As the Crow Flies

“So you won’t be ’anging 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.”

On the walk back to Daphne’s flat Becky couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about deserting Charlie on his first night home and began to think perhaps it had been selfish of her to accept an invitation to go to a concert with Guy that night. But the battalion didn’t give him that many evenings off during the week, and if she didn’t see him when he was free it often turned out to be several days before they could spend another evening together.

As she opened the front door of 97, Becky could hear Daphne splashing around in the bath.

“Has he changed?” her friend shouted on hearing the door close.

“Who?” asked Becky, walking through to the bedroom.

“Charlie, of course,” said Daphne, pushing open the bathroom door. She stood leaning against the tiled wall with a towel wrapped around her body. She was almost enveloped in a cloud of steam.

Becky considered the question for a moment. “He’s changed, yes; a lot, in fact, except for his clothes and voice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the voice is the same—I’d recognize it anywhere. The clothes are the same—I’d recognize them anywhere. But he’s not the same.”

“Am I meant to understand all that?” asked Daphne, as she began to rub her hair vigorously.

“Well, as he pointed out to me, Bob Makins is only a year younger than he is, but Charlie seems about ten years older than either of us. It must be something that happens to men once they’ve served on the Western Front.”

“You shouldn’t be surprised by that, but what I want to know is: did the shop come as a surprise to him?”

“Yes, I think I can honestly say it did.” Becky slipped out of her dress. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a pair of stockings I could borrow, have you?”

“Third drawer down,” said Daphne. “But in exchange I’d like to borrow your legs.”

Becky laughed.

“What’s he like to look at?” Daphne continued as she threw her wet towel on the bathroom floor.

Becky considered the question. “An inch, perhaps two, under six feet, every bit as large as his father, only in his case it’s muscle, not fat. He’s not exactly Douglas Fairbanks, but some might consider him handsome.”

“He’s beginning to sound my type,” said Daphne as she rummaged around among her clothes to find something suitable.

“Hardly, my dear,” said Becky. “I can’t see Brigadier Harcourt-Browne welcoming Charlie Trumper to morning sherry before the Cottenham Hunt.”

“You’re such a snob, Rebecca Salmon,” said Daphne, laughing. “We may share rooms, but don’t forget you and Charlie originate from the same stable. Come to think of it, you only met Guy because of me.”

“Too true,” Becky said, “but surely I get a little credit for St. Paul’s and London University?”

“Not where I come from, you don’t,” said Daphne, as she checked her nails. “Can’t stop and chatter with the working class now, darling,” she continued. “Must be off. Henry Bromsgrove is taking me to a flapper dance in Chelsea. And wet as our Henry is, I do enjoy an invitation to stalk at his country home in Scotland every August. Tootle pip!”