“Up all night, wasn’t I?” he told her. “Removin’ ’alf-empty boxes and unsaleable items. Ended up with all the colorful vegetables, your tomatoes, your greens, your peas, all soft, placed at the back; while all your ’ardy unattractive variety you put up front. Potatoes, swedes, and turnips. It’s a go
lden rule.”
“Granpa Charlie—” she began with a smile, but stopped herself just in time.
Becky began to study the rearranged counters and had to agree that it was far more practical the way Charlie had insisted they should be laid out. And she certainly couldn’t argue with the smiles on the faces of the customers.
Within a month, a queue stretching out onto the pavement became part of Charlie’s daily routine and within two he was already talking to Becky of expanding.
“Where to?” she asked. “Your bedroom?”
“No room for vegetables up there,” he replied with a grin. “Not since we’ve ’ad longer queues at Trumper’s than what they ’ave outside Pygmalion. What’s more, we’re goin’ to run forever.”
After she had checked and rechecked the takings for the quarter, Becky couldn’t believe how much they had turned over; she decided perhaps the time had come for a little celebration.
“Why don’t we all have dinner at that Italian restaurant?” suggested Daphne, after she had received a far larger check for the past three months than she had anticipated.
Becky thought it a wonderful idea, but was surprised to find how reluctant Guy was to fall in with her plans, and also how much trouble Daphne took getting herself ready for the occasion.
“We’re not expecting to spend all the profits in one evening,” Becky assured her.
“More’s the pity,” said Daphne. “Because it’s beginning to look as if it might be the one chance I’m given to enforce the penalty clause. Not that I’m complaining. After all, Charlie will be quite a change from the usual chinless vicars’ sons and stableboys with no legs that I have to endure most weekends.”
“Be careful he doesn’t end up eating you for dessert.”
Becky had warned Charlie that the table had been booked for eight o’clock and made him promise he would wear his best suit. “My only suit,” he reminded her.
Guy collected the two girls from Number 97 on the dot of eight, but seemed unusually morose as he accompanied them to the restaurant, arriving a few minutes after the appointed hour. They found Charlie sitting alone in the corner fidgeting and looking as if it might be the first time he had ever been to a restaurant.
Becky introduced first Daphne to Charlie and then Charlie to Guy. The two men just stood and stared at each other like prizefighters.
“Of course, you were both in the same regiment,” said Daphne. “But I don’t suppose you ever came across each other,” she added, staring at Charlie. Neither man commented on her observation.
If the evening started badly, it was only to become worse, as the four of them were quite unable to settle on any subject with which they had something in common. Charlie, far from being witty and sharp as he was with the customers in the shop, became surly and uncommunicative. If Becky could have reached his ankle she would have kicked him, and not simply because he kept putting a knife covered with peas in his mouth.
Guy’s particular brand of sullen silence didn’t help matters either, despite Daphne laughing away, bubbly as ever, whatever anyone said. By the time the bill was finally presented, Becky was only too relieved that the evening was coming to an end. She even had discreetly to leave a tip, because Charlie didn’t seem to realize it was expected of him.
She left the restaurant at Guy’s side and the two of them lost contact with Daphne and Charlie as they strolled back towards 97. She assumed that her companions were only a few paces behind, but stopped thinking about where they might be when Guy took her in his arms, kissed her gently and said, “Good night, my darling. And don’t forget, we’re going down to Ashurst for the weekend.” How could she forget? Becky watched Guy look back furtively in the direction that Daphne and Charlie had been walking, but then without another word he hailed a hansom and instructed the cabbie to take him to the Fusiliers’ barracks in Hounslow.
Becky unlocked the front door and sat down on the sofa to consider whether or not she should return to 147 and tell Charlie exactly what she thought of him. A few minutes later Daphne breezed into the room.
“Sorry about this evening,” said Becky before her friend had had the chance to offer an opinion. “Charlie’s usually a little more communicative than that. I can’t think what came over him.”
“Not easy for him to have dinner with an officer from his old regiment, I suspect,” said Daphne.
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Becky. “But they’ll end up friends. I feel sure of that.”
Daphne stared at Becky thoughtfully.
The following Saturday morning, after he had completed guard duty, Guy arrived at 97 Chelsea Terrace to collect Becky and drive her down to Ashurst. The moment he saw her in one of Daphne’s stylish red dresses he remarked on how beautiful she looked, and he was so cheerful and chatty on the journey down to Berkshire that Becky even began to relax. They arrived in the village of Ashurst just before three and Guy turned to wink at her as he swung the car into the mile-long drive that led up to the hall.
Becky hadn’t expected the house to be quite that large.
A butler, under butler and two footmen were waiting on the top step to greet them. Guy brought the car to a halt on the graveled drive and the butler stepped forward to remove Becky’s two small cases from the boot, before handing them over to a footman who whisked them away. The butler then led Captain Guy and Becky at a sedate pace up the stone steps, into the front hall and on up the wide wooden staircase to a bedroom on the first floor landing.
“The Wellington Room, madam,” he intoned as he opened the door for her.
“He’s meant to have spent the night here once,” explained Guy, as he strolled up the stairs beside her. “By the way, no need for you to feel lonely. I’m only next door, and much more alive than the late general.”