Charlotte cooled in her appreciation of Shanahan after her sisters’ hostility, but he kept bringing her gifts.
‘My God!’ she exclaimed one day at lunchtime when she unwrapped a gift of a stylish bottle of La Passionata. ‘This is my favourite perfume. I’ve never been able to afford it.’
Shanahan played with his walking sticks, not making eye contact.
‘How did you know?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘That it was my favourite?’
‘I … um … I like it. I find it alluring. So I wanted you to wear it.’
She scrutinised him.
‘What?’ he asked, looking up to meet her gaze.
‘C’mon, which girlfriend of yours wore it?’
‘I got it at that special apothecary in Piccadilly, the one near Simpson’s. The assistant showed me a few samples.’ She looked sceptical as he added, ‘You know, they make their own perfumes and sell a few imported ones. I liked this best. It’s from Paris.’
‘You went to that trouble …?’ she said softly. ‘So thoughtful. Thank you.’ She kissed him. ‘Stanley wouldn’t …’ Charlotte checked herself.
‘Stanley wouldn’t what?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said with a pensive expression.
‘Don’t tell me he bought you this?’
‘No,’ she said, almost inaudibly, ‘no, he didn’t.’
Shanahan never missed bringing her flowers when they went out, and never the same kind, except for red roses, which he gave her twice. He began asking her out to music hall shows, which they both loved. He would get tickets for performances at Hoxton Street, the London Empire on High Street, Shoreditch, at Collins’ on Islington Green and his favourite venue, the Olympia Music Hall. Charlotte quickly realised that Shanahan was a very active individual who had overcome his disability with verve and a zest for life that she had not experienced before. He handled his two sticks with such skill that he could keep up with anyone while walking with just a slight limp. He kept fit with an exercise regime to put an Olympian to shame and always seemed to have energy to spare.
After watching a production of The Merry Widow at Leicester Square in London’s West End, they walked into an alley where he had left his motorbike. Three young toughs were taking turns trying to start it.
Shanahan hustled down to them, leaving Charlotte looking concerned.
‘Hey,’ he growled, ‘get off that bike!’
One of them jumped into the sidecar, bouncing it up and down.
‘Get off!’ Shanahan said as he reached them.
‘Huh, peg-leg!’ one jeered. ‘What are you goin’ to do abart it, hey?’
Shanahan didn’t answer. He balanced his left side with the two sticks and threw a sharp punch at the jaw of the one on the sidecar. The youth fell with a groan and his head bounced on the cobblestones. Another one gesticulated as if he would retaliate. Shanahan swung one of his sticks hard into the second youth’s rib-cage, knocking the air from his lungs and causing him to slump to his knees in pain. The third ‘tough’ helped his mates to their feet and the three staggered off down the alley. Seconds later, Charlotte reached him. He examined the sidecar.
‘It’s a bit loose,’ he said, ‘you better hop on behind me. I’ll fix it when we get home.’
‘My God!’ she said as she straddled the seat and placed her arms around his chest to hold on. ‘You really threw a punch there. That fool will be sore tonight.’
‘I used to box,’ he said, and added softly as they sped off, ‘haven’t got the footwork these days.’
The next weekend, Shanahan invited her a second time to join him for a drive down to Hove near Brighton. Charlotte hesitated. Stanley Butler was going grouse-hunting in Scotland again but she was unsure about spending a Saturday night with another man.
‘We can take two rooms at a nice guesthouse,’ Shanahan said, anticipating her concern.
‘You’re so sweet to me,’ she said, squeezing his arm, ‘so understanding.’
After leaving their bags at the guesthouse, they decided to dine early near Brighton Pier at a cafe overlooking the water. They had just walked in the cafe door when Charlotte went white and her hand went to her mouth. His eyes settled on a good-looking, tall man with a moustache sitting opposite a shapely young brunette. They seemed intimate. Charlotte turned and walked out.
‘Take me home!’ she demanded as she slipped into the sidecar and buried her head in her hands. Shanahan drove along the beach road. There was a cool breeze. People were promenading. Shanahan looked back. Charlotte was sobbing gently. He pulled the bike over and parked it outside a fish and chip shop.
‘C’mon, girl,’ he said, helping her out, ‘let’s eat.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ she snapped.
‘I am,’ he said, leading her into the shop. He called a waiter over and helped her choose a meal. She hardly said a word for five minutes.
‘It was Stanley, wasn’t it?’ he asked.
‘Why did he lie?’
‘Funny-looking grouse,’ he said.
‘What?’ she said, looking up. Then she scowled. ‘Very funny! Not now, Michael, please!’
Shanahan convinced her to stay at the guesthouse. He was asleep in his room when he was woken by the door opening. Charlotte entered and slipped into the bed beside him. She hugged him. He eased himself over to face her.
‘Ever made love to a one-legged man before?’ he asked, drawing a gentle smile from her.
‘No,’ she whispered, and added coyly, ‘I’ve never made love to anybody …’
Charlotte confronted her fiancé Stanley Butler a day later. He confessed to an affair with a secretary and Charlotte called off the relationship.
Shanahan saw his opportunity. He invited Charlotte to dinner at Scott’s, an upmarket West End restaurant, and proposed. He had borrowed money and bought a smart diamond engagement ring. Charlotte was stunned. She knew he was ‘keen’ but because of his laconic manner, she had not been sure how much he appreciated her. Now she knew.
After recovering from the shock, she asked for time to think about it.
‘No, no time,’ he said. ‘I want an answer right now, tonight.’ Seeing her bewilderment, he added, ‘… or tomorrow, or next week. In fact, whenever you feel inclined to say yes.’
She laughed. He plied her with wine. After several drinks, she said: ‘You know, I’m twenty-seven next month. Almost an old maid! Not getting any younger.’
‘Wish I could use that line,’ Shanahan said. She wasn’t sure if he was being funny or frank, but she giggled anyway.
‘Bloody Australia!’ she said. ‘I’m going to join the convicts.’
‘I take that as a “yes”,’ he said, reaching for her hand.