“No, that she’s your sister.”
Charlie rocked back in his chair, paused for a moment and then sighed heavily. “What have you done?”
“Nothing yet. I told the manager to hold on to her while I had a word with you.”
“Then let’s get on with it,” said Charlie. He rose from behind his desk and began to march towards the door.
Neither man spoke again until they had reached Number 133, where an agitated manager was waiting for them by the front door.
“Sorry, Chairman,” were Jim Grey’s opening words.
“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about, Jim,” said Charlie as he was led through to the back room where they found Kitty sitting at a table, compact in hand, checking her lipstick in a hand mirror.
The moment she saw Charlie she clicked the compact lid closed and dropped it into her bag. On the table in front of her lay two pairs of fashionable leather shoes and a purple pleated skirt. Kitty clearly still liked the best, as her selection was all from the top price range. She smiled up at her brother. The lipstick didn’t help.
“Now that the big boss himself has arrived you’ll find out exactly who I am,” said Kitty, glaring at Jim Grey.
“You’re a thief,” said Charlie. “That’s what you are.”
“Come on, Charlie, you can afford it.” Her voice showed no sign of remorse.
“That’s not the point, Kitty. If I—”
“If you put me up in front of the beak claimin’ I’m a tea leaf the press’ll ’ave a field day. You wouldn’t dare ’ave me arrested, Charlie, and you know it.”
“Not this time, perhaps,” said Charlie, “but it’s the last occasion, that I promise you.” He turned to the manager and added, “If this lady ever tries to leave again without paying for something, call in the police and see that she is charged without any reference to me. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Grey?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir. Don’t worry yourself, Charlie, I won’t be botherin’ you again.”
Charlie looked unconvinced.
“You see, I’m off to Canada next week where it seems there’s at least one member of our family who actually cares about what happens to me.”
Charlie was about to protest when Kitty picked up the skirt and both pairs of shoes and dropped them in the bag. She walked straight past the three men.
“Just a moment,” said Tom Arnold.
“Bugger off,” said Kitty over her shoulder as she marched through the shop.
Tom turned towards the chairman, who stood and watched his sister as she stepped out onto the pavement without even looking back.
“Don’t bother yourself, Tom. It’s cheap at the price.”
On 30 September 1938 the Prime Minister returned from Munich where he had been in talks with the German Chancellor. Charlie remained unconvinced by the “peace in our time, peace with honor” document that Chamberlain kept waving in front of the cameras, because after listening to Ben Schubert’s firsthand description of what was taking place in the Third Reich, he had become convinced that war with Germany was inevitable. Introducing conscription for those over twenty had already been debated in Parliament, and with Daniel in his last year at St. Paul’s waiting to sit his university entrance papers, Charlie couldn’t bear the thought of losing a son to another war with the Germans. When a few weeks later Daniel was awarded a scholarship to Trinity College, Cambridge, it only added to his fears.
Hitler marched into Poland on 1 September 1939, and Charlie realized that Ben Schubert’s stories had not been exaggerated. Two days later Britain was at war.
For the first few weeks after the declaration of hostilities there was a lull, almost an anticlimax, and if it hadn’t been for the increased number of men in uniforms marching up and down Chelsea Terrace and a drop in sales Charlie might have been forgiven for not realizing Britain was engaged in a war at all.
During this time only the restaurant came up for sale. Charlie offered Mr. Scallini a fair price, which he accepted without question before fleeing back to his native Florence. He was luckier than some, who were interned for no more reason than that they possessed a German or an Italian name. Charlie immediately locked up the restaurant because he wasn’t sure what he could do with the premises—eating out was hardly a top priority for Londoners in 1940. Once the Scallini lease had been transferred only the antiquarian bookshop and the syndicate chaired by Mr. Wrexall still remained in other traders’ hands; but the significance of Mrs. Trentham’s large block of unoccupied flats became more obvious for all to see as each day went by.
On 7 September 1940 the false lull ended when the Luftwaffe carried out its mass raid on the capital. After that Londoners started to emigrate to the country in droves. Charlie still refused to budge, and even ordered that “Business as Usual” signs be placed in every one of his shop windows. In fact, the only concessions he made to Herr Hitler were to move his bedroom to the basement and have all the curtains changed to black drape.
Two months later, in the middle of the night, Charlie was woken by a duty constable to be told that the first bomb had fallen on Chelsea Terrace. He ran all the way from the Little Boltons down Tregunter Road in his dressing gown and slippers to inspect the damage.
“Anyone killed?” he asked while on the move.