off with rather the worst of the bargain but another of my father’s aphorisms came to mind: “shnorrers no choosers.”
The following day I signed up for an accountancy course as an “extra option.” The lessons took place during the evening and then only after I had finished my regular schoolwork for the day. To begin with I found the subject somewhat tedious, but as the weeks passed I became fascinated by how meticulously recording each transaction could prove to be so beneficial even to our little business. I had no idea so much money could be saved by simply understanding a balance sheet, debt repayments and how to make claims against tax. My only worry was that I suspected Charlie had never bothered to pay any tax in the first place.
I even began to enjoy my weekly visits to Whitechapel, where I would be given the chance to show off my newfound skills. Although I remained resolute that my partnership with Charlie would come to an end the moment I was offered a place at university, I still believed that with his energy and drive, combined with my levelheaded approach in all matters financial, we would surely have impressed my father and perhaps even Granpa Charlie.
As the time approached for me to concentrate on my matriculation, I decided to offer Charlie the opportunity to buy out my share of the partnership and even arranged for a qualified accountant to replace me in order that they could take over the bookkeeping. Then, yet again, those Germans upset my best laid plans.
This time they killed Charlie’s father, which was a silly mistake because it only made the young fool sign up to fight the lot of them on his own. Typically he didn’t even bother to consult anyone. Off he went to Great Scotland Yard, in that frightful double-breasted suit, silly flat cap and flashy green tie, carrying all the worries of the Empire on his shoulders, leaving me to pick up the pieces. It was little wonder I lost so much weight over the next year, which my mother considered a small compensation for having to associate with the likes of Charlie Trumper.
To make matters worse, a few weeks after Charlie had boarded the train for Edinburgh I was offered a place at London University.
Charlie had left me with only two choices: I could try to run the baker’s shop myself and give up any thought of taking a degree, or I could sell out to the highest bidder. He had dropped me a note the day he left advising me to sell, so sell I did, but despite many hours spent traipsing round the East End I could only find one interested party: Mr. Cohen, who had for some years conducted his tailor’s business from above my father’s shop and wanted to expand. He made me a fair offer in the circumstances and I even picked up another two pounds from one of the street traders for Charlie’s huge barrow; but hard though I tried I couldn’t find a buyer for Granpa Charlie’s dreadful old nineteenth-century relic.
I immediately placed all the money I had collected on deposit in the Bow Building Society at 102 Cheapside for a period of one year at a rate of four percent. I had had no intention of touching it while Charlie Trumper was still away at war, until some five months later Kitty Trumper visited me in Romford. She burst into tears and told me that Charlie had been killed on the Western Front. She added that she didn’t know what would become of the family now that her brother was no longer around to take care of them. I immediately explained to her what my arrangement with Charlie had been, and that at least brought a smile to her face. She agreed to accompany me to the building society the next day so that we could withdraw Charlie’s share of the money.
It was my intention to carry out Charlie’s wishes and see that his share of the money was distributed equally between his three sisters. However, the manager of the society pointed out to us both in the politest possible terms that I was unable to withdraw one penny of the deposit until the first full year had been completed. He even produced the document I had signed to that effect, bringing to my attention the relevant clause. On learning this Kitty immediately leaped up, let out a stream of obscenities that caused the under-manager to turn scarlet, and then flounced out.
Later, I had cause to be grateful for that clause. I could so easily have divided Charlie’s sixty percent between Sal, Grace, and that awful Kitty, who had so obviously lied about her brother’s death. I only became aware of the truth when in July Grace wrote from the front to let me know that Charlie was being sent to Edinburgh following the second battle of the Marne. I vowed there and then to give him his share of the money the day he set foot in England; I wanted to be rid of all those Trumpers and their distracting problems once and for all.
I only wish Tata had lived to see me take up my place at Bedford College. His daughter at London University Whitechapel would never have heard the end of it. But a German zeppelin had put paid to that and crippled my mother into the bargain. As it turned out, Mother was still delighted to remind all her friends that I had been among the first women from the East End to sign the register.
After I had written my letter of acceptance to Bedford I began to look for digs nearer the university: I was determined to show some independence. My mother, whose heart had never fully recovered from the shock of losing Tata, retired to the suburbs to live with Aunt Harriet in Romford. She couldn’t understand why I needed to lodge in London at all, but insisted that any accommodation I settled on had to be approved by the university authorities. She emphasized that I could only share rooms with someone Tata would have considered “acceptable.” Mother never stopped telling me she didn’t care for the lax morals that had become so fashionable since the outbreak of the war.
Although I had kept in contact with several school friends from St. Paul’s, I knew only one who was likely to have surplus accommodation in London, and I considered she might well turn out to be my one hope of not having to spend the rest of my life on a train somewhere between Romford and Regent’s Park. I wrote to Daphne Harcourt-Browne the following day.
She replied inviting me round to tea at her little flat in Chelsea. When I first saw her again I was surprised to find that I was now a little taller than Daphne but that she had lost almost as much weight as I had. Daphne not only welcomed me with open arms but to my surprise expressed delight at the thought of my occupying one of her spare rooms. I insisted that I should pay her rent of five shillings a week and also asked her, somewhat tentatively, if she felt able to come and have tea with my mother in Romford. Daphne seemed amused by the thought and traveled down to Essex with me on the following Tuesday.
My mother and aunt hardly uttered a word the entire afternoon. A monologue that centered on hunt balls, riding to hounds, polo and the disgraceful decline of the manners of guards officers were hardly subjects about which they were often invited to give an opinion. By the time Aunt Harriet had served a second round of muffins I wasn’t at all surprised to see my mother happily nodding her approval.
In fact, the only embarrassing moment the entire afternoon came when Daphne carried the tray out into the kitchen—something I suspected she had not done often before—and spotted my final school report pinned to the pantry door. Mother sm
iled and added to my humiliation by reading its contents out loud: “Miss Salmon displays an uncommon capacity for hard work which, combined with an inquiring and intuitive mind, should augur well for her future at Bedford College. Signed Miss Potter, Headmistress.”
“Ma certainly didn’t bother to display my final report anywhere” was all Daphne had to say on the subject.
After I had moved into Chelsea Terrace, life for both of us quickly settled into a routine. Daphne flitted from party to party while I walked at a slightly faster pace from lecture hall to lecture hall, our two paths rarely crossing.
Despite my apprehension, Daphne turned out to be a wonderful companion to share digs with. Although she showed little interest in my academic life—her energies were spent in the pursuit of foxes and guards officers—she was always brimful of common sense on every subject under the sun, not to mention having constant contact with a string of eligible young men who seemed to arrive in a never-ending convoy at the front door of 97 Chelsea Terrace.