As the Crow Flies

As Becky drew her bath, she thought about Daphne’s words, delivered with humor and affection but still highlighting the problems she faced when trying to cross the established social barriers for more than a few moments.

Daphne had indeed introduced her to Guy, only a few weeks before, when Daphne had persuaded her to make up a party to see La Bohème at Covent Garden. Becky could still recall that first meeting clearly. She had tried so hard not to like him as they shared a drink at the Crush Bar, especially after Daphne’s warning about his reputation. She had tried not to stare too obviously at the slim young man who stood before her. His thick blond hair, deep blue eyes and effortless charm had probably captivated the hearts of a host of women that evening, but as Becky assumed that every girl received exactly the same treatment, she avoided allowing herself to be flattered by him. She regretted her offhand attitude the moment he had returned to his box, and found that during the second act she spent a considerable amount of her time just staring across at him, then turning her attention quickly back to the stage whenever their eyes met.

The following evening Daphne asked her what she had thought of the young officer she had met at the opera.

“Remind me of his name,” said Becky.

“Oh, I see,” said Daphne. “Affected you that badly, did he?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But so what? Can you see a young man with a background like his taking any interest in a girl from Whitechapel?”

“Yes, I can actually, although I suspect he’s only after one thing.”

“Then you’d better warn him I’m not that sort of girl,” said Becky.

“I don’t think that’s ever put him off in the past,” replied Daphne. “However, to start with he’s asking if you would care to accompany him to the theater along with some friends from his regiment. How does that strike you?”

“I’d love to.”

“I thought you might,” said Daphne. “So I told him ‘yes’ without bothering to consult you.”

Becky laughed but had to wait another five days before she actually saw the young officer again. After he had come to collect her at the flat they joined a party of junior officers and debutantes at the Haymarket Theatre to see Pygmalion by the fashionable playwright George Bernard Shaw. Becky enjoyed the new play despite a girl called Amanda—giggling all the way through the first act and then refusing to hold a conversation with her during the interval.

Over dinner at the Cafe Royal, she sat next to Guy and told him everything about herself from her birth in Whitechapel through to winning a place at Bedford College the previous year.

After Becky had bade her farewells to the rest of the party Guy drove her back to Chelsea and having said, “Good night, Miss Salmon,” shook her by the hand.

Becky assumed that she would not be seeing the young officer again.

But Guy dropped her a note the next day, inviting her to a reception at the mess. This was followed a week later by a dinner, then a ball, and after that regular outings took place culminating in an invitation to spend the weekend with his parents in Berkshire.

Daphne did her best to brief Becky fully on the family. The major, Guy’s father, was a sweetie, she assured her, farmed seven hundred acres of dairy land in Berkshire, and was also master of the Buckhurst Hunt.

It took Daphne several attempts to explain what “riding to hounds” actually meant, though she had to admit that even Eliza Doolittle would have been hard pushed to understand fully why they bothered with the exercise in the first place.

“Guy’s mother, however, is not graced with the same generous instincts as the major,” Daphne warned. “She is a snob of the first order.” Becky’s heart sank. “Second daughter of a baronet, who was created by Lloyd George for making things they stick on the end of tanks. Probably gave large donations to the Liberal Party at the same time, I’ll be bound. Second generation, of course. They’re always the worst.” Daphne checked the seams on her stockings. “My family have been around for seventeen generations, don’t you know, so we feel we haven’t an awful lot to prove. We’re quite aware that we don’t possess a modicum of brain between us, but by God we’re rich, and by Harry we’re ancient. However, I fear the same cannot be said for Captain Guy Trentham.”

CHAPTER

8

Becky woke the next morning before her alarm went off, and was up, dressed and had left the flat long before Daphne had even stirred. She couldn’t wait to find out how Charlie was coping on his first day. As she walked towards 147 she noticed that the shop was already open, and a lone customer was receiving Charlie’s undivided attention.

“Good mornin’, partner,” shouted Charlie from behind the counter as Becky stepped into the shop.

“Good morning,” Becky replied. “I see you’re determined to spend your first day just sitting back and watching how it all works.”

Charlie, she was to discover, had begun serving customers before Gladys and Patsy had arrived, while poor Bob Makins looked as if he had already completed a full day’s work.

“’Aven’t the time to chatter to the idle classes at the moment,” said Charlie, his cockney accent seeming broader than ever. “Any ’ope of catching up with you later this evening?”

“Of course,” said Becky.

She checked her watch, waved goodbye and departed for her first lecture of the morning. She found it hard to concentrate on the history of the Renaissance era, and even slides of Raphael’s work, reflected from a magic lantern onto a white sheet, couldn’t fully arouse her interest. Her mind kept switching from the anxiety of eventually having to spend a weekend with Guy’s parents to the problems of Charlie making enough of a profit to clear their debt with Daphne. Becky admitted to herself that she felt more confident of the latter. She was relieved to see the black hand of the clock pass four-thirty. Once again she ran to catch the tram on the corner of Portland Place—and continued to run after the trudging vehicle had deposited her in Chelsea Terrace.

A little queue had formed at Trumper’s and Becky could hear Charlie’s familiar old catchphrases even before she reached the front door.

“’Alf a pound of your King Edward’s, a juicy grapefruit from South Africa, and why don’t I throw in a nice Cox’s orange pippin, all for a bob, my luv?” Grand dames, ladies-in-waiting and nannies, all who would have turned their noses up had anyone else called them “luv,” seemed to melt when Charlie uttered the word. It was only after the last customer had left that Becky was able to take in properly the changes Charlie had already made to the shop.