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 turned 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 friend’s painting, although it looks similar, is actually a damned good copy of the original.” She checked her watch. “I must be off,” she said without warning. “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.”