Книга - Secrets in Store

Secrets in Store
Joanna Toye


The new book in the gripping wartime drama series set in a department store.The second in Joanna Toye’s new wartime drama series set around a Midlands department store.









WARTIME FOR THE SHOP GIRLS

Joanna Toye










Copyright (#u21c8cd86-824c-5fca-a4a2-cd52d07923b1)


HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2019

Copyright © Joanna Toye 2019

Cover [photograph/illustration] © Gordon Crabbe/Alison Eldred (woman), CollaborationJS/Arcangel Images (street scene), Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) (all other images)

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Joanna Toye asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008298692

Ebook Edition © 2019 ISBN: 9780008298708

Version: 2019-08-30




Dedication (#u21c8cd86-824c-5fca-a4a2-cd52d07923b1)


For my parents, John and Mary –this was their war


Contents

Cover (#uae343e90-64c2-592e-bea6-b3d543386bcc)

Title Page (#u32b2ecc2-bad7-5923-be4d-fb6a073e6093)

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Author’s Note and Thanks

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Joanna Toye

About the Publisher




Chapter 1 (#u21c8cd86-824c-5fca-a4a2-cd52d07923b1)

January 1942


‘Reg! It’s Reg! He’s here!’

Lily couldn’t help herself. She’d been stationed at the window for the past two hours, as tense as a look-out in a south coast pillbox. Now she tore to the back door the second she saw the latch on the back gate start to quiver. The hinge didn’t even have time to squeak.

‘Mum! Jim!’ she hollered excitedly over her shoulder. ‘He’s home!’

Then she was flying out over the yard bricks, her feet skidding on the frosty surface. A few days ago, the whole country had been blanketed in snow, nearly five inches in their Midland town of Hinton, which had cast feverish doubt on Reg being able to get home at all. The snow had shrunk back now, leaving a scummy tidemark on the fringes of the yard, though it was still cold enough to make her eyes sting.

But Reg was here, finally, and guaranteed a warm welcome. His forty-eight-hour leave was in place of the family celebration they’d hoped to have at Christmas – insofar as anyone was celebrating Christmas in this third (the third, already!) winter of the war. If anyone had thought in 1939 that they’d still be fighting … Still, at least up till now it hadn’t been as cold as that dreadful first winter, or as nail-shredding as the second, at the height of the Blitz.

‘Lil! For goodness’ sake, get back inside! You’ve only got your slippers on!’

The first words from her brother, and he was telling her off! No change there, and Lily had to smile. But she wasn’t surprised: Reg, bless him, was the oldest in the family, and had always been the sensible one, the responsible one – he’d had to be, after their father had died.

Her other brother, Sid, would just have clocked the slippers’ red pompoms, called her Frou-Frou or Fifi – he was always messing about with names – and made some crack about her pinching them off a French sailor. The fact that the British Navy, in which Sid was serving, issued its men with a plain flat-topped cap was a matter of some grievance with him, even though Lily was sure he’d have felt a right cissy in a hat with a pompom on it.

But Sid was away down south at HMS Northney on Hayling Island, and much as they’d tried, he and Reg hadn’t been able to co-ordinate their leave to get home together. When she gave in to despair, which wasn’t often, Dora, their mum, sometimes wondered out loud when or if she’d ever have her three children under the same roof again. But it was no more than everyone else had to put up with, and as Dora was more likely to be heard to say in one of the many maxims she could produce to suit any occasion – ‘What can’t be cured must be endured.’

‘Come on inside, then!’ Lily hung on Reg’s arm. ‘We’ll get the kettle on.’

‘I wouldn’t say no.’ Poor Reg looked chilled through. His train must have been delayed – they mostly were, these days, if not actually cancelled – and he’d probably had to hang about on a freezing platform. ‘Where’s Mum?’

‘She’s upstairs, trying to keep herself busy and not watch the clock—’

‘No, I’m not. I’m here.’

And there was Dora Collins, expectant in the scullery doorway. She was in her best dress in honour of the homecoming, with a Jacqmar scarf at the neck, no less, her Christmas present from Lily. Ever since she’d started at Marlow’s, the town’s smartest department store, or so it liked to claim, Lily had promised herself that as soon as she could afford it, she’d buy her mum something nice. And when Marlow’s had given every junior a small bonus ‘in gratitude for your hard work throughout the year in these difficult times’, it had been earmarked straight away.

Lily had only joined the store the previous June. She hadn’t been expecting anything extra in her pay packet, so the few extra shillings had been a very welcome surprise. But Marlow’s was like that. It prided itself on looking after its employees, even though profits must be well down – for the simple reason that as the war ground on there was less and less to sell. Still, the buyers, like Miss Frobisher, Lily’s boss on Childrenswear, did the best they could, and the shop’s reputation meant that if anything did become available, from tea trays to tobacco, children’s coats to combinations, Marlow’s was one of the first places a supplier would contact.

Reg crossed the yard. Sid, again, would have bounded over and wrapped his mum in a hug, regardless of the rough, chilly wool of his tunic, but Reg, like Dora herself, was more reserved. He looked like her too, with soft brown hair, though his was now cropped short. Sid and Lily, on the other hand, had inherited their father’s mop of fair curls.

Reg kissed his mum on the cheek before she stood back to let him in.

‘Come in, love, out of the cold,’ she urged. ‘And let’s have a good look at you.’

Only that telltale ‘love’ told Lily, and Reg himself, how much their mum had missed him and how very pleased she really was that he was home.

In the scullery, Jim was lifting the kettle from the gas and wetting the tea: he was going to make someone a wonderful wife someday, Sid always joked. Jim wasn’t a member of the family, but as their lodger, he was starting to feel like one. He was another employee at Marlow’s, seventeen and already Second Sales on Furniture.

The arrangement suited them all. Widowed when Lily was still a baby, Dora had learnt to be tough and independent. But with both her sons away, she felt happier and safer with a man about the house – and Jim wasn’t only useful for the odd pot of tea. There was no doubt that the two raised beds in the yard were going to be a lot more productive this year under his watchful eye. Not only that, he’d even built them a henhouse. They now had fresh eggs – gold dust, nectar and ambrosia all at once – and useful as currency for bartering as more and more things went on the ration or disappeared altogether.

Jim held out his hand to Reg. They’d met once before, in the autumn, when Reg had been passing through on his way to yet another training camp.

‘How’s things?’ Jim asked. ‘Fair journey?’

‘Oh, you know.’

It was yet another way in which Reg and Sid were polar opposites. Where Reg was circumspect, Sid would have treated them to a minute breakdown, complete with music hall impressions of grumpy guards and a star rating for the station tea bar.

‘Well, the tea won’t be long.’

Reg slung his haversack down on a chair.

‘I’ve been saving some of my rations, Mum. And there’s a bit of stuff from the NAAFI.’

He unbuckled the straps and took out a couple of lumpy parcels.

‘Jam … chocolate … a bit of ham.’

Lily’s mouth watered, but Dora wasn’t letting Reg get away with that.

‘Reg! You shouldn’t have! No wonder you’ve lost weight!’

Weight loss was a crime on a par with sedition in Dora’s eyes. Though the Army got first dibs when it came to rations, which was partly why ordinary households were having to cut back, she was naturally convinced that her boy wasn’t being fed as well as she could have fed him if he’d been at home.

Reg gave one of his rare smiles.

‘I haven’t lost weight, Mum, far from it. I’ve toned up, put on muscle, that’s all.’

Dora sniffed disbelievingly.

‘Irish stew for dinner,’ was all she said. ‘I’d better have a look at it.’

She opened the door of the Belling and concentrated on extracting the promising-smelling pot of stew while Lily and Jim discreetly stowed Reg’s offerings in the pantry.

‘Thank you,’ Lily mouthed.

Reg grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.

Lily might not be as close to Reg as she was to Sid, but jam, ham, chocolate or not, she realised just how pleased she was to see him too.

‘All right, Mum, you win, hands down,’ Reg conceded as he laid down his knife and fork. ‘There might be plenty of it, Army food, but it’s not a patch on your cooking.’

‘Oh, get away with you! You’d eat horse manure if it was wrapped up in pretty paper!’

Lily bit back a smile. Their mum was no more capable of accepting a compliment than Lily had been of not shrieking her head off when she’d sensed Reg was at the gate.

‘There’s no more where that came from, you know!’ Dora added, in case she hadn’t dismissed the praise quite emphatically enough.

‘I couldn’t eat it anyway!’ Reg protested. ‘I’m stuffed!’

Dora’s eyebrows shot up.

‘That’s all they’ve taught you in the Army, is it, that sort of talk?’

Lily saw Jim and Reg exchange knowing, ‘man of the world’ looks.

‘I should think that’s the least of it, Mrs Collins.’ Jim gave one of his wry, twisty smiles. ‘Right, Reg?’

‘You don’t know the half of it! But don’t worry, Mum, I won’t be using any language while I’m home. Especially not now Lily’s gone all posh on us, working at Marlow’s. I didn’t see you crook your little finger drinking your tea, though, Lil. Tut, tut!’

Lily flapped her hand at him and Reg ducked out of the way, laughing. He was relaxing now; they all were, with the warmth of some food inside them and the fire nicely banked up.

‘So tell me, what’s new at the swankiest store in town? What’s the best-dressed baby wearing this winter, Lil? Had a run on cut-glass decanters for the folk with cut-glass accents, have you, Jim?’

This time Lily and Jim were the ones to exchange looks. So much had happened in Lily’s first few months at Marlow’s that the last few, apart from the flurry before Christmas and the January sales, had seemed quite tame in comparison.

She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could begin, they heard the latch on the back gate click, followed by footsteps across the yard and then by someone opening the back door itself.

Lily’s heart leapt. Surely not! It couldn’t be, could it? Not Sid? Though it would be just like him to take them all by surprise. And who else could it be, turning up right in the middle of Sunday dinner?

‘Only me!’ trilled a voice approaching though the scullery.

Of course! Beryl! That’s who.

Shy, tactful, reserved – not words you could ever use to describe Beryl. But what could she possibly want this time?




Chapter 2 (#u21c8cd86-824c-5fca-a4a2-cd52d07923b1)


As it turned out, on this occasion simply a free meal – or at least a pudding.

‘How does she do it?’ Lily demanded as she and Jim washed up. ‘She must be able to smell Mum’s cooking from right the other side of town!’

‘I know. The War Office should use her as a sniffer dog. Perhaps she could do the same with explosives.’

‘I always think that’s so hard on the poor things,’ fretted Lily. ‘Imagine being a little puppy, thinking life was all chasing your tail and gambolling about with your brothers and sisters, then going to some nice family as a pet – instead you’re crawling about on a battlefield or a bombsite.’

‘On the other hand you might grow up to be a rescue dog,’ offered Jim. ‘That’d give you a nice warm glow, finding people alive in the rubble.’

‘True,’ Lily conceded. ‘They ought to give them medals … but we’re getting away from Beryl! Inviting herself in like that and taking the bread out of our mouths!’

‘The rice pudding, you mean,’ lamented Jim. He’d been looking forward to seconds. ‘Not to mention the—’

‘Exactly! Mum even gave her the skin. The best bit!’

Lily finished his sentence for him: she often found they were thinking the same thing at the same time. It was one of the things which made Jim so easy to get along with, and they did get on, most of the time – except when he was teasing her about her attempts at knitting, or her deficiencies with the weeding, or when he used a long word she didn’t understand – he’d been able to stay on at school to take his School Certificate, lucky thing. Lily usually gave as good as she got, though – she’d had enough practice with her brothers. But this time she knew she and Jim were in total agreement.

‘Not a scrap left for you or me – or the hens!’ she grumbled.

‘Oh well. To be fair, she is eating for two.’

Jim shook the washing-up water from his hands and wiped them on his trousers: woe betide anyone who needlessly ’wore out’ Dora’s towels. She’d sworn by that thrifty dictum for years, and tea towels too, and since the latest Government advice had instructed people to leave crockery to drain to avoid that very thing, she could congratulate herself on having been right all along. When the handy tip had been broadcast on the wireless, she’d permitted herself a smile that could almost have been described as smug. Lily had only dried off the cutlery and the saucepans – being in the kitchen was more about letting off steam over Beryl than being much practical use.

‘We’d better go back through,’ she said reluctantly. ‘It’s not fair to inflict Beryl on poor Reg.’

When they did, though, Beryl seemed well ensconced. Dora was knitting yet another balaclava – her hands were never idle – and Beryl, whose were, and were folded over her pregnant stomach, was holding forth to a glazed-looking Reg.

‘I wonder if you and my Les’ll ever meet up?’ she mused, raising a hand to twirl a strand of her shoulder-length blonde hair with a painted fingernail. Beryl might have been getting on for the size of a tank, but she was a glamorous tank, camouflaged with powder and peroxide.

It was a pretty dim question, given that there were two million men in the Army now, and it wasn’t as if recruitment was organised in the same way as in the First War, with towns raising Pals’ Battalions.

Reg, who’d been a mechanic before the war, had been quickly snapped up by the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, while Les, he’d already learnt, had joined the local regiment. Reg tried gently to point this out, but Beryl seemed convinced his path and her husband’s would cross, because Les, she informed them, had been transferred to the Royal Army Service Corps and was now officially an Army driver.

‘How did he manage to swing that?’ quipped Jim, hauling over a couple of dining chairs for himself and Lily. ‘If they’d seen the way he used to take corners in our delivery vans …’

Till he’d been called up, Les Bulpitt had been a driver at Marlow’s. Beryl had worked there too – it was how they’d all met.

Beryl pregnant … that had been just one of the many things that had happened since Lily had started at Marlow’s. Lily thought back to that terrifying first day, standing frozen with fear outside the Staff Entrance, and Beryl sweeping by, all scent and smart remarks, even though she was only a junior herself, (a more senior junior maybe, but still a junior). But when Beryl had found herself in trouble, she’d had to throw herself on Lily and Dora’s mercy, the start of the most unlikely friendship since Fay Wray and King Kong.

If Les and Beryl’s wedding had had the whiff of the shotgun about it, everyone had rallied round to disperse the cordite and make the day the best they could. They’d been a merry party – Les and Beryl, Lily as bridesmaid, Jim as best man and official photographer. Dora had made the dress, Sid had made it home to walk Beryl down the aisle – well, into the Register Office – and Les’s mum, Ivy, had tapped up no one liked to think what black-market contacts to help lay on a magnificent spread.

Now, with Les’s dad in the Merchant Navy, and Les away at training camp, Beryl was left living with Ivy and Les’s younger sister, Susan. Susan, bless her, was a bit backward – quite a lot backward in fact – more like age two than twelve. From the time she’d spent over at Ivy’s since the wedding, Lily had to admit that watching Susan laboriously try to do a simple jigsaw could make a Sunday afternoon pass very slowly indeed. No wonder Beryl needed to escape.

‘Gor blimey!’ said Reg when she’d gone, complete with the matinee jacket Dora had knitted for the baby, and which had been Beryl’s transparent excuse for ‘just dropping by’ at dinnertime. Dora pursed her lips and unwound some more navy wool. It was an expletive too far for her, but that was war for you. ‘She can’t half talk, that one!’

It was true. Beryl had always had plenty to say for herself.

‘You’d told me a bit about her,’ Reg went on, ‘but in the flesh … I should think “my Les” is glad to get away! I daresay you will be too, Jim, surrounded by all these women. You’re next for call-up, aren’t you?’

Lily swatted at her brother again, and caught him this time, on the arm.

‘Cheek! You tell him, Jim! You like it here!’

Jim gave a half-smile and shrugged.

Lily thought nothing of it at the time. But afterwards, she’d remember that.

It might have been cold and dank and generally horrible outside, but the hens still had to be seen to and locked up before dark.

Reg declared he was ‘gasping for a fag’ so the three of them wrapped up and went out into the yard in the last of the feeble daylight. Jim didn’t think Reg’s cigarette and the henhouse straw would be a terrifically good mix, so he volunteered for the hens’ bedtime lock-up, leaving Lily stamping her feet and swinging her arms as Reg lit up. He still couldn’t get over the fact that Beryl was convinced he and Les were bound to meet.

He drew on his cigarette and chucked his spent match over the fence.

‘Anyway, if he’s just been called up, he’ll get a home posting for the first few months, if not years – how old is he?’

‘That’s the thing,’ Lily said. ‘Les is twenty, the same as you.’

‘What? How come he hasn’t been called up till now?’ Reg sounded outraged. ‘Or volunteered? You mean he’s sat on his backside when he could have been—’

Reg had volunteered the minute he was eligible, at eighteen – and Sid the same.

‘Before you get on your high horse, Reg, Les was called up before.’

Lily had only learnt this herself when Les’s call-up papers had come just before Christmas.

‘Don’t tell me,’ exclaimed Reg. ‘Tried to pass himself off as a conchie! Or unfit!’

‘He was unfit the first time. Susan, his sister, because she’s like she is, she’s not strong. She gets all sorts of infections and things,’ Lily explained. ‘Les had tonsillitis that he’d caught off her, so he failed the medical.’

Reg snorted and took another disdainful draw on his cigarette. Lily could see she wasn’t convincing him.

‘Les isn’t a shirker, Reg, honestly,’ she insisted. ‘I mean, he’d hardly have planned it this way. It’s not the best timing, is it, for him to be called up now, when Beryl’s due in a couple of months?’

‘It’s how it is, Lil,’ said Reg plainly. ‘There’s plenty of blokes fighting this war that have never seen their kids.’

‘I know, I know.’

The tip of Reg’s cigarette glowed in the dusk. Lily wondered if he was going to tell her, or if she’d have to ask. That was the trouble with Reg. He was such an oyster. You had to prise things out of him.

‘Reg …’

But for once, Reg saved her the trouble.

‘I know what you’re going to say, Sis. And yes, it’s why I’m home. This leave isn’t just in place of Christmas.’

‘Oh, Reg! You’ve got your posting! Where? Tell me! Where are they sending you?’

Jim had finished his henhouse duties now, and he joined them, cradling two brown eggs in his hand. He could tell from Lily’s face that something was up.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Am I interrupting?’

Though they’d been putting him up for six months now – or putting up with him, as he joked – Jim was always sensitive about not intruding into family matters.

‘He’s got his posting,’ Lily said. ‘That’s it, isn’t it, Reg?’

Red took a final long drag on his cigarette and pinched it out between his thumb and first finger. His hands were so worn and calloused after years of grappling with the insides of engines he could crush a wasp the same way and not feel the pain, he’d told them.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Jim.

The Army didn’t send you abroad till you were twenty – or tried not to; Reg’s last birthday had been a turning point, they all knew.

‘I’ll tell you two,’ said Reg slowly. ‘And I’ve told Sid. But not a word to Mum, not yet. I’ll tell her tomorrow – and in good time, not just before I leave, so she’s got the chance to take it in. But I don’t want her brooding on it longer than she has to.’

‘For goodness’ sake Reg, tell us!’ Lily had trouble keeping her voice down. ‘Where?’

‘They haven’t told us officially,’ said Reg. ‘We’re not allowed to know – and nor are you. But we all do know.’

Jim and Lily looked at him, waiting.

‘Africa,’ said Reg quietly. Walls, even those between their house and their next-door neighbours, were reputed to have ears, after all. ‘North Africa. This bit of leave’s my pre-embarkation. We sail next week.’




Chapter 3 (#u21c8cd86-824c-5fca-a4a2-cd52d07923b1)


Africa! In the wintry dusk of a Midlands’ backyard, Lily closed her eyes and she was there.

Africa! Heat, dust, the spice smell of the bazaars; snowy-robed Arabs haggling over brass coffee pots; captive cobras swaying to snake charmers’ fluting; tall, half-naked Nubians in marble halls, waving ostrich-feather fans over doe-eyed women reclining on cushions …

But before her fantasy could get any more, well, fantastic, Lily pulled herself up. Stupid! Africa, North Africa at least, was nothing like that. Her dimly-remembered geography lessons had taught her that. Most of it was desert, unpopulated because it was uninhabitable, and the vast sand dunes and midnight oases she might have gone on to imagine were only a tiny part of that. The rest was stony desert scrub, more like the surface of the moon than the setting for a romantic encounter with a real-life Rudolph Valentino. And now, the desert meant other things too. It was The Western Desert – those capital letters said it all – it was—

‘The Desert War, then?’

Thank goodness Jim was there. The words had formed in her mind, but she hadn’t seemed able to organise her lips, tongue and teeth to get them out. Maybe it was the cold. Or maybe it was because she couldn’t bear to hear herself say them out loud.

Reg pulled a face.

‘Sounds romantic put like that, doesn’t it? Well, I’m about to find out.’

Lily swallowed hard.

‘But Reg, you’re a mechanic, you’re not a … a sapper or a gunner or anything. You said yourself the drivers can do most of their own maintenance. You’re going to be well back behind the lines. Aren’t you?’

She saw Reg and Jim exchange another of those looks. But it wasn’t the same man-of-the-world look they’d exchanged before, a look that Lily had felt was to shut her out. This was a look of recognition, and of resignation. She needed to know.

‘What do you want me to say, Lil?’ said Reg. ‘Tell you we should all believe in the Tooth Fairy, and Father Christmas is real?’

‘You mean he isn’t?’

She was trying to make light of things, but she knew in her heart of hearts it was hopeless.

‘I’m not going to lie to you,’ said Reg. ‘You’re a bright girl, so think about it. If a jeep or a truck breaks down on ops, or takes a proper pounding, it’s stuck where it is, isn’t it? If you leave it there, the Jerries or the Eyeties’ll have it, you’re better off torching it.’ He gave her a kind smile. ‘But we can’t afford to waste kit like that, can we? So they need blokes like me out with the fighting units, of course they do.’

‘Yes, they do. But equally,’ said Jim quickly, seeing the dismay in Lily’s face, ‘it’s all the luck of the draw. You might be in the thick of things. Or …’

He looked at Reg again, a look that this time said, ‘Help! You’re the mechanic!’

Reg got the message.

‘Or … I might be in a cosy billet in Alexandria, changing the spark plugs on the brigadier’s car and come night-time quaffing beer in a nice little bar while a belly dancer whirls her tassels at me. OK?’

They were doing their best, Lily knew. Jim was kindly trying to reassure her in the same way he had before, over the puppy being a rescue dog and not a bomb-detector. Lily knew the chance of Reg being assigned to such light duties was probably about as likely as Hitler shaving off his moustache and joining the Mothers’ Union. But they were doing their best. She’d better do hers and make it as easy for Reg as she could. She took a deep breath.

‘Well, make sure you are,’ she said firmly. ‘Make sure when you put your hand in that bran tub, you pull out a lucky ticket.’

Reg put his arm round her shoulder and gave her a hug.

‘I’ll make sure it’s got my name on it.’

Lily leant her head against his. She hadn’t taken that much interest in The Desert War till now – what had been happening in Europe, in Norway, even in Russia, seemed that much closer and more real, somehow. Africa was – well, stupid to say it, but it was a foreign country – a foreign continent. She could see the shape of it … almost a heart-shape, ironically – with Egypt, held by the British, in the top right-hand corner, and next to it Libya, which had become the rope in a tug-of-war first between the British and the Italians, and now between the British and the Italians and Germans together. She wasn’t entirely sure how or why it had all started in that part of the world, or why getting hold of Libya and holding on to it was quite so vital. All that mattered now was that Reg was going out there, and soon.

‘What are you three up to?’ It was Dora, calling from the doorway. A thin beam of light lay like a bright bar on the blue bricks of the yard. ‘Come inside. I’m letting the cold in and the light out! I don’t know how you can see your hands in front of your faces! And you must be frozen!’

Lily suddenly realised that she was. Her teeth would have been chattering if her jaw hadn’t been clamped tightly shut for fear of saying – no, shouting – what she really felt. ‘Don’t, Reg! Don’t go – please, don’t go!’

But for goodness’ sake! If she felt like this about Reg, who was so self-contained, somehow, who she didn’t feel she knew as well or was as close to as Sid, her lovely Sid – what was she going to be like when he was posted? She dreaded to think how her mum would take it when Reg told her. And how on earth could Beryl be so calm when Les was likely to be posted abroad so soon?

‘Maybe she doesn’t realise he could be off straight away,’ reasoned Reg later, when she asked him the same question.

Tea was over and their mum had gone out to a Red Cross meeting – she’d upped her voluntary work now that even more younger women were being called up. Jim was out too. He was attached to a local ARP unit, and even though, thankfully, with Hitler occupied on other fronts, the threat of constant night-time bombing over England seemed to have gone away for now, he still had to patrol to give anyone not observing the blackout a good ticking-off.

The beastly blackout! At Marlow’s, they’d had to install double doors to stop any chink of light escaping as customers left in the dark winter afternoons. And at home, every night, every single night, the scratchy, stiff material had to be put up – and every single morning, taken down. Lily hated the way it made the house so stuffy and tomb-like, but most of all she hated herself for hating it. She’d have liked to be more noble, somehow, to rise above it. It was a small thing, after all, when you thought of what other people in other countries were suffering. Terrible things, persecution, starvation … but even so … it was the small things that so often got you down. The chilblains because coal was rationed; the bra strap that broke or sagged, and no chance of any elastic to replace it.

Reg was looking at her, waiting for a response.

‘Oh, I don’t know what Beryl thinks any more,’ she said. ‘When they announced they were getting married she went all soppy, and I remember thinking then that her brain had turned to mush. I thought it was just about the wedding, but maybe it’s being pregnant that does that to you.’

‘I wouldn’t know about any of that,’ shrugged Reg. ‘You’re asking the wrong bloke.’

Lily felt suddenly awkward. Reg had been courting before he joined the Army: he and his girl had been going steady for over a year. But when Reg had signed up, distance hadn’t made the heart grow fonder, it had just made things very difficult, and she was engaged now to someone else, who worked at the Town Hall and was in a reserved occupation.

‘Things are pretty sticky out there beyond Hinton, you know, Lil,’ said Reg gently. ‘They need blokes desperately. They can’t make any exemptions now, compassionate or otherwise. Or everybody’d be trying it on.’

‘No, I suppose they can’t,’ said Lily reluctantly. ‘But I don’t like to think of Beryl having the baby on her own.’

‘She won’t be on her own, will she?’ reasoned Reg. ‘There’s you and Mum and her mum-in-law … like I said, Lil, she’s not the only one, not by a long way.’

‘No, I know. But when it’s someone you really know, it’s different.’ Lily sighed. ‘There’s so many people I know around here or at the shop – their husbands and sons and brothers are away fighting. I thought I understood how awful it must be. But now, with you going – well, I don’t know how they stand it.’

‘Blimey, I haven’t even gone yet! Wait till Sid gets posted! Then what’ll you be like!’

‘Don’t!’ the word was out before she could stop herself, and Lily was embarrassed that for all her dismay on hearing Reg’s news, it was obvious that Sid’s eventual posting would affect her far more. She quickly backtracked. ‘Anyway, that’s not for ages. He’s not even nineteen yet.’

‘Listen,’ said Reg even more gently. ‘When I said things were a bit sticky, I wasn’t just saying it for effect. We’re in a mess, frankly. They can’t keep fit blokes in England square bashing and saluting all day. They’re sure to lower the age for sending blokes overseas.’

Lily gaped.

‘But – I don’t understand!’ she cried. ‘America’s in the war now! What about all their thousands of troops?’

‘Lily,’ said Reg patiently. ‘They’re still collecting their dead from Pearl Harbor. Well, not literally,’ he reassured her when she looked horrified. ‘But the Japs knocked out eighteen of their ships, for heaven’s sake. They’ve got to regroup, get organised. The Yanks aren’t going to come riding to our rescue tomorrow.’

That was that, then.

‘The Japs are ripping through the Far East like a dose of salts,’ Reg went on. ‘They’ve got their eye on India, you know. The Americans and the Aussies can’t do it all. So if we’ve got the blokes already trained up … I’m sorry, Lil, but there it is. It’s going to be every man jack of us soon.’

Lily got up – and wished she hadn’t. Her legs were shaking.

‘I’m going to make some cocoa,’ she said. Her voice was thin and weedy, even thinner than it had sounded in the cold air of the yard. ‘Do you want some?’

‘You bet! And let’s cheer ourselves up. See what’s on the wireless, eh?’ Reg leant forward to switch it on.

Their old set exploded into voice: it did that sometimes, catching you off guard. It was the evening service – the middle of a hymn.

‘Through many a day of darkness,’ sang the congregation,

‘Through many a scene of strife,

The faithful few fought bravely

To guard the nation’s life—’

‘Blimey,’ said Reg. ‘That’s all we need. Let’s find something brighter … Oi! Careful!’

Blundering out, Lily had knocked against the standard lamp. It wobbled crazily.

‘Sorry.’

She made her escape. In the scullery, she sat down on the hard wooden chair and pressed her knees together.

She was already losing Reg. In the next year she could lose, then, not just Sid, but Jim as well. He’d be turning eighteen, and would have to join up, and he wouldn’t be sorry about it, she knew. More and more these days he kept saying that selling reconditioned sideboards to the good ladies of Hinton wasn’t exactly a reserved occupation, and he felt increasingly guilty about it. She’d had time to get used to the idea that Jim would be called up, but she’d thought at least that he’d be in the country. There’d be letters, and he’d get regular leave, and for the first few months, maybe years, he’d be doing something menial, and relatively safe. But the thought that he might be sent overseas almost straight away, into the thick of the fighting … Jim? Really?

It would be the Army, for sure: he’d said that much. Jim, who she was used to seeing either in his work suit or in old flannels and a tatty shirt digging the veg bed, in a stiff khaki uniform. Jim, pushing his glasses up his nose as he wrote out price tickets at the shop, or did the crossword at home, instead shouldering a rifle, or on the march, or charging at someone with a bayonet. Jim, over six-foot tall, bent double inside a tank, loading shells. Jim under fire, or laying explosives to blow up a bridge, or defusing bombs. Jim broiling in the desert, sweating in the jungle, freezing somewhere in Eastern Europe … Jim, hungry, thirsty, exhausted; captured, injured, dead …

Lily found she was shuddering all over. And five minutes ago, all she’d had to worry about had been the blackout.




Chapter 4 (#u21c8cd86-824c-5fca-a4a2-cd52d07923b1)


When Jim came home, Lily was still up, and being soundly beaten by Reg at dominoes. She didn’t say anything to him about what Reg had told her, and next morning, after a restless night, what with her and Jim rushing to get to work, and Reg getting in the way of them having their breakfast, she didn’t say anything either, or any more to Reg.

But Reg caught her in the hall as she was putting on the ankle boots she couldn’t believe someone had actually been mad enough to give to the WVS jumble. All right, so the suede uppers were worn shiny, but they had a neat little cuff, a smart toggle fastening and a decent sole with only a couple of splits. But with a layer of cardboard inside, which mostly kept the wet out, they were at least warm.

‘Sorry if I worried you last night, Sis.’ The pleading look in his eyes intensified the apology. ‘But it’s no good being an ostrich, now, is it?’

‘No, you were quite right, Reg,’ Lily said firmly. ‘I need to face facts. It’s no good pretending.’

‘That’s what I think.’ Reg seemed relieved. ‘Just got to get on with it, haven’t we?’

Lily nodded. ‘I don’t envy you telling Mum about your posting, all the same.’

‘Oh, I expect she knows the score,’ said Reg. ‘You know what our mum’s like. She’s read your mind before you’ve even had the thought.’

Lily smiled. It was true that you couldn’t get much, if anything, past Dora.

‘At least it’s different for you – you’re years off call-up,’ Reg added consolingly. ‘Anyway, you’re far too valuable for Marlow’s to let you go!’

‘Definitely! Every time I put a boy’s sailor suit on the rail I feel I’m doing my bit!’

Laugh it off, that was the only way. ‘Keep smiling through’, as Vera Lynn had been singing last night, when Reg had finally found something cheerier to listen to.

‘Essential war work! Vital for morale!’ he assured her. ‘Now give us a kiss, ’cos I’ll be gone by the time you and Jim get back tonight.’

‘Bye, Reg,’ said Lily. She gave him not just a kiss, but a big tight hug as well. ‘Look after yourself.’

It was completely inadequate, of course, but it was what everyone said.

‘Will do. And make sure you write, once I’ve got an address.’

‘Of course I will. And you must tell us if you need anything.’

‘Well, it won’t be balaclavas,’ grinned Reg. ‘Though they say it gets cold at night, out under the stars and that big desert moon.’

‘Steady on,’ said Lily, ‘you’ll be writing poetry next!’

She was getting quite good at this ‘making light of it’ approach.

‘What, smoking a pipe and wearing a cravat? I don’t think so!’ countered Reg. He wasn’t so bad at it himself. ‘But it’s an adventure, eh – join the Army and see the world?’

Neither of them was really convinced, she could tell, and it rang even more hollow now she’d realised how soon ‘seeing the world’ might happen for Sid and Les – and for Jim too. Maybe ‘making light of it’ wasn’t the way forward after all.

Reg gave her another quick hug, then added, ‘Say hello to Gladys for me, won’t you?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

Gladys was her very best friend at Marlow’s. She was the other junior on Childrenswear and had generously shown Lily the ropes from her very first day. Reg had met her on the short leave he’d had in the autumn when Gladys had come to tea.

It was nice of Reg to remember Gladys, and she’d be touched, Lily knew. Shy, and to be honest rather plain, Gladys wasn’t someone who usually made much of an impression.

‘Are we going? Or is there an all-out strike I don’t know about?’

It was Jim: they needed to get moving, or they’d be in the late book!

They’d only reached the corner when Jim dropped his bombshell.

‘I’m leaving you here. I’m going in the other direction.’

‘What … why?’ queried Lily. ‘Is there an all-out strike that I don’t know about?’

‘I’m not going to work,’ he replied. ‘I’m going for a medical. An Army medical.’

Lily stared at him. After the realisation she’d had last night, this was too much.

‘But … already? Why? You’re not eighteen yet. Not for weeks.’

‘Doesn’t matter. I decided last week. Get the medical out of the way, then as soon as it’s my birthday, I’ll be ready to go.’

Lily swallowed hard, as best she could around the lump in her throat.

‘Hang on. You’ve done all this … without telling us?’

What she really meant was ‘without telling me’, but she could hardly say that.

‘Come off it, Lily. You’ve known it was coming. Anyway, I’m telling you now.’

‘I hate it when people say that! That’s no answer!’ Lily burst out. ‘And never mind me, what about Mum? Don’t you owe it to her to have said something? And why – why on earth didn’t you say anything last night? Reg gave you the chance – he fed you the line when he was talking about your call-up!’

Now she remembered the half-smile, the shrug, and the lack of a straight answer to Reg’s question. Now they spoke volumes.

‘Lily,’ said Jim evenly, ‘be fair. It was Reg’s first leave for ages, and his last for a good long while, from what he told us. Yesterday was about him being home with his family. I didn’t want to shove myself into that. And for goodness’ sake, it’s only a medical, there’s nothing to say till I pass!’

Lily looked at him, disbelieving. If he really thought that … and she’d thought they were friends! Didn’t friends share things? Jim looked straight back at her. Fine, thought Lily, if he wants a challenge … she certainly wasn’t going to be the first to look away – and she wasn’t.

‘I have to go,’ he said finally, unpeeling his eyes from hers. She’d won – but if there was ever a case of winning the battle but not the war, this was it. ‘You should too. Or you’ll be late.’

‘Thanks for your concern.’

Jim obviously noted the sarcasm but said nothing and took a step away. One step, but the first of many, perhaps.

‘I’ve cleared it with the staff office,’ he said calmly. ‘I’ve booked the whole day off. I don’t know how long it’ll take.’

‘No, well, you’ll want to be measured for your kit straight away, I expect, and put your name down for the most dangerous mission they’ve got,’ said Lily, seething at his forethought, furious that the typist in the staff office had known what she hadn’t. ‘Might as well get on with it, eh? The sooner you get issued with your bayonet and battledress the better.’

‘Don’t be like that.’

‘That’s another pointless and annoying thing people say!’

Because ‘like what’ exactly? How dare he presume to know what she was feeling? If he’d had any thought for her feelings at all, they wouldn’t be having this scene in the first place.

‘Lily,’ he spoke to her as if she were a child, ‘I’m going. There’s no talking to you in this mood.’

‘Well, what do you want me to say?’ Lily retorted childishly, then added, ‘Oh, I know. Of course. Good luck.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jim levelly. ‘See you tonight.’

And he was gone, straightening his glasses, pulling down his cuffs, tall and lanky in his threadbare overcoat. Oh, why had it come out like that? Angry and bitter and sullen, when what she really felt was … what was it? She felt betrayed – he’d betrayed their friendship, the closeness she’d thought they had. But more than that, she felt … bereft. And in a flash, she knew she felt for him far more than she’d properly feel for a friend.

Lily blinked – hard – and looked down at her feet. She could still see Jim walking away, but this time he was wearing an Army greatcoat and he was walking away down a crowded station platform to the troop train. She blinked again. Can’t cry, won’t cry, she thought, looking even more determinedly down. But the pavement was slimed with dirt from the melted snow, and her boots, which just a short while ago she’d been so proud of, looked shabby and pathetic, and she hated, hated this war.

Lily made it to work in time – just. She’d been there for six months now, but having a job, and a job at Marlow’s at that, was still enough of a novelty for her to feel a secret thrill every morning when she walked through the door, even at the staff entrance around the back, and even on a cold, dark Monday. Every morning – until this one.

It had never before seemed like dull routine, but it did today; clocking in with the timekeeper, taking off her outdoor things and stowing them in her locker in the clatter and din of the women’s cloakroom, always especially loud at the start of the week as everyone swapped stories of their precious Sunday off. Waiting her turn for the speckled mirror to check her appearance, brushing stray hairs and lint from her skirt, and hurrying along the long corridor past the goods lift and up the back stairs with the rest of the staff …

Even stepping through the double doors on to the sales floor didn’t give her heart its usual joyful lift. The store always looked so beautiful first thing, so pristine and tidy, with the faint strafe marks on the carpet from the cleaners’ vacuums, the counters gleaming and the goods deftly displayed. Though the heating was turned to its lowest setting, some of the overhead lights had had their bulbs removed – another Government order – and the stock on the rails was thin, the first floor at Marlow’s, in comparison with the increasing drabness of everything else in life, still looked impressive, glamorous, even.

She glanced automatically across to Furniture, as she usually did. Though they walked to work together and clocked in at the same time, Jim always beat her to the sales floor, because men never had to spend so long over their appearance, did they? Lily had seen it done enough times at home – a quick duck in the front of the mirror, smooth their hair, and that was it. It was a source of much envy to Lily. Even though she’d got much better at managing them for work, her strong-minded blonde curls still required a lot of handling and were the subject of many silent prayers – and curses.

She wouldn’t be the only one who’d miss Jim when he left, Lily thought. With his absence today, it had fallen to the new junior on Furniture to try to anchor a stand-up price card on the bilious green satin waves of an eiderdown. He was not making a very good job of it. He eventually gave up and propped it drunkenly against the headboard.

That was always one of the first jobs of the day, making the stock look its best. On Childrenswear, that meant taking the dust sheets and tissue-paper covers off the more delicate baby clothes, lifting every hanger and polishing the rails beneath. She’d better get to work.

Gladys was already there, brushing the velvet-collared coats – a mere seven (seven!) coupons, plus the marked price, a pretty steep one in this case. But at least when you shopped at Marlow’s you knew you were getting quality – or the best quality that was available these days. ‘Nothing but the best’ was the store’s motto – so if you bought a big enough size for your child, a Marlow’s garment would last and last. Anything else was a ‘false economy’. That, at least, was the sales pitch Lily had heard many a time from Miss Thomas and Miss Temple. They were the department’s two salesladies – or salesgirls, as they were called – absurd when they’d both been summoned out of retirement to replace younger staff who’d volunteered or been called up.

Lily mouthed a ‘hello’ to Gladys, found a duster, and started working her way around the rails. If she concentrated really hard, perhaps she could stop thinking about Jim and how he was getting on. She knew what he’d be going through from what Sid and Reg had told her about their medicals: breathing in and out under the cold disc of the stethoscope, sticking out your tongue and saying ‘Ahhh’, being quizzed about your bowels. She wondered if Jim knew what Reg had also told her last night, that once Jim had been trained, he might be sent abroad sooner than young men had been until now. But she knew he would. Jim wasn’t daft. No wonder he’d kept his decision to himself.

As she polished, Lily could see Miss Frobisher in conversation with the new floor supervisor, Mr Simmonds. Well, he wasn’t that new – he’d been in place since the autumn. He’d been the buyer on Sportswear before. It wasn’t the biggest of departments, so he’d been something of a surprise appointment, but announcing it to her staff, Miss Frobisher had been diplomatic.

‘Mr Marlow obviously thinks he has what it takes,’ she said, but Lily had noticed that she’d raised an eyebrow – she had very expressive eyebrows – when she’d first opened the staff office memo.

Mr Simmonds hadn’t even been at Marlow’s that long. He’d been a PT instructor in the Army, which was a qualification of sorts for selling sportswear, Jim had said, and he was certainly ‘on the ball’. Apparently, he’d risen to Warrant Officer Class II but had been invalided out with a niggling shoulder injury. Tall and lean, he strode about the first floor with an athlete’s vigour and a springy step which made you think he was going to vault the counter, not point out a smear. With his quick eye and brush-cut hair, he radiated energy and vitality, and Lily and Jim had concluded that he’d been given the job to shake things up.

As Lily watched, Mr Simmonds placed one hand under Miss Frobisher’s elbow and with the other indicated the door to the stairs. That meant they were going up to the management floor – quite possibly to an audience with Mr Marlow himself.

Miss Frobisher shot a quick look at the hand beneath her elbow, then a longer one into Mr Simmonds’s face. It was not a happy look, and it didn’t make Lily any happier either. On top of the worry about Jim, did it mean Childrenswear was in for a jolly good shaking?




Chapter 5 (#u21c8cd86-824c-5fca-a4a2-cd52d07923b1)


The surface of Cedric Marlow’s mahogany desk was usually empty apart from a calendar, blotter, pen tray and telephone. The accounts and paperwork that he took daily from his ‘In’ tray were efficiently placed, annotated, directly into his ‘Out’ tray. Anything that reposed for more than half an hour in the tray marked ‘Pending’ he regarded as a grave dereliction of duty.

Today, however, something had gone very wrong. For a start, he barely bothered with the usual pleasantries – and he was normally the most courteous of men. Secondly, the desk’s surface was barely visible for paper.

‘Have you seen this?’ he demanded of Miss Frobisher.

She was barely halfway across the Turkey carpet, and Mr Simmonds was still closing the door behind them.

Mystified, she came closer as Mr Marlow pushed Saturday’s copy of the local paper, the Hinton Chronicle, across the desk. Eileen Frobisher hadn’t seen it at the weekend; she’d had better things to do, but now, as he jabbed an impatient finger, she saw what Cedric Marlow was getting at.

She sat down on the chair that Mr Simmonds had thoughtfully placed at her side and drew the newspaper towards her.

‘WOMEN WANTED!’ ran the headline – pithy and to the point for the usually long-winded Chronicle.

She read on.

An appeal has gone out for women, especially young women aged between 18 and 25, to ‘do their bit’ and join the war effort in a new munitions factory in North Staffordshire. The Ministry of Labour and National Service is seeking no less than ten thousand workers in total and it is hoped to recruit ten per cent of them from our area.

Girls and women of Hinton, what are you waiting for? The factory’s machine shop could be turning out tens of thousands of shells a day for our brave fighting men. Instead it is standing shamefully idle. Answer this call and you could be actively helping our troops and our Allies in their valiant fight for justice and freedom! Not only that but you could be enjoying excellent working and living conditions.

The factory is situated in rolling countryside, but within easy reach of major towns. The workers will be housed on-site in a veritable home from home, not in dormitories but in their own separate bedrooms, equipped with a bed with sprung mattress, wardrobe and cupboard. There is an airy dining room serving three hot meals a day. There will be recreation rooms and hairdressing and laundry facilities. In addition, boyfriends will not be discouraged …

She understood at once why Mr Marlow was so agitated, and Peter Simmonds confirmed it. He plucked some papers from the ‘Pending’ tray.

‘The Chronicle’s fevered prose has already had some success. Mr Marlow has had six letters of resignation.’

Six! Now Miss Frobisher was worried. Surely not … well, not Gladys, a home bird if ever there was one. But had Lily Collins been tempted? She’d seemed unnaturally quiet that morning … but surely Lily would have had the decency to mention it to her first – and anyway, neither Lily nor Gladys was old enough, thank goodness!

‘Two girls from Haberdashery, one from China and Glass, and three – three! – from Perfume and Cosmetics!’ Cedric Marlow expostulated.

Miss Frobisher let out a breath.

‘I see. Well, I’m sorry, Mr Marlow. That’s a blow, obviously.’

‘It is, it is,’ fretted Cedric. ‘We’ve invested time and money in training those young women. I hoped they’d be with us for the duration – or until they reached the age for conscription anyway.’

‘Of course it’s a shock, sir,’ said Peter Simmonds smoothly. ‘But let’s try to look at it another way. With stocks ever lower, profits aren’t what they were – and in the present climate, they’re not going to recover. A little – shall we call it natural wastage? – may be a good thing.’

‘But six at once! If this goes on—’

‘There may be no more to come,’ soothed Miss Frobisher. ‘I’m sure most of the girls know they’re very well off where they are.’

Cedric Marlow turned his ire on Simmonds.

‘There’s enough natural wastage, as you put it, as it is. Whatshername – Beryl Bulpitt – Miss Salter as was – she’ll be leaving soon, won’t she, to have her baby? That’s another vacancy. There’ll be more customers than staff at this rate!’

‘I’m glad you said that, sir.’ Peter Simmonds extracted a sheet from the clipboard he always carried. ‘I’ve been taking a look at staffing levels. And without going so far as to outnumber staff with customers, I think there are several departments where a little rationalisation could be called for.’

Eileen Frobisher stiffened. Now she knew why Mr Simmonds had brought her up here. He had her department in his sights.

‘Rationalisation, that’s the word that was used,’ said Miss Frobisher. She wasn’t going to say who’d used it, though anyone would know that it wasn’t a word that would fall easily from Cedric Marlow’s lips.

It was ten thirty, and, having gathered her thoughts, she’d collected her staff together to explain ‘how things stood’. Everyone looked blank.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Frobisher,’ began Miss Temple, ‘you’ll have to explain. Something to do with rationing?’

‘Not quite. Though it seems I do have to give something up – a member of staff.’

Lily’s heart gave a pancake-like flip. Oh, no – no, no, no! Hadn’t she had enough bad news that morning? Yes, profits were down, yes, times were hard, but – no, please no! She’d be the one to go; last in, first out, wasn’t that the rule?

Miss Frobisher saw the panic in her eyes and quickly spoke.

‘I’m sorry, I put that badly,’ she said. ‘To be honest, I’m still taking it in myself. The good news is that no one will be losing their job. But there will be some shifting around.’

Bit by bit, Lily’s heart slowed its insane thudding and she took a deep breath. So did Miss Frobisher, who resumed.

‘Beryl – Miss Salter – Mrs Bulpitt as she is now – will be leaving in a couple of months to have her baby and the store will not be recruiting a replacement. Instead, it’s been decided that you, Gladys, will move to Toys to fill her position. In fact, it’s a promotion, because Mr Marlow’s agreed to create a junior-cum-Third Sales role, and that will be yours.’

Thrilled, Lily reached out to squeeze her friend’s arm. Gladys’s mouth had fallen open before breaking into a delighted smile and Lily couldn’t help feeling a swell of satisfaction.

Just a few months ago, Gladys would have been terrified at the thought of anything that might jolt her out of her safe little rut.

But friendship with Lily, bolder and more outspoken, and, when he was home, being on the receiving end of Sid’s easy banter, had gradually brought Gladys out of herself. Sid had even engineered her a pen pal, Bill, from among his naval mates, who at Christmas had given her a bracelet and asked if she’d officially be his girl. With that inner glow lighting her face, and a little advice on make-up from Beryl, Gladys didn’t even look quite so plain any more.

Lily would be sorry to lose her friend from the department, of course, but she’d only be across the sales floor, and Gladys deserved the promotion – she was already sixteen and had been at Marlow’s for over a year.

‘So that leaves Childrenswear.’ Miss Frobisher smoothed the jacket of her black barathea suit, the one with the buttons like liquorice cartwheels. She was always beautifully turned out. ‘I’ve been lobbying for another salesgirl for some time.’

Miss Temple and Miss Thomas, obviously privy to this, looked expectant.

‘Well, I was told today that there’s no hope of that in the current climate.’

The shoulders of Miss Thomas and Miss Temple sagged again.

‘But I wasn’t going to let that go. In the spirit of striking a hot iron, I suggested that this department should have a junior-cum-Third Sales too. And I’m pleased to say that Mr Marlow has agreed.’

She looked at Lily encouragingly. Lily was bemused. Did she mean her?

‘Well, Lily?’ said Miss Frobisher coolly, when Lily said nothing. ‘I take it you’d do me the honour of accepting the position? Or would you like some time to consider?’

Oh Lord, Miss Frobisher must think she was a right dope! It was only because ninety-nine per cent of her brain was still thinking about Jim …

‘Of course, Miss Frobisher! I’d be thrilled – I was just so surprised!’ she stuttered.

Miss Frobisher inclined her head. Gladys hugged Lily, and Miss Temple and Miss Thomas looked pleased for her too, and for themselves: it would take some of the pressure off them.

Customers at Marlow’s were dealt with in strict order of staff seniority. Lily wouldn’t be serving any of the most prestigious ones – they were Miss Frobisher’s preserve – or the ones who spent less, but regularly, or were new, but who had the look of becoming regulars. To start with, she knew, Lily only would be sent forward to serve the less promising-looking new ones, or the tiresome occasionals who spent ages agonising over a single pair of socks and went away without buying anything – the dreaded Mrs Pope sprang to mind. The theory was that Lily could practise on them. But if her manner was good, she might convert them, and they’d become her regulars. Equally, if the other salesladies were busy, or at lunch, she’d be allowed to serve one of their customers, who might look to her again in future, and so gradually, bit by bit, she’d build up her own clientele. She’d even have her own sales book!

‘Thank you, Miss Frobisher.’ Lily was pink with embarrassment, pleasure – and disbelief. ‘That’s – I’m sorry, I was stunned! Thank you!’

‘Good,’ said Miss Frobisher. ‘I did wonder! Now back to work, everyone, please.’

In so many ways, Miss Frobisher could not have been more different from Lily’s mum, but in one very important way they were the same. Neither ever showed much emotion, but it didn’t mean they weren’t feeling it.

From the start, Eileen Frobisher had had Lily marked out as promising, and she was secretly triumphant at having secured her this small victory. She also felt some pride in the fact that she’d put down a marker with Peter Simmonds. He might have been used to people jumping to attention and saluting when he was in the Army, but she had no intention of being a pushover. Warrant Officer Class II indeed!

‘What was the matter with you?’ asked Gladys later. They’d been sent to the stockroom to stow away the last of the unsold January sale items. ‘I thought for a minute you were going to turn Miss Frobisher down!’

‘I was miles away. Silly of me,’ said Lily. ‘Anyway, I’m really chuffed. And for you, Gladys.’ She pushed a couple of dusty cartons to the back of a shelf to make room for a box of socks.

At least, thought Lily, her new role would give her something to concentrate on once Jim was away. Learning a new skill would keep her occupied, and if she threw herself into work then the days would surely pass, which would only leave the evenings to fill … and her Wednesday half-day … and Sundays …

What would she do without Jim to joke about with, to play cards with, to watch as he dug the veg plot? Well, she could do something a bit more useful, like go along to her mum’s WVS and Red Cross meetings and address envelopes and sew gloves. She’d have to listen to the other women droning on about how they missed face powder and Lister’s Lavenda 3-ply, of course – not the most appealing prospect, but it wouldn’t kill her, and if Jim was doing his bit, she should jolly well do hers. Lily sighed inwardly. No Jim to go to the pictures with, to walk to work with, to fight for the last spoonful of stew. Oh, pull yourself together, she thought. She could always rely on Gladys for company, and in due course there’d be Beryl’s baby for everyone to coo over … She might even try knitting it a little something herself.

Gladys, of course, was focussed on the excitement of telling Bill about her promotion. Lily couldn’t help thinking that it would certainly be a change for Gladys to have something to report. She found it hard enough to find something to write to Sid and Reg every week apart from Marlow’s gossip about people they’d never meet, or tiny tragedies like the hens going off lay or the scarcity of soap. She couldn’t imagine what on earth Gladys found to put in her thrice-weekly letters to her sweetheart.

The relationship had only come about because Gladys had had a huge crush on Sid, which was pretty embarrassing for them all. Sid had realised, though, and had cleverly set her up with Bill to extricate himself. Gladys always maintained that Bill was the spitting image of the blond, athletic Sid, though in truth Bill was nothing like him – shorter and more solid, with the almost invisible eyelashes that went with hair more ginger than fair, and, though admittedly he shared Sid’s wide grin, rather snaggly teeth.

But the important thing was that Bill was gentle, sincere, and well-meaning, all the more to his credit since he hadn’t had the most promising start in life – no father that he knew of, given away by his mother and brought up in a children’s home in London. Gladys had lost her parents in the Coventry Blitz and now lived with her grandmother, so they were both, in a sense, all alone in the world – until they’d found each other. They were a perfect match.

Bill and Sid were on different naval bases now. Bill was learning all about wireless and telegraphy – or something of that sort. He’d been vague in his letters – he had to be – and Gladys, relaying it to Lily, had been even vaguer. Sid’s letters were vague too on his training, but at least they were full of the japes he and his new mates had got up to – dances and pub visits, which Sid claimed were the only things to look forward to in between cleaning your kit and endless drills. That was the trouble, thought Lily. All these young men signed up raring to go, but then they found life in the services dreary. Most of them would leap at the chance to go abroad as soon as they could and get stuck into some real fighting.

Which of course, brought her back to Jim.

‘Lily! You do know those are girls’ socks you’re putting on the boys’ shelf?’

Gladys’s question jolted her back to the stockroom.

‘You’re not yourself today, are you?’ pursued her friend. ‘Come on, what is it?’

‘Nothing,’ lied Lily. ‘Everything’s fine.’




Chapter 6 (#u21c8cd86-824c-5fca-a4a2-cd52d07923b1)


Her mum was at the sink when Lily got in, scrubbing potatoes. A leek, a carrot, and half a swede meant it was Woolton pie for tea – again – though Dora usually managed some stroke of genius to make it moderately tasty. A tin of Colman’s mustard on the side gave a clue towards today’s inspiration.

‘Jim not with you?’ she asked, tutting at the scabs on the potatoes that were revealed when the mud washed off.

‘No, we didn’t leave together,’ said Lily truthfully. ‘I’ll go and change, then I’ll set the table, Mum.’

Upstairs she got out of her Marlow’s uniform of dark skirt and white blouse and hung them up carefully. The bedroom was cold and she shivered in her slip as she got into her home jumper and skirt. Her mum had put the blackout up, so she couldn’t see the backyard, but she heard the latch on the back gate click – Jim had oiled the hinge – and hurried her feet into her slippers. When Jim came up the stairs, she was waiting on the landing.

‘The mood you were in this morning, I take it this isn’t a welcome committee,’ he said coldly. He looked tired. What had they made him do? Run around the parade ground?

‘Well?’ It was all Lily could do not to fold her arms. Then she’d look like a real nagging wife.

Jim glanced up at the bulb above them in its cracked parchment shade. Buying time, thought Lily unkindly. Then he looked at her, straight.

‘No, not well, actually.’

‘Jim …’

Lily’s heart catapulted in her chest. For all the terror she’d felt at the prospect of losing him to the Army, she’d never considered this. Had the medical uncovered some awful illness? A heart murmur? TB?

‘What is it? What did they find?’

‘You know that song, “The Quartermaster’s Stores”? You know how it goes, the chorus?’

Before she could answer, he began to sing:

‘My eyes are dim, I cannot see

I have not got my specs with me …’

Lily shook her head. She didn’t see, either. Then Jim spoke, flatly.

‘That’s me, Lily. Eyesight not up to it. Rejected.’

‘No!’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, Jim, I’m so …’

What could she say? Her feelings trumped each other in a game of emotional whist.

First of all, and mostly, she was sorry for Jim, desperately so. She could see how bitterly disappointed he was, ashamed even, though it was hardly his fault. How could anyone have known? Yes, he wore glasses, but Lily certainly hadn’t guessed how bad his eyes were – and presumably Jim didn’t think they were either, or he’d never have seemed so casual about the medical in the first place. Now she wondered how much he compensated for his eyesight and remembered how often he rubbed his eyes when he’d been reading, how it always took him a while to adjust when he came into the house out of the sun, and how he squinted at small print.

On top of that came guilt at how beastly she’d been that morning, how hard she’d made it for him, and how hard it must have been for him to tell her now. Then came dread for him at having to tell other people – her mum and her brothers, Gladys, Beryl, neighbours, colleagues at work, strangers, even. Oh yes, because some people weren’t above accosting any young men of serving age who were still at home, calling them conchies and cowards without even asking if they’d tried joining up. But then – and here was the ace on top of all the others – she had to admit it. On top of all of that, she was relieved – so relieved. She was so relieved that she pulsed with it.

‘Jim—’

She held out her hand.

‘Don’t. Please.’

‘I’m—’

‘Don’t say it. Don’t say anything. Just leave it.’

He went into his bedroom and quietly closed the door.

Lily bit at a shred of loose skin near her thumbnail – a habit she’d been trying hard to break. She’d got what she wanted – Jim wouldn’t be going anywhere after all. She should have been happy. But she wasn’t, because he wasn’t. Why were feelings so complicated?

Over the next few days, the full story slowly emerged. Jim’s short sight needn’t in itself have been a problem, but the eye test had revealed that he was as good as blind in one eye.

‘Such a shame, he should have been patched as a child,’ Dora told Ivy Bulpitt. The two had become fast friends since Les and Beryl’s wedding, and Ivy ‘popped in’ almost as much as Beryl did, usually with Susan in tow.

Ivy tutted and graciously allowed Dora’s hovering knife to cut her another piece of Swiss roll. Thanks to the hens, there was usually something in the cake tin in the Collinses’ household, even with sugar on ration.

‘Just a small one. Got to watch my figure!’ Since Ivy was the size and shape of a barrage balloon, the damage had been done, but Dora cut her the generous slice she knew would be expected. ‘Still, I daresay his mum’ll be relieved. He’s her only one, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ Dora passed Ivy’s plate back. ‘They say you worry about a single one more, but I find you just worry about them all equally, in different ways.’

‘You’re not wrong there,’ mused Ivy, contemplating her plate with satisfaction. ‘Still, Jim having to stick around is good news for you, Dora. He’ll still be here to dig your veg bed and do the hens.’

‘That’s true. And bless him, now he’s had the chance to take it in, he’s trying to turn it into a funny story. He said he wasn’t doing too badly in the tests with his right eye, but with his left – never mind the chart, they could have held up a couple of dustbin lids and he couldn’t have seen them!’

‘Bless him, he’s a good lad.’ Ivy plucked a crumb off her sizeable bosom and popped it in her mouth. ‘And it won’t affect his job at Marlow’s?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. He’s been managing on his good eye all these years, school, work and everything. You can, can’t you? If you close one eye and look around.’

Ivy tried it, screwing up her puddingy face in the process.

‘I see what you mean. Doesn’t make a blind bit of difference.’

She burst out laughing at her unintentional joke, and Susan, poring over a picture book, looked up and smiled her innocent smile. Ivy got up to wipe a skein of dribble spooling from her daughter’s mouth.

‘A bit more cake, Susan, love?’ asked Dora kindly. ‘Then you can help me wind some wool, can’t you?’

Jim might have tried to turn his disappointment into a joke against himself in front of most people, but ten days on from his medical, deep down he seemed depressed. He’d been delighted to hear about Lily’s promotion, and Gladys’s, of course, genuinely delighted, but in private, with Lily, he was still so low in himself that he’d managed to convince himself that his job at Marlow’s was under threat.

Lily had never seen him like this before, and it unsettled her. But then she’d never suffered a setback like his. Perhaps Jim was entitled to be fed up.

‘I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil than on this plate,’ he observed glumly, prodding at his food in the staff canteen. ‘And you need a pneumatic drill for these potatoes.’

‘Oh come on,’ Lily tried to rally him. ‘Just because you were looking forward to getting fat on Army rations!’

It was as if he hadn’t heard her.

‘Still, I might not be eating here much longer.’

Lily laid down her knife and fork.

‘Not that again! For the last time, Mr Marlow is not, not now, not ever, going to get rid of you – you of all people!’

What Lily knew, and no one else did, was that Jim was related through marriage to the Marlows: his mother’s sister had been married to Cedric Marlow. She’d died young giving birth to their son Robert, and the two sides of the family hadn’t been in contact till Jim had come to work at the store. But having Cedric as his uncle surely meant his position had to be secure?

Jim knew what she was driving at, but he didn’t agree.

‘Lily, you’ve got eyes in your head – better eyes than mine. There are six girls leaving – seven if you count Beryl. They’ve managed a neat trick shuffling you and Gladys about, but are any of the others being replaced? No.’

‘That doesn’t mean they’re going to give anyone else the chop – far from it!’

Jim shook his head.

‘Marlow’s can’t afford to carry extra members of staff, whoever they are. Margins are tight, profits are down. And why’s Simmonds been appointed? To be a new broom, right? Well, they sweep in corners. And there’s no dustier corners than in Furniture and Household. You know we’ve got hardly anything to sell!’

‘Who has? That applies to every department. And every shop in Hinton!’

‘Maybe,’ said Jim, ‘but I’ve seen the way Simmonds has been looking at me lately. He’s watching me all the time.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! He looks at everyone, it’s his job!’

‘Hm. With that same shark-eyed stare?’

‘Shark? You’ve seen too many newsreels about the Nazis, you really have!’

But Jim wouldn’t be told.

‘He’s got to get rid of someone from our department,’ he reasoned. ‘There’s a limit to how long Marlow’s can still employ all five of us. I had a woman in this morning asking when we’d have lead crystal dressing table sets again. I felt like telling her a crystal ball would be more use.’

‘Fine. Get one. And what future do you see for yourself if not here? Another job? Where? And doing what exactly?’

‘Well, good question.’ Jim pushed his plate away, unfinished – unheard of. ‘I’m considering lots of options, actually.’

‘Are you?’ There was something in his tone, and Lily pushed her plate away too. It was one thing to dismiss his suspicions about Mr Simmonds, but this sounded serious.

Jim looked at his watch.

‘I should go. I’m due back soon.’

‘Jim!’ protested Lily. ‘You can’t leave it like that! Aren’t you going to tell me what these options are?’

‘Not till I’ve narrowed them down a bit.’

Lily made a conscious effort to stay calm. ‘Let me narrow them down for you. You stay here and get promotion after promotion till you take over from Mr Marlow.’

‘Hang on!’ Jim looked into the distance and pretended to shade his eyes against an imaginary sun. ‘What’s that I see? Oh yes. A flying pig.’

‘Well, why not?’ protested Lily. ‘His son’s not interested, and he’s got to hand it on to someone.’

‘Well, that’s a nice little fantasy.’ Jim tipped back on his chair. ‘You carry on with it. Maybe in your world, Lily, we’re not even at war – men, women, children dying every day while I’m telling our customers why we haven’t got any tray cloths.’

Like a round of mortar fire his words hit home. Suddenly, with horrible clarity, she knew. Idiot that she was! Why hadn’t she realised Jim wasn’t the sort to take ‘no’ for an answer?

‘You’re going to re-apply, aren’t you, to the Army? Tell them you want a desk job.’

‘Well, there’s enough of them,’ Jim said reasonably. ‘Someone’s got to keep things going behind the scenes.’

‘Pen-pushing?’

‘It’s still a lot more useful than what I’m doing here. And they can’t say I’m not suitable for that!’

Lily swallowed hard.

‘But Jim … it could be … you could be sent anywhere!’

‘That’s rather the point with work of national importance,’ said Jim, stressing the ‘national’. ‘Or there’s plenty of other kinds of war work. Factories, shipyards, the mines—’

This was getting worse.

‘The mines?’

‘They’ve lost a lot of men to the Forces. They’re going to have to replace them somehow, and it’s one job women can’t do.’

The vision of a blackened Jim humping coal was even worse than one of him jabbing someone with a bayonet.

‘You, a miner? You can’t be serious.’

Jim looked at her straight, sincere.

‘Lily, please. Put yourself in my shoes. In all conscience, how can I stay here selling tray cloths, day in day out – if we had any to sell? How do you think that makes me feel?’

‘Well, all right …’ It made him deeply unhappy, she could see. ‘But—’

‘If you don’t see me as a miner or a steelworker – and I’ll give you that, you could be right, then at the very least I could jack this in and go home. There’s plenty of work on the land.’

Of course! Jim had grown up in the country – his mother had moved away from Hinton and met his father there. She would be over the moon if he made that choice. And farming was a reserved occupation.

Jim suddenly tutted and looked at his watch again.

‘All this talking – you’ve made me late!’

He stood up and pushed his bowl of plums and custard towards her.

‘You can have this. I’m not hungry anyway.’

Lily looked up at him, speechless.

‘See you,’ he said casually.

He smiled briefly and walked away.

Lily looked down at the bowl in front of her. She found she wasn’t hungry either. In fact, she felt rather sick.

Surely he – she – hadn’t had a reprieve from the Army just for him to go off somewhere else?




Chapter 7 (#u21c8cd86-824c-5fca-a4a2-cd52d07923b1)


Dinner break over, plums untasted, Lily went back to her department with a heart that felt as if it was strapped into the Big Dipper at Blackpool Pleasure Beach – as if it hadn’t had enough ups and downs lately.

Instinctively she glanced across to Furniture. Jim was nowhere to be seen, but Gladys, busy straightening the rails, mouthed ‘Delivery’, which gave Lily some relief. At least that explained his absence. He wasn’t up on the management floor handing in his notice. Yet. Even so, Lily found it difficult – impossible, actually – to share Miss Temple’s outrage over the fact that Gentlemen’s Outfitting had received a quantity of caps when Miss Frobisher had had children’s pixie hoods on order since before Christmas.

‘It’s getting ridiculous!’ Miss Temple complained, but her indignation only emphasised Jim’s point. If they couldn’t get the goods to sell anyway, Marlow’s would be happy to let staff go. Why shouldn’t Jim take the decision for them?

The afternoon dragged. It more than dragged, it positively limped towards five thirty and going-home time.

At last the final customer had left, the department was tidy, and Lily could make her escape. Jim had returned to his department mid-afternoon, and her plan was to intercept him before he got to the back stairs and gave her the slip. She’d spent the hours since dinner, when she was pretending to listen to Miss Temple, formulating her plan. She might not have any hope of persuading Jim out of this notion of leaving, but she could at least urge him not to do anything hasty. It was her only hope.

But it was not her day. Before she was halfway across the sales floor, she saw Mr Simmonds approaching. Like an avenging angel he bore down on Jim, his famous clipboard turned, in Lily’s mind, into a flaming sword. She couldn’t tell from that distance whether he had a particularly shark-like look in his eye – which would have sat rather oddly on an avenging angel, she realised.

But whether he had or not, could Lily trust Jim not to take the chance to blurt out that he was thinking of resigning? Surely Mr Simmonds, ex-Army as he was, would heartily endorse it. The mood Jim was in, he’d probably convinced himself that Simmonds thought he was ducking his duty anyway.

Whatever, it was too late. Mr Simmonds steered Jim through the double doors to the stairs – and Lily’s chance was gone.

Miserably she trudged home. Even the first catkins on the alder trees in the park couldn’t cheer her, nor the blackbird chirping from a chimney pot as she turned into their street.

Inside the house, she found her mother pinning on her hat in readiness for another evening of rolling bandages. Wordlessly, but smiling, Dora nodded towards a postcard on the mantelpiece.

Standard Forces’ issue – and Sid’s writing!

Lily snatched it up.

Greetings, all! it began – a typically cheery Sid opener.

Sorry I couldn’t make it back when my darling brother was home, but I’ve finally managed to get some leave! It’ll be midweek, unfortunately, only 24 hours, and not quite sure when (here something was crossed out in blue pencil – more likely an expletive than a revelation about his travel plans) but before the end of the month for sure. Will write again as soon as I know. Toodle-pip! Sid.

Lily turned her eyes to the heavens and gave a sigh. Thank goodness! Maybe it was a sign. Maybe all Mr Simmonds had wanted to talk to Jim about had been that afternoon’s delivery. Maybe there was still time for her to urge Jim to take his time, and not to rush into anything. Then when Sid came back on leave she could get him on side. And if anyone could talk some sense into Jim, or at the very least jolly him out of the state he was in, it was Sid – lovely, funny, but still sensible Sid.

‘There’s only pilchards for tea,’ Dora said, hat now firmly anchored. ‘But there’s plums and custard for afters. I hope you didn’t have them for your dinner.’

Lily turned and gave her mum the first genuine smile of the afternoon.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t.’

Dora had hardly been gone five minutes – Lily hadn’t even changed out of her work clothes – when she heard what were unmistakeably Jim’s footsteps coming down the entry. She certainly hadn’t expected him back this soon – his conflab with Mr Simmonds hadn’t taken long. Was that a good thing or a bad? Breath bated, she waited for the gate, the latch, the back door, bracing herself for what she might be about to hear.

She thought afterwards that she should have braced herself a bit more firmly, because the door was flung back on its hinges, and suddenly Jim was there, shouting ‘Lily!’ and almost cannoning into her.

Lily leapt back.

‘What is it?’

Jim was grinning from ear to ear.

‘Those shark eyes of Mr Simmonds? Turns out they see more than you or I could ever suspect! But I think you’ll like it!’

Pilchards had never been an especial favourite of Lily’s, but that night they could have been – what was it that posh people ate? – oysters? lobster? – well, whatever it was, they didn’t taste like pilchards usually did. Though that might have been thanks to the bottle of ginger beer that Jim had nipped to the outdoor to get.

‘Something to celebrate, eh?’ he said as they chinked glasses.

‘Definitely,’ Lily replied.

The crisis was over. Jim wouldn’t be leaving after all.

‘I hate to say “I told you so”, Jim,’ chortled Lily.

‘But you’re going to anyway. As if you haven’t already, about a million times.’

‘Well, it’s true—’

Jim sat back and folded his arms.

‘D’you know something? Next time I see a pub called “The Nag’s Head”, I’m going to pinch the sign and hang it outside your bedroom door!’

‘Now, now, children!’ Sid reprimanded them. ‘Behave, or you won’t get any pudding!’

It was the following week and Sid was back on his promised twenty-four-hour pass. As it was Wednesday and half-day closing, he’d arranged to meet Lily and Jim straight from work and treat them to lunch.

The reunion had been as ecstatic as Lily could have wished for. Jim had hung back, smiling, as Sid, grinning from ear to ear, had whirled her in the air so fast she’d almost lost a shoe, and the other Marlow’s staff setting off for their half-days had shaken their heads and smiled too.

On the way to the British Restaurant in the Mission Hall, Lily had rattled away non-stop.

‘No pudding’ was an empty threat, though, because they already had their puddings on their trays, all-in for a very reasonable 9d, so Lily graciously, with a mock bow, conceded. To be fair, it was Jim’s story.

‘So,’ Sid went on over the clatter at the trestle tables around them, ‘this Simmonds character, Jim, that you thought was going to give you the boot, practically begged you to stay?’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that—’

‘Of course he did!’ Jim’s story or not, Lily jumped in. ‘Never mind shark-eyes, Jim’s Mr Simmonds’s blue-eyed boy!’

(Funny, Lily thought, that after being turned down by the Army on account of his eyesight, eyes were featuring so much in Jim’s future career.)

Sid silenced her with a look.

‘And he and Mr Marlow just wanted some new ideas? What are you thinking of, then, Jimbo?’ Sid was off again, messing with people’s names. ‘Live mannequins in the windows? Roof garden with a Palm Court orchestra? How about slashing prices – I’d go for that!’

Lily was dying to supply the details – she was that proud of Jim – but managed with great restraint to contain herself. In preparation for her promotion, Miss Frobisher had given her the sales staff manual. It was very explicit on politeness, tact, and quiet dignity, none of which came naturally to Lily. Here was a chance to practise, and to let Jim have the limelight.

‘Honestly, Sid,’ Jim said now, ‘they’re nothing very special.’

Typical, thought Lily, annoyingly modest! He had tact and quiet dignity off to a ‘T’ …

‘Jim, that’s not true! Tell him!’

‘Oh come on, the first thing is just obvious.’

‘So obvious that no one else had thought of it!’

‘Lily, who’s telling this tale?’ asked Sid patiently.

Lily sat back. Keeping to the sales staff dictums was going to be a serious challenge, she could see.

Jim resumed. ‘Cedric Marlow’s done some amazing things. From one tiny draper’s shop, he’s made Marlow’s what it is today. When the war started, and the bombings, he was right on the button – air-raid shelter in the basement, fire-watching and plane spotters on the roof, bells and whistles – literally – to warn staff and customers about air raids almost before the sirens had started.’

‘He made space for a Red Cross stall,’ put in Lily. She just couldn’t help herself. ‘An interpreter’s desk, too, when the refugees started arriving from France and Belgium.’

‘That’s right,’ said Jim. ‘But he’s not daft. He’s nearer seventy than sixty now and he must realise he’s not quite up to the mark. So he’s asked me and Peter Simmonds to—’

‘Get that, Sid! Peter, if you please! And after all Jim said about him!’

Jim ignored her and carried on. ‘—to come up with suggestions. On three fronts. First, how can the store do more for the war effort, and keep the staff happy at the same time. And then he wants some ideas to bring in more custom.’

‘So this “obvious” thing is what? Don’t tell me – you’re going to suggest a Suggestions Box!’

They’d finished their main courses now and Sid reached for a cigarette: he’d swapped to Player’s Navy Cut from his pre-war brand the minute he’d joined up. He was very proud of being in the Senior Service – and never let Reg, still on Woodbines, forget it.

‘No. A Fowl Club,’ said Jim.

Sid paused with his cigarette halfway to his lips.

‘Hang on. Pig Clubs, yes, I’ve heard of them—’

‘Not very practical,’ said Jim, ‘on the roof of the store.’

‘You’re going to keep chickens on the roof of Marlow’s?’

‘It’s wasted space apart from the fire-watchers’ hut. And it’s only what we’re doing already at Lily’s but on a bigger scale,’ reasoned Jim. ‘Any of the staff that are interested will give up their egg coupons and get coupons for grain instead.’

‘Which will feed the hens, with some of the canteen waste from the store, instead of it all going in the pig bin,’ added Lily.

‘The store carpenters can knock us up some housing. And I’ll get the chickens a few at a time.’

‘Jim knows all the farmers in his village,’ supplied Lily helpfully. ‘He’s got all the contacts, and club members will get far more eggs this way than on ration.’

‘Incredible!’

Lily beamed so proudly on Jim he might have been her first-born who’d won a Bonny Baby Contest.

‘And? Tell him the rest, Jim!’

‘All right, I’m getting there.’ Jim had been hoping to get stuck into his jam sponge, but he could see Lily wasn’t going to let up. ‘Simmonds wasn’t convinced the staff were doing enough for Civil Defence. So he’s got the ARP in, and the Voluntary Fire Service and the Home Guard. To give talks and drum up some recruits. In fact, he wants to make it compulsory for anyone who’s not medically unfit.’

‘Huh, you can take the bloke out of the Army …’ mused Sid.

‘And for the girls—’

‘Women,’ corrected Lily.

‘Sorry. For women, we’re going to start sewing and knitting classes in the Haberdashery department. For staff and customers. Beginner, intermediate and advanced.’

‘And let me guess! They can buy everything they need at Marlow’s!’

‘Never entered our heads,’ said Jim innocently.

‘Well, well. I can’t wait to see you join those, Lil!’

Lily rolled her eyes. She’d told Sid in letters about her cack-handed attempts to knit something for Beryl’s baby, and how the wool had got so grubby and stringy with having to unravel it where she’d gone wrong that she’d had to give it up as a bad job.

‘I might try the sewing,’ she said. ‘But that’s just the “doing more for the war” bit, isn’t it, Jim? And for keeping the staff happy and involved. Tell him your ideas for the shop.’

‘No, no, that’s more than enough about me,’ said Jim. ‘Tell us what you’ve been up to, Sid.’

‘Oh, no, that can wait,’ said Sid dismissively. ‘It’s not much, and I’ll only have to tell it all over again to Mum. One thing’s bothering me about this Fowl Club of yours, though, Jim. The name.’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, it’s not very catchy, is it? In fact, it’s most unfortunate. How about … “The Feather Club” or … I dunno … yes, I do!’ He clicked his fingers. ‘“The Cluck-Cluck Club”! Wouldn’t that be better?’

Lily burst out laughing. Chicken keeping might have its mucky side, but Sid didn’t have to make it sound like a sleazy nightclub. Or, knowing Sid, perhaps he did.




Chapter 8 (#ulink_743bbf5b-4c5c-5415-b843-b557b052684c)


Gladys, meanwhile, had planned her half-day with care. Time off from work without some chore to do for her gran, who was a bit of a moaner and inclined to take to her bed at the drop of an aspirin, was too precious to waste. Today, a neighbour was sitting with her, and, joy of joys, the Gaumont was showing That Hamilton Woman! again. Gladys had loved it first time round – a proper two-hankie job – so, with a bag of penny creams, she was planning a cosy, if weepy, afternoon in the stalls. Lily might normally have come with her, but Sid’s leave had put paid to that, and it was only natural she’d want to spend the time with him. And in truth, Gladys didn’t really need any more company than Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh. The prospect unfurled happily in front of her as she walked towards the cinema. A lovely romantic weepie – and such pretty frocks too …

But then, there in front of her, leaning on a lamp post – all that was missing was the ukulele – was—

‘Bill! No! No! It can’t be! Is it really you?’

‘Hello there, Gladys. I’m real enough – pinch me if you like! Pleased to see me, are you?’

In films this was the point where the heroine would have fallen into her loved one’s arms, but Gladys was enough of a realist to know that she was no heroine, even in her own life. Though she was sure Bill would be quick and strong enough to catch her, she wasn’t at all sure she could manage the graceful, loose-limbed melting that others like, well, Vivien Leigh, say, could achieve. Instead she stared, dumb-struck and open-mouthed.

Bill grinned the gappy, jaggle-toothed grin that made her insides melt.

‘That’s a “yes”, is it?’

Leaving no room for doubt, he stepped forward and wrapped her in a close embrace.

‘Oh Bill! I can’t believe—’ was all Gladys had time to say before the rest of the sentence was lost in a kiss.

When their enthusiastic reunion had finally run its course, Bill tucked a lock of her disarranged hair behind her ear.

‘It’s good to see you, Glad,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve missed you.’

‘Not as much as I’ve missed you!’

It was what they’d said last time they’d met. He’d promised they’d say it every time – and he’d remembered! Gladys gazed at him adoringly. She hadn’t seen him since the good news about her forthcoming promotion, but she’d written to him about it, and he’d sent back not a letter but a card, a proper ‘Congratulations’ card, with a little bellboy in a frogged red uniform on it, carrying a basket of flowers. Gladys had been moved to tears. Not only had he gone to all that trouble to find a card, he’d written inside: ‘So proud of you!’. It was still up on the little mantelpiece in her room: in fact, she doubted she’d ever take it down.

‘But how did you get leave?’ she marvelled. ‘And why didn’t you let me know?’

Bill folded her arm through his, and, taking the outside of the pavement – such a gentleman! – led her off towards Lyons Corner House. (‘No point being in the Navy if you can’t push the boat out!’)

‘There’s no hiding it, Glad, I’m on standby now. I could be deployed any day. So any chance I get for leave, I’m going to jump at it. No time to warn you, though. Good job you weren’t strolling along with your other boyfriend, eh?’

‘Oh, you! But—’ she paused. ‘How did you know where to find me? How did you guess?’

‘No guess needed. You told me you were going to the Gaumont, silly. Don’t you remember? In your last letter.’

‘So I did!’ Gladys leant over, aiming for his cheek, but kissing his ear instead. It didn’t matter. ‘So you do read my letters, then?’

‘All of them, every line!’ Bill sounded indignant. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Well …’ Along with Gladys’s growing confidence had come at least some self-awareness. ‘I know I can go on a bit. And often I don’t have anything that interesting to say.’

‘It’s interesting to me,’ Bill insisted.

Gladys clutched his arm more tightly. She’d at least had a childhood filled with love. Bill had never had anyone – no hugs, no one to wipe his tears when he fell down, or to make a fuss of his smallest achievements. No one to take an interest in his school work, to buy him a toy of his own, or even a bag of sweets. It was the same when he joined up. Pals, yes, but no letters, no birthday cards, nowhere to go on his leaves. No one to feel special about, no one who felt specially about him, who cared about him as much as they cared about themselves. Well, I do, thought Gladys fiercely. She cared about him more than she cared about herself.

Her insides turned liquid again. It was a good job they’d arrived at Lyons and Bill was holding open the door. Gladys didn’t want to blub in front of him. She knew she would when they parted, but for now, all she wanted was for his whole leave to be happy.

‘You’ll never guess, but Sid’s home today, as well!’ she informed him as the waitress put their plates down.

‘Is he, the crafty beggar?’ Bill shook salt enthusiastically over his fish and chips. ‘Good job I didn’t run into him. He’d only have tried to persuade me to go for a drink!’

Gladys passed him the tartare sauce in its little silver sauceboat. So refined, Lyons.

‘I’d have turned him down, though, don’t you worry.’ Not so worried by the niceties, Bill slopped out a hefty dollop of sauce. ‘I know where my priorities lie!’

Gladys looked at him from under her eyelashes. On Beryl it would have been a flirtatious look, but Gladys could no more have been flirtatious than have ridden the winner in the Grand National. On her, it was a shy look of sheer incredulity at her good fortune.

‘I still can’t get over you being here,’ she marvelled. ‘This is such a treat. Thank you.’

‘And you needn’t miss the film,’ Bill assured her, tucking in. ‘We’ll go tonight.’

For himself, he’d have preferred something with a bit of humour or a lot of action, but there were advantages to seeing a romance with Gladys. They both fell silent for a moment, thinking of the pressure of his knee against hers, his arm round her shoulders, and the way he could nuzzle her neck when she clung to him in any especially sad bits.

‘Eat up,’ he said, waving his fork. ‘You know I can’t tell you what I’ve been doing – it’s all boring technical stuff anyway. So tell me all about this Mr Whatsisname, the new floor supervisor feller, and these changes he’s making.’

So, between mouthfuls – the chips were very good – Gladys did, relaying Jim’s idea about starting a Fowl Club and all the eggs it would produce.

‘And I thought hens only laid powdered egg now!’ grinned Bill. ‘So what else? What about inside the store? You said something about keeping the staff happy?’

‘Like Mr Churchill says, it’s all about keeping going and keeping cheerful.’

‘Morale, yeah. Always banging on about it.’

‘Yes.’ Gladys nodded eagerly. ‘So there’s going to be sports clubs, football, and netball, and cricket and rounders in the summer – and maybe a sports day, even! There’s going to be a doctor once a week, for free.’

‘What, for the twisted ankles and groin strains?’ asked Bill wryly. ‘Go on!’

‘And a barber coming in, and a hairdresser.’ Gladys, like Lily, had days when she despaired of her hair, though for different reasons – hers was mousy and unbendingly straight – so she was especially pleased about this. ‘On Wednesday afternoons,’ she added. ‘So in our own time – but very cheap.’

‘Blimey, I won’t recognise you next time! Gladys the Glamour Puss!’

Fearing she might have raised his expectations a little too high, Gladys blushed and looked down.

‘I do try to look nice for you, Bill. I mean, if I’d had a bit more notice today …’

Bill speedily backtracked.

‘And you do! You do already! I didn’t mean anything by it …’ Remorseful, he grabbed her hand. ‘Gladys. I truly didn’t … I didn’t mean … I love you just the way you are.’

The words had spooled from his mouth before he could reel them back, but as Gladys stared at him, he realised he didn’t want to, even if he could.

‘There, I’ve said it,’ he added quietly.

Gladys started to tremble. She turned their joined hands over, stroking the fine, almost transparent, hairs on his fingers. ‘Do you really?’

‘Blimey, give a bloke a chance,’ protested Bill, blushing. ‘I just said so, didn’t I? Want me to spell it out in Morse Code? Or flags?’

‘No, of course not!’

Gladys screwed up her courage. She’d wanted to say it for so long, but now the chance had come … Still, if Bill had managed it …

‘I love you too, Bill, I do, I really, really do. So much. I only didn’t say, because … oh, Bill.’

Leaving one hand in his, she sat back and put the other to her chest.

‘Ooh, my heart’s hammering! I’m sorry, I don’t think I can eat any more. Do you want the rest of my chips?’

At the Collinses’ that evening, there was another surprise, though perhaps on a slightly lesser plane.

There was a new delicacy on the table, something that had sat in the larder all day with Dora peeking at it occasionally as if it might explode.

‘They call it Spam,’ she said, as Lily cut into the thick fritter of bright pink meat on her plate alongside the cauliflower and potatoes.

‘Special Processed American Meat,’ said Sid, who knew everything, or managed to give that impression. ‘We’ve had it in the NAAFI since last year. But if it’s reached Hinton, I’m telling you, it really has arrived.’

‘Well,’ said Jim, chewing thoughtfully. ‘It’s a funny texture. Sort of slimy, like a face flannel. But it doesn’t taste too bad.’

‘And at least it brightens things up,’ added Lily.

The colourlessness of the wartime diet was as much a trial to her as its sheer repetitive blandness. Everything looked beige and tasted beige. Never mind moaning about vanished brands of knitting wool or soap, how she longed for a vivid orange or a banana. She’d even have sucked on a lemon.

Dora made no comment. She’d acquired this tin quite legally, but Ivy, with her many and various ‘contacts’ about which Dora never enquired (‘Don’t ask a question to which you don’t want to know the answer’ was another of her mottoes) had offered her up to three more, and she was seriously wondering, after the family’s reaction, whether to take her up on it. Best change the subject.

‘Still nothing from Reg in the post,’ she observed sadly.

‘And it’s been a whole month since they left,’ objected Lily, looking to Sid for his superior knowledge of shipping.

‘They’re probably not there yet.’ Sid took a swig of tea. ‘No news is good news. If they’d run into trouble, we’d have known about it by now.’

Indeed they would: it had been a dreadful winter at sea. Ever since last November, when they’d sunk the Ark Royal, the Germans had seemed unstoppable, and January had been one of the worst months for shipping since the start of the war. German U-boats had sunk more ships than there were days in the month – thirty-five in all.

‘Where should his ship have got to by now?’ asked Jim.

‘Should be well past the Cape,’ pondered Sid. ‘But they may have had to put in somewhere en route. Refuel, take on supplies, some mechanical fault …’

‘So why didn’t he write from there?’ demanded Lily. ‘He might know we’ll be desperate to hear!’

‘He might have been a bad boy and not allowed onshore. No, scrub that,’ Sid corrected quickly as Dora looked concerned. ‘Not very likely with our Reg, is it? But maybe someone else was and they all got confined to barracks, well, had to stay on board.’

‘That’s not very fair!’

‘Nothing’s fair in love and war, Lil,’ Sid chastised. ‘Or, if they were going to be in dock a while, they might have been carted to a camp upcountry. Where the only post’s a forked stick or smoke signals!’

Dora sighed. ‘We’ll have to be patient, then.’

‘Yes, you will,’ said Sid. ‘I dunno why you’re getting so excited. What’s he going to say when he gets there, anyway – “I can’t tell you where I am but there’s lots of sand”?’

‘And what would your letters say?’ Lily felt obliged to defend Reg. ‘“I can’t tell you where I am but there’s lots of water”?’

‘Come on, Lil! I hope I’m a bit better correspondent than Reg!’

It was true – Reg’s letters, short and infrequent, were unlikely ever to give Freda, their post girl, a hernia.

‘Well,’ said Jim, who was privy to the contents – Sid’s letters were generally read out loud – ‘I admit your last darts match sounded pretty gripping, but let’s be honest, the only thing these two really want to hear about is who you’re courting.’

This too, was true. With Sid’s good looks he’d never been short of girlfriends, and it was hard to believe he wasn’t ‘up with the lark, to bed with the Wrens’, as the saying had it.

‘Crikey, don’t spare my blushes, will you?’ Sid, unusually, seemed taken aback by Jim’s directness. ‘You know me, same as always, taking my chances at village dances.’

‘Still no one special, then?’ enquired Dora.

Sid might not like being put on the spot, but Lily was delighted. Jim was quite right. It was the question she – and her mum, she knew – had been dying to ask.

Sid opened his mouth to answer, but the back door opened, and a familiar voice called ‘Only me.’

Lily looked at Jim and Jim looked at Lily, but instead of the eye-rolling that Beryl’s arrival mid-meal (again!) might have caused, their eyes telegraphed concern. It didn’t sound like Beryl’s usual cheery greeting. Nothing like.

Dora twisted in her chair to call through to the scullery.

‘Beryl? Never mind your boots, come on through.’ So she was concerned as well. Normally it was strictly boots off at the door. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’




Chapter 9 (#ulink_6776301c-c569-5460-bcdf-ea864ba610a7)


Poor Beryl. She was in a heck of a state.

‘It can’t be,’ she blubbered, as, tea abandoned, they all clustered around the chair by the fire where she’d been installed. ‘The baby’s due in a few weeks, and my Les won’t be here to see it come!’

Les had got his posting. He and his unit were being shipped out in a fortnight – and, like Reg, he wasn’t entirely sure where. All they knew was ‘overseas’.

Jim had quietly disappeared to the scullery, but now re-emerged. He tactfully put a cup of tea down at Beryl’s side.

‘Well done, Jim.’ Dora gave him an approving smile. ‘Sugared?’

Jim nodded. ‘One. And a bit.’

Sugar was precious, but if ever it could be sacrificed, it was now.

‘Never mind sugar.’ Sid went to his kitbag, undid it, and produced a half-bottle of rum. ‘Put her a nip of this in it. And let’s get some sense talked around here.’

They all looked at him.

‘Well, not by me! What do I know about marriage and babies? Over to you, Mum!’

As he spoke, he drew up the small rush-topped stool, lifted Beryl’s ankles, and placed it gently under her feet. Then, with a look at Jim that said ‘Danger! Waterworks alert!’ they both retreated to the safety of the dining table.

Dora poured a careful capful of rum into Beryl’s tea. She didn’t really approve of alcohol, and certainly not in the house, but in the circumstances … She stirred Beryl’s tea for her and handed her the cup.

‘Now look here, Beryl,’ she said. ‘You know what we do round here when someone’s in trouble. We all pull together. We did it last year, when you first found out you were expecting, and we’ll do it again. It’s a crying shame Les won’t be with you, but you won’t be on your own.’

Lily nodded vigorously.

‘The fact is,’ Dora continued, unconsciously echoing what Reg had said to Lily, ‘you’re not the only one. You’re far better placed than some, and far, far better placed than you might have been. You’ve got a good home, a good husband in Les, and you’ll have all the help and support you could wish for from Ivy, I know you will.’

‘And me and Mum,’ put in Lily. ‘Whatever you need. Gladys too, I bet.’

‘I know, I know …’ Beryl wiped her eyes with a sodden hanky. ‘You’ll think I’m stupid,’ she snuffled, ‘and I am, it’s not like I haven’t known it was coming, but I dunno, when it actually happens … I was in the phone box speaking to Les, and when he told me, I felt my legs just go from under me!’

Lily reflected that given the size she was, Beryl must have been pretty firmly wedged in the box anyway, so there was little or no chance of her sinking to the floor, but she gave her the benefit of the doubt. If you weren’t allowed a bit of poetic licence when you were pregnant, then when were you?

Beryl applied her hanky to her eyes again, sniffed, and tried to collect herself.

‘It’d mean a lot to me, Dora,’ she quavered, ‘if you’d be with me when the baby comes. Ivy’ll be there if she can, I know, but with Susan …’

‘You don’t have to ask, Beryl,’ Dora replied. ‘Take it as read.’

‘Thank you,’ Beryl said in a small voice. ‘You’re golden, you really are.’

Beryl’s appeal came as no surprise to Lily. For two plain-speakers forced together by circumstance, Beryl and Ivy got on surprisingly well, and Beryl showed an equally surprising patience with Susan. But Ivy knew her daughter-in-law: when it came to childbirth she was unlikely to be the grin-and-bear-it type. Ivy had pointed out that the sight and sound of Beryl in labour could frighten Susan into fits; Les had agreed, and had promptly booked Beryl into the local maternity home.

But Beryl was no fool either. In the short time since Les had told her about his posting, she’d obviously realised that encouraging words and forehead-swabbing, when it came to it, would be much more likely to come from the ever-practical but relatively more compassionate Dora.

‘If I could add one thing from the, er, male perspective?’

Sid was shuffling the cards, which had also appeared from his kitbag – he never travelled without them. A pile of matchsticks indicated he’d inveigled Jim into a game of pontoon. They all swivelled to look at him as he laid down the pack.

‘There’s no other way to put this, Beryl, but frankly Les did his bit last summer. Even if he was here, the maternity home’s no place for a bloke! He’d have most likely been down the pub if he’d got any sense.’

Dora shot him a look that would have quelled, if not felled, anyone less robust, but Sid, being Sid, got away with it. Beryl gave a damp smile.

‘You’re right there,’ she admitted. ‘He’s said as much!’

‘Exactly! So when you’re screaming in agony bringing the little one into the world, far better that he’s throwing up over the side on the high seas or in some miserable billet suffering as well, don’t you think?’

Lily had to hand it to Sid. Whenever she’d tried to make a joke of anything serious, like Reg’s posting or Jim’s medical, she hadn’t convinced even herself, but somehow, annoyingly, he managed it. Beryl even half-laughed.

‘Yeah – and serve him right!’ she sniffed. ‘I mean, he’s looking forward to the baby and everything, real excited he is, but even if he was here, it’s not like he’d be changing the nappies, is it, or doing the feeds?’

‘In my experience, not in a rain of pig’s pudding.’

Dora had pronounced, and after that, no one was likely to disagree.

Gradually the evening got its usual rhythm back. Dora swept Sid’s cards and matchsticks off the table – she didn’t approve of gambling, either, however harmless. Lily re-laid the cork mats and got out the pudding spoons – five of them, because Beryl bravely thought she might manage ‘just a bit’ of the blancmange that was on offer.

With Beryl accepting her second helping (typical!), the conversation turned to naming the baby. That was something that would have to be decided, surely, Lily asked, before Les went away? Or had they already chosen?

Boys’ names, it seemed, were still a subject of discussion – Ivy was pushing for Cuthbert, her father’s name, and Beryl was resisting – but she and Les had settled on a girl’s name – sort of.





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