suspicion, as a man who hadn’t yet served his
country or, worse, was a conscientious objector.
“They’ll
be calling him up soon enough,” said a corporal to his mate in a loud whisper
from the far side of the carriage. Charlie smiled but didn’t comment.
He
slept intermittently, amused by the thought that he might have found it easier
to rest in a damp muddy trench with rats and cockroaches for companions. By the
time the train pulled into King’s Cross Station at seven the following morning,
he had a stiff neck and an aching back. He stretched himself before he picked
up his large paper parcel along with Tommy’s life possessions.
At
the station he bought a sandwich and a cup of tea. He was surprised when the
girl asked him for three pence. “Tuppence for those what are in uniform,” he
was told with undisguised disdain. Charlie downed the tea and left the station
without another word.
The
roads were busier and more hectic than he remembered, but he still jumped
confidently on a tram that had “City” printed across the front. He sat alone on
a trestled wooden bench, wondering what changes he would find on his return to
the East End. Did his shop flounsh, was it simply ticking over, had it been
sold or even gone bankrupt? And what of the biggest barrow in the world?
He
jumped off the tram at Poultry, deciding to walk the final mile. His pace
quickened as the accents changed, City gents in long black coats and bowlers
gave way to professional men in dark suits and trilbies, to be taken over by
rough lads in ill-fitting clothes and caps, until Charlie finally arrived in
the East End, where even the boaters had been abandoned by those under thirty.
As
Charlie approached the Whitechapel Road, he stopped and stared at the frantic
bustle taking place all around him. Hooks of meat, barrows of vegetables, trays
of pies, urns of tea passed him in every direction.
But
what of the baker’s shop, and his grandfather’s pitch? Would they be “all
present and correct”? He pulled his cap down over his forehead and slipped
quietly into the market.
When
he reached the corner of the Whitechapel Road he wasn’t sure he had come to the
right place. The baker’s shop was no longer there but had been replaced by a
bespoke tailor who traded under the name of Jacob Cohen. Charlie pressed his
nose against the window but couldn’t recognize anyone who was working inside.
He swung round to stare at the spot where the barrow of “Charlie Trumper, the
honest trader” had stood for nearly a century, only to find a gaggle of youths
warming themselves round a charcoal fire where a man was selling chestnuts at a
penny a bag.
Charlie
parted with a penny and was handed a bagful, but no one even gave him a second
glance. Perhaps Becky had sold everything as he instructed, he thought, as he
left the market to carry on down Whitechapel Road where at least he would have
a chance to catch up with one of his sisters, rest and gather his thoughts.
When
he arrived outside Number 112, he was pleased to find that the front door had
been repainted. God bless Sal. He pushed the door open and walked straight into
the parlor, where he came face to face with an overweight, half-shaven man
dressed in a vest and trousers who was brandishing an open razor.
“What’s
your game then?” asked the man, holding up the razor hmmly.
“I
live ‘ere,” said Charlie.
“Like
‘elf you do. I took over this dump six months ago.”
“But...
“
“No
buts,” said the man and without warning gave Charlie a shove in the chest which
propelled him back into the street. The door slammed behind him, and Charlie
heard a key turn in the lock. Not certain what to do next, he was beginning to
wish he had never come home.
“‘Ella,
Charlie. It is Charlie, isn’t it?” said a voice from behind him. “So you’re not
dead after all.”
He
swung round to see Mrs. Shorrocks standing by her front door.
“Dead?”
said Charlie.
“Yes,”
replied Mrs.
country or, worse, was a conscientious objector.
“They’ll
be calling him up soon enough,” said a corporal to his mate in a loud whisper
from the far side of the carriage. Charlie smiled but didn’t comment.
He
slept intermittently, amused by the thought that he might have found it easier
to rest in a damp muddy trench with rats and cockroaches for companions. By the
time the train pulled into King’s Cross Station at seven the following morning,
he had a stiff neck and an aching back. He stretched himself before he picked
up his large paper parcel along with Tommy’s life possessions.
At
the station he bought a sandwich and a cup of tea. He was surprised when the
girl asked him for three pence. “Tuppence for those what are in uniform,” he
was told with undisguised disdain. Charlie downed the tea and left the station
without another word.
The
roads were busier and more hectic than he remembered, but he still jumped
confidently on a tram that had “City” printed across the front. He sat alone on
a trestled wooden bench, wondering what changes he would find on his return to
the East End. Did his shop flounsh, was it simply ticking over, had it been
sold or even gone bankrupt? And what of the biggest barrow in the world?
He
jumped off the tram at Poultry, deciding to walk the final mile. His pace
quickened as the accents changed, City gents in long black coats and bowlers
gave way to professional men in dark suits and trilbies, to be taken over by
rough lads in ill-fitting clothes and caps, until Charlie finally arrived in
the East End, where even the boaters had been abandoned by those under thirty.
As
Charlie approached the Whitechapel Road, he stopped and stared at the frantic
bustle taking place all around him. Hooks of meat, barrows of vegetables, trays
of pies, urns of tea passed him in every direction.
But
what of the baker’s shop, and his grandfather’s pitch? Would they be “all
present and correct”? He pulled his cap down over his forehead and slipped
quietly into the market.
When
he reached the corner of the Whitechapel Road he wasn’t sure he had come to the
right place. The baker’s shop was no longer there but had been replaced by a
bespoke tailor who traded under the name of Jacob Cohen. Charlie pressed his
nose against the window but couldn’t recognize anyone who was working inside.
He swung round to stare at the spot where the barrow of “Charlie Trumper, the
honest trader” had stood for nearly a century, only to find a gaggle of youths
warming themselves round a charcoal fire where a man was selling chestnuts at a
penny a bag.
Charlie
parted with a penny and was handed a bagful, but no one even gave him a second
glance. Perhaps Becky had sold everything as he instructed, he thought, as he
left the market to carry on down Whitechapel Road where at least he would have
a chance to catch up with one of his sisters, rest and gather his thoughts.
When
he arrived outside Number 112, he was pleased to find that the front door had
been repainted. God bless Sal. He pushed the door open and walked straight into
the parlor, where he came face to face with an overweight, half-shaven man
dressed in a vest and trousers who was brandishing an open razor.
“What’s
your game then?” asked the man, holding up the razor hmmly.
“I
live ‘ere,” said Charlie.
“Like
‘elf you do. I took over this dump six months ago.”
“But...
“
“No
buts,” said the man and without warning gave Charlie a shove in the chest which
propelled him back into the street. The door slammed behind him, and Charlie
heard a key turn in the lock. Not certain what to do next, he was beginning to
wish he had never come home.
“‘Ella,
Charlie. It is Charlie, isn’t it?” said a voice from behind him. “So you’re not
dead after all.”
He
swung round to see Mrs. Shorrocks standing by her front door.
“Dead?”
said Charlie.
“Yes,”
replied Mrs.
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