THE POSTMISTRESS
. OUR STREET AT WAR .
Maggie Sullivan

Copyright

One More Chapter

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Maggie Sullivan 2020

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photographs © Lee Avison / Arcangel Images (woman); KGPA Ltd / Alamy Stock Photo (background)

Maggie Sullivan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for 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: 9780008419868

Ebook Edition © 2021 ISBN: 9780008419875

Version: 2020-12-11

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Julie Leibrich, a true ayshet chayil – a woman of valour, a woman of worth.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

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

Postscript

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Maggie Sullivan

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Greenhill, Spring 1939

‘Looks like we’re definitely headed for war if what’s writ in these papers is to be believed,’ a gruff voice said.

The shop bell tinkled as Vicky Parrott pushed open the front door of the Post Office that gave onto Greenhill’s narrow High Street and she stood for a moment on the doorstep looking to see who had spoken. The Post Office was wedged between Boardman’s newsagent, tobacco and confectionery shop and Thompson’s the butcher shop and, as Vicky looked up, it was Lawrence Boardman who was coming towards her waving the Daily Express.

‘Here y’are,’ he said. ‘I kept your copy back as the delivery boy was late in this morning. Thought you might want to read it over your first cup of coffee.’

‘I had that a while since, but thanks. I know my dad will want to see it.’ Vicky stepped outside and took the paper from him. She couldn’t help a groan escaping as she scanned the dramatic pictures accompanying the front-page stories. The outlook did indeed seem very grim.

The Great War had had such a devastating effect on the small Lancashire town, and on the Parrott family in particular, that she couldn’t bear to acknowledge that hostilities might be starting up again. Wasn’t that supposed to have been the war to end all wars?

Vicky wasn’t religious in any way. How could she keep the faith after all that had happened to her and her family? Nevertheless, she found herself unconsciously offering up a prayer to whatever gods there might be that the reporters’ predictions would come to nothing. She glanced across the road to where the river continued to glide silently behind the rusted railings, looking for all the world as if nothing were amiss. And indeed, when she looked in one direction it really did seem as if nothing had changed, for all she saw was the peaceful scene of the schoolhouse with clusters of carefree children chasing each other around the playground. It was only when she turned to look in the other direction and her eyes focussed on the old cotton mill in the distance that she was reminded that it had recently been turned into a munitions factory, manufacturing ammunition and important parts for hand weapons and shells.

She shook her head to rid it of the unwelcome images that were suddenly crowding in and she tried to hang on to the stillness she usually enjoyed at this hour of the morning, the peace and quiet of those few splendid minutes before the daily bustle began. At least the High Street looked peaceful. She imagined Greenhill was like any other Lancashire mill town, with its cobbled streets that would soon be thronging with shoppers and the gentle smoke that curled from the distant chimneys so that they looked like they had been etched onto the backdrop of the craggy moorland hills. The only hint of war was an army recruitment poster in a shop window and her lips quivered with a fanciful smile as she thought of what Dot Pritchard had always been so fond of pointing out. Kindly Dot, who for ten years before her marriage had been such an important part of Vicky’s life, had only been a young lass herself when she had taken on the task of looking after Vicky and her little brother Henry after their mother had died from Spanish flu. Dear Dot, who at the age of eighteen had so willingly taken on the potentially arduous role of substitute mother, showing them nothing but love. Vicky could hear her voice now.

‘It might all look harmless,’ she used to say, ‘but we’ve no way of knowing what goes on behind them closed doors.’ She’d have a knowing look on her face and she’d tap the side of her nose and this had always made Vicky laugh as her imagination went into overdrive.

This morning, apart from the newsagent, there was no one about but the dairyman, Billy Pritchard, Dot’s father. The street was quiet save for the occasional whinny from his old horse while Billy was busy delivering fresh pints of milk to each doorstep, just as he always did. Meanwhile, the work-weary nag scented the air, plopping yet another steaming pat of fertiliser onto the cobblestones.

‘Ne’er mind eh, Pretty Polly?’ Lawrence Boardman brought Vicky out of her reverie as he handed her the newspaper. ‘You know what they say, while there’s life …’ He turned his face skyward. ‘And looking on the bright side, it might well be another sunny day.’

Vicky cringed at his use of the soubriquet. She was far too old at twenty-five to be referred to as ‘Pretty Polly’ even as a tease; it was a childhood nickname that harked back to her early days at the old schoolhouse and she thought it should be left there. The only person she hadn’t minded using it after she left school was Stan … She stopped. There was no time for such memories now. It was a new morning and she needed to face it brightly, as she tried to do most mornings. She pasted what she hoped looked like a patient smile onto her face as she turned to go inside. ‘Thanks for the paper,’ she said and the doorbell jangled once more as she went back into the Post Office.

‘Victoria, is that you?’ The familiar rasp of her father’s voice, followed by a throaty cough, greeted her as she lifted the counter and went through to the small living room behind the shop front, calling, ‘Yes, it’s only me, Dad!’

But the room was empty. None of the clutter on the small table had been disturbed. Only a disembodied voice wheezed over the banisters from the top of the stairs. ‘Who was that in the shop? Why have you opened up so early? I haven’t had my breakfast yet.’

Vicky rolled her grey eyes heavenward, an ironic smile tugging at her lips as she stood in front of the mirror over the fireplace where she had left all her kirby grips the previous night. She pulled her long dark hair off her face, gathering as best she could the wispy tendrils that seemed determined to escape and, sweeping them round her fingers, deftly pinned it all into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She tried to pinch a bit of colour into her cheeks and succeeded in highlighting the high cheekbones that she was always being told were her best feature. At least the world hadn’t stopped turning and her father was his usual irascible self.

‘There’s nowt to fret over, Dad. It was only me checking the weather,’ Vicky said, disguising a sigh as she tossed the newspaper onto the table, knocking her father’s favourite pipe to the floor. It hadn’t had any tobacco in it since his lungs had been so badly damaged by mustard gas in the Great War but he liked to suck on it – like a baby’s dummy, she always said – and she couldn’t get him to part with it. She tutted as she bent to pick it up, fortunately still in one piece. She stared down at the grim front-page headlines again with the gruesome pictures of tanks and soldiers on the march and she groaned. Here they were, talking about a new war, while she was still dealing with the consequences of the old one. Life was so unfair.

‘I’ve already put the water up and Mr Boardman next door’s sent in the paper,’ she shouted up to where she could see her father on the small landing at the top of the stairs. ‘Shall I mash you some tea?’ But the only response she got was the sound of more coughing followed by the slam of his bedroom door.

The tiny gong on the pretty clock on the mantelpiece that had once belonged to her mother pinged nine times and, on the final stroke, Vicky stepped into the Post Office, just as she always did. She pulled up the blind on the front door and swung the ‘closed’ sign round to read ‘open’. Dr Roger Buckley was already on the step, as he was most mornings, the first customer of the day. If she was honest, she looked forward to seeing him though she wouldn’t have dreamt of saying so. He was a good-looking man with a high forehead, a strong, smoothly shaven chin, and a perfectly chiselled nose, she considered him to be like an early-morning tonic, and she knew from the admiring glances his velvet-brown eyes and dark slicked-back hair drew from most of the women in the neighbourhood, that she wasn’t the only one who thought so. The village’s most eligible bachelor, some said, though in fact he was a widower with a child and Vicky liked him best when he dropped in to the Post Office at the weekend with his little daughter, Julie. If she had time, Vicky would stop and chat to the bright six-year-old and, if she wasn’t busy, she’d let her wind the date stamp to the correct reading then press it into the ink pad before she stamped it onto any piece of scrap paper she could find. Julie was like a ray of sunshine, Vicky thought, though talking to her sometimes made Vicky tearful, thinking of things in her own life that might have been …

This morning being a weekday, Roger Buckley was alone, on his way to work, and she greeted him with a spluttering chuckle when he almost tumbled inside as she drew back the bolts and flicked the latch to open the shop door. She had always thought it unusual for a doctor to be buying stamps for his own business letters, particularly when she knew any number of her neighbours would have loved to become his secretary. But he had once told her that he liked to deal with his correspondence himself at the start of each day before climbing into his little Austin 7 and chugging up and down the streets of the village, visiting his patients. Vicky checked the weight and counted the letters as he placed them, one at a time, onto the scales and she carefully tore off the correct number of postage stamps.

‘I wonder what it feels like to see your own picture every time you stick a stamp onto an envelope,’ the doctor suddenly said.

Vicky looked at him sceptically. ‘You don’t imagine the King attends to his own correspondence, do you?’ She giggled at the thought.

‘No, I don’t suppose he does.’ Dr Buckley laughed. ‘I imagine he has a personal secretary to see to such matters.’

‘Perhaps you should think of doing that,’ Vicky said, ‘then you wouldn’t have to spend so much time rushing around each morning before you even start seeing patients.’

He laughed again. ‘As it happens, I don’t mind beginning my day a little earlier than necessary. He lowered his voice and leaned over the counter. ‘It gives me a chance to see what my neighbours look like when they’re well without having to wait for them to appear at the clinic when they’re not.’ She realised he was staring directly at her and his sharp brown eyes seemed to soften, enhancing the smile on his lips so that she had to look away. ‘Of course, you could be right,’ he said, ‘though at the moment I’m not convinced that writing out a few bills and reports would justify me shelling out a whole extra salary for a secretary – unless you’re offering to do the job for free?’

Vicky caught the friendly teasing tone she so often heard in his voice and felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She couldn’t maintain eye contact and had to look away. He had a disconcerting way of meeting her gaze that she found unsettling, so she busied herself straightening some papers before tossing the stamped letters into a large sack that hung beside the counter, ready for collection later in the day. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’ Vicky asked, still not daring to look at him.

‘Just a fresh pad of Basildon Bond paper and a packet of matching envelopes, please, and then I’d best be off.’ The doctor smiled at her and raised his hat. ‘May you have a day filled with customers,’ he said, and Vicky couldn’t help but smile back.

‘And may all your patients get well soon.’ Roger Buckley was surprised when she responded so sparkily and he smiled as he nodded in agreement. Then his thoughts turned to his first visit of the morning. He was on his way to the greengrocer’s shop three doors down from the Post Office where fourteen-year-old Ruby Bowdon had recently returned from hospital having survived polio, and was now recuperating at home, awaiting his advice about how best she should approach her rehabilitation.

‘I’d better be on my way to make sure that she gets off on the right foot, so to speak,’ Roger said. He raised his hand to the brim of his brown felt trilby hat and left.

A prolonged series of coughs from the living room behind her made Vicky look round before greeting the next customer.

‘Victoria,’ her father’s voice rasped with some urgency. ‘Was that Dr Buckley? Only, I could have done with him having a listen to my chest. I think I might need some more of that linctus he gave me last time he called.’

Vicky excused herself for a moment from the counter to put her head round the door that led through to their living quarters. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t carry such things around with him, Dad,’ she whispered. ‘And you can probably get it from the chemist. I can always ask Mr Stone if you run out but I think there may still be some of the old one left. I’ll come and have a look as soon as I’ve got a minute but I’ve got a line of customers to serve first.’

‘Then you’d better pray I’m still here by the time you get round to it,’ he snapped. ‘I’m warning you, I won’t be able to help out today – or any other day, for that matter – unless you find me some of that cough mixture stuff, sharpish.’ Her father was wheezing badly as he spoke. ‘My chest feels like a washboard this morning.’ And with that he pulled the door shut.

Vicky felt a stab of guilt when she heard his slippers scuffing on the thin carpet as he shuffled across the sitting room to the couch in front of the fireplace. She was trying to gauge the seriousness of his words and didn’t know what to do first. With a sigh, she decided to turn back to the queue that had now formed. She puckered her lips and raised her brows by way of apology but the villagers knew her and her father well enough. There were a few disgruntled murmurs from people in the queue who were mostly strangers to the village, the rest were chattering amongst themselves and not objecting at having to wait.

‘Good morning, sorry to keep you,’ Vicky said to the first in line, recognising Violet Pegg, the teacher from the infants’ school. ‘I hope I’ve not made you late?’

‘Don’t worry.’ Violet glanced at the watch on her slim wrist. ‘Mrs Diamond’s taking morning assembly today for my Infants as well as her Juniors so I should be back in time.’

‘What can I get you? The usual, is it?’ Vicky asked.

‘Yes, please.’ Violet giggled. ‘Sounds like you’re offering me a pint down at the Stoat and Weasel. But a stamp for Canada will do very nicely instead, thanks.’

‘Put your letter on the scales so’s I can check it.’ Vicky licked the stamp and dropped the airmail envelope with its readily identifiable blue and red border into the collection sack, while Violet fumbled for the coppers in her purse.

‘Actually, before you go I’ve got something to show you,’ Vicky said, opening and closing the till in one practiced movement. She reached up and released several sheaves of flimsy blue paper from a large bulldog clip above the wicket. ‘Head office has just sent me these new air letters and I thought they might be of interest.’ She pushed one over the counter for Violet to examine. ‘It’s one piece of paper that you fold up and seal,’ she explained, ‘and then it goes straight into the pillar box.’

‘That’s handy, but what about a stamp?’ Violet asked.

‘That’s already printed on it, so it’s cheaper than buying paper and envelopes and a regular stamp.’

‘Now that certainly sounds like a good idea. I’ll take one so I can try it next time,’ Violet said, delving back into her purse. ‘I reckon that with all the money I’ve spent on stamps over the years I could have booked a passage to Canada for a first-hand visit.’ Violet giggled.

‘But the King and Queen have beaten you to it,’ Vicky said. ‘I see they’re off to Quebec soon.’

‘That’s where my pen-friend lives – I’m jealous,’ Violet said.

‘Don’t they speak French there?’ Vicky looked impressed. ‘Don’t tell me you write in French?’

‘We used to when we first started writing, while we were both still at school. But now he’s moving to Toronto and his English is far better than my French so we’ve switched.’

Vicky deposited the extra money in the till drawer. ‘You’ve been writing for years, haven’t you? It really is amazing.’

‘Here!’ The woman who was next in the queue suddenly interrupted and Vicky was caught unawares she’d been so engrossed in her conversation with Violet. ‘We’re all very impressed that you can write in a foreign language, love, but do you think you could be moving on for now?’ The woman spoke directly to Violet.

‘I agree, Betty,’ the woman behind her said. ‘I only wish I had the time to sit and write letters but we’ve all got to get to work this morning, even if you don’t!’ She indicated the people in the rest of the line and there were nods and mutters of agreement, though mostly good-natured.

‘Oh dear, yes, I’m sorry,’ Violet said. ‘Who knows, maybe one day I’ll get to meet him and then I won’t have to keep posting letters.’ She grinned at the two women behind her. ‘Thanks for this, anyway.’ She waved the flimsy letter towards Vicky. ‘See you again soon.’

‘Let me know how you find it,’ Vicky called after her then she turned to the next in line. ‘So sorry, Mrs Wellsley. I didn’t mean to hold you up. We got carried away,’ she said. ‘Now, how can I help you?’

When Vicky heard the clock in the sitting room registering midday, she finished the final transaction of the morning and ushered the last customer out. Then she flicked the closed sign into place on the front door and pulled down the blind with a sigh of relief. It was dinnertime and she couldn’t help wondering where the morning had gone. She felt a stab of guilt as she went behind into their living quarters and saw that her father had fallen asleep on the couch. She’d forgotten that she’d promised to look for his medicine, but at least he looked peaceful and he wasn’t coughing now. He was sitting in an awkward position, though, his head uncomfortably lolling forwards onto his chest. He jerked awake as she passed through into the scullery and began tackling the small pile of breakfast dishes.

‘What’s happened? What time is it?’ Arthur Parrott said, his voice sounding croaky and he started coughing almost immediately.

‘Nothing’s happened.’ Vicky began to rummage in one of the wall cabinets, displacing bottles of Dinneford’s Milk of Magnesia and Dettol, while being careful not to touch the TCP disinfectant that would stink the place out. Her father wouldn’t thank her if she had that smell on her hands when she was making up their dinnertime sandwiches.

‘Sorry, I couldn’t get away to come and check sooner but it’s been bedlam out there today. A constant stream, though I’m sure I don’t know why. Seems like everyone’s suddenly writing letters or sending parcels.’

‘They must be worried that if there’s going to be a war they won’t be able to send owt,’ Arthur said. ‘And who knows? Maybe they won’t.’ He coughed, briefly this time, though as he did so he rubbed his hand across his chest as if to soothe the pain.

‘Sorry, Dad,’ Vicky said, replacing the bottles in the cabinet, ‘but it looks like you’ll have to take an aspirin for the minute if your chest hurts. There doesn’t seem to be any linctus left.’

‘Well, I need some,’ Arthur grumbled. ‘You’ll have to go to the chemist after you’ve shut up shop tonight. Tobias Stone might not be the friendliest on the parade but at least he’ll let his neighbours pick up medicines after hours, provided it’s not too late.’

Vicky sighed. ‘Why don’t you ask Henry to go while I see to the tea? I’m sure he’ll be back in time. You never seem to think to ask him. Don’t you think it’s time he helped out a little more here?’ She snapped the words out but at the look on her father’s face she wished she hadn’t, and for a moment she worried that she’d gone too far.

‘What, ask him to do woman’s work after he’s put in a hard shift at the foundry?’ Her father looked aghast at her suggestion and gave another hack.

Vicky was stung into responding, ‘Oh, I see – it’s all right to ask me, even though I’m on my feet all day in the Post Office, and never mind everything else that I have to do?’ She couldn’t seem to stop now that she’d started. She was aware that her voice had begun to rise.

‘Don’t you get shirty with me, young lady. You can’t compare your work to his. You should be glad to have such a cushy number.’

Vicky closed her eyes, thinking of all the household tasks that she still had to do. She knew it was the same for most of the other women of Greenhill and that she should really be counting her blessings for she wasn’t as badly off as some, but when she was consumed by depression she found it difficult to hide her feelings. She couldn’t help thinking about the past and the effect it had had on her. But she knew she couldn’t afford to lose her temper completely, for then she would say things she didn’t mean and there would be no way back. She loved her father, of course she did. After all, he had done his best in a situation that had proved to be hard on all of them. It wasn’t his fault what had happened to Stan, or what had happened to her, and in the end he hadn’t thrown her out onto the street as he had threatened to do. He had provided a roof over her head and made it possible for her to pursue a job she actually enjoyed. It was just that sometimes she wished Henry would take on more responsibility and not leave so much to her. She took a deep breath and counted to ten in an effort to calm down as she saw her father’s features harden and he took a step towards her. He wagged his finger in her face and his voice suddenly dropped, making his words sound menacing and deliberate.

‘You, my girl, are doing your duty. Nothing more, nothing less, and don’t you ever forget it.’

Vicky’s shoulders slumped for she knew he was right and there was little point in denying it. Life had not been easy for any of them. ‘You know, Dad, I’ve never objected to doing my duty as you call it, it’s just that …’ As she clenched and unclenched her fists, Vicky suddenly realised that this was a fight she had been spoiling for ever since she had been hauled out of school at the age of fourteen and told that, as Dot was now leaving to get married, it was her job to look after her little brother. She had so desperately wanted to continue her education, to stay on at school and perhaps go to secretarial college. But she hadn’t felt able to argue then and she didn’t feel able to say anything now. Not when she had been guilty of contributing to the family’s misfortunes. All she could do was to try her best to make amends. ‘You must know I do my best to do my job and to look after you and the house and … whatever else is needed,’ she said, ‘but I don’t see why—’

‘It was hardly my fault that I came back from the war like this, I can bloody assure you of that!’ Arthur cut in, wheezing heavily, though he still managed to carry on talking. ‘Any more than it was anyone’s fault that your poor mother caught that damned Spanish flu right at the end, even though she’d managed to see out the war. But what was your bloody fault was … was …’

Vicky could see that he was struggling to get the words out now, but as he spoke Arthur stood up and to her astonishment began fumbling with his belt. Fortunately, he didn’t have the strength to disengage the buckle before he fell back onto the couch, overcome by a terrible coughing spasm. As far back as she could remember, her father’s physical strength had not been able to match his temper, though he could still hurt her with his tongue lashings. But for once her tears were frozen. She didn’t need reminding of what she had done.

‘It’s no less than you deserve when I think of the shame you were on the verge of bringing onto this family!’ Arthur shouted at her. ‘You’re no better than you should be.’

‘That was three years ago,’ Vicky said softly. ‘But you certainly make sure I keep paying for it, don’t you? While all the time your precious Henry gets away with murder. When are you going to face up to him and tell him to start pulling his weight?’ As she said this, her father began to cough again and this time she was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop. She became really scared as his eyes began to bulge and it took all her strength to prop him up on the couch and loosen his collar. She ran into the scullery for a cold compress and tried to dab it on his forehead, but he shrugged her away.

‘I should have thrown you out when I had the chance. You and your wanton ways,’ Arthur gasped between wheezes. ‘I swear to God, you’ll be the death of me. But maybe that’s what you want?’ Without warning he pushed Vicky’s hand away. He swung his legs round and stood up unsteadily, lurching in the direction of the stairs. ‘Call me when my dinner’s ready,’ he said and heaved himself upwards one step at a time.

Vicky could feel her eyes burning but she was determined not to let her father see her cry. She had a problem. Arthur’s breathing seemed to be getting worse. Maybe she should ask Dr Buckley to come and have a look at him, find out if there was anything else he could do. She would even pay him, if necessary, if an extra visit wasn’t covered by Arthur’s GPO Health Insurance scheme. Roger Buckley seemed to be the only person her father really trusted, the only one apart from her and Henry that he would allow inside the house.

She sat at the table for a few minutes, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. She could only feel sorry for what her father had suffered as a direct result of being so badly gassed during the Great War. But on a practical level, the remnants of his injuries put a great strain on her and now she feared that the symptoms were escalating. Today was the first time Arthur had refused to come to help out in the Post Office – and if he wasn’t able to work behind the counter, then she would need to look for some help. It was a full-time job and she could no longer cope with it while at the same time having to be housekeeper, shopper and general factotum as well, no matter what she felt was her duty. And what would she do when Arthur needed more nursing? How would she manage then? Whether she would be able to carry on looking after him if his health continued to deteriorate at the rate it had recently was a question for Dr Buckley.

Perhaps she should contact her bosses at the GPO and sound them out about getting an assistant? Unless, of course, she could ask Henry. Maybe she should approach her brother and try to make him see how much she would appreciate his help, urge him to at least shoulder some of the responsibility.

The trouble was that as the threat of war became more immediate, so more people wanted to stop and chat about it. She hated being rude to her customers, but it was becoming almost impossible for Vicky to encourage them to pay for their purchases and be on their way. She was named as the postmistress, although the certificate of trading was in Arthur’s name, but she could hardly spell out to her customers, most of whom she had got to know well over the years, that she needed time to be able to see to all her other chores as well. It was even becoming difficult to lock the door for an hour at midday as she was entitled to do because there always seemed to be someone who had something important that needed to be dealt with immediately. She could understand if it involved sending an urgent telegram but it rarely did, so why buying a postage stamp or writing paper and envelopes couldn’t wait for an hour Vicky was unable to understand; she only knew she felt as if she was being pulled in all directions …

Henry came in later than usual that night, through the back door they used as their personal home entrance, and he ran straight up the stairs to the room he shared with his father, ignoring Vicky’s greeting and her enquiry regarding his tea.

‘Where’s Dad?’ he called down over the bannisters.

‘Down the garden,’ Vicky said, invoking the euphemism the family used to describe a visit to the lav.

‘Damn, I need him to be here.’ Henry came down the steep stairs slowly. He sat on one of the chairs at the table and hid his face behind the sports page of the evening paper he’d brought in with him. Then he jumped up and paced back and forth in the small living room.

‘Why don’t you go and wash your hands and I can serve up your tea?’ Vicky said. ‘It’s better than you wearing out the carpet. We don’t have to wait for Dad.’ She was wondering if she might be able to pin Henry down before their father returned, talk to him about taking more responsibility for looking after Arthur.

‘I’m not ready to eat yet,’ Henry said ‘I’ll hang on till Dad gets here. I’ve got summat to tell you both and I’m not saying it twice.’

‘I thought you were looking agitated. What’s wrong?’ Vicky asked, as he circled the table for the third time. Her brother’s restlessness seemed to fill the room and she was beginning to feel the waves of his anxiety wash over her.

Thankfully, it was not for long. Henry had sat down and stood up again several more times when, to the relief of them both, there were the distinctive sounds of Arthur making his way down the path and through the backyard. Vicky saw it as her cue to bring in the large earthenware dish from the oven and begin ladling out the steaming juicy layers of spicy meat, potatoes and vegetables that comprised her own special version of hotpot that she knew they both loved. She brought in three large bowls from the scullery and began to fill them before placing them on the wooden mats she had laid on the table.

‘Hurry up, Dad,’ she called out. ‘Yer tea’s ready. It’s yer favourite and I’m just serving up.’

Arthur ran his hands briefly under the cold water tap, then he rubbed them down the front of his heavy drill trousers in an attempt to dry them.

‘We’ve been waiting for you because Henry’s got something to tell us,’ Vicky said.

‘Oh, and what’s that?’ Arthur asked as he sat down. He turned to face Henry, but as he did so his face seemed to drain of blood. It was then that Vicky gasped, covering her mouth with her hands and looking from one to the other as she suddenly realised from reading her father’s face what it was her brother had come to tell them.

For a moment nobody spoke. Vicky automatically handed round three sets of forks and spoons but no one attempted to eat from their fast-cooling plates. Henry picked a corner off one of the slices of bread that had been piled onto a plate in the centre of the table and almost unconsciously began to roll small fragments between his index finger and thumb. Then he nervously gathered the tiny grey pellets into a cairn-like pile beside his plate on the oilcloth. He didn’t look at her or his father as he spoke.

‘I’m going to join up. Sign on for the army. I thought you ought to know,’ he said eventually.

The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of Arthur wheezing. His brows knitted then his lips twitched into an uncertain smile. Henry looked up at that moment, his eyebrows raised in query as his gaze met Vicky’s but for once she didn’t know what to say.

‘Look …’ Henry filled the void when neither Arthur nor Vicky spoke. ‘There’s no question about whether this war’s going to happen. I’ve no doubt in my mind that it will, and it will be soon. Meaning that it will be over soon, but the thing is … I want to be part of it. I want to be there to stick it to the Germans, so that we can shut them up for ever. I say we need to show them who’s boss, get it over and done with before they’ve got a chance to invade any other countries … And that might include Britain. Whichever way, my bet is that war will be declared sooner rather than later.’

‘But—’ Arthur started to say but Henry cut him off.

‘No, Dad, I don’t think there are any buts. It won’t be like last time. This time it really will all be over by Christmas. Hitler’s off his rocker, thinking he can take on the world, and I say that the more of us join up early, the easier it will be to show him that he can’t.’

‘When will you …?’ Vicky’s voice croaked as she struggled to control it.

‘Not sure yet, but it will be soon.’

For the moment she forgot the speech with which she had been preparing to confront Henry. Now all she could do was fear for the life of her little brother and worry about how she and Arthur would manage with him gone.

‘What about your job?’ Vicky managed to say eventually as it dawned on her that they would be down to a single wage coming into the household. But Henry was not thinking along the same lines.

‘What about it? I hate the bloody foundry,’ he said vehemently. ‘I’d have left no matter what. In fact, I’ve already handed in my notice so there’ll be no delay in me actually signing on the dotted line.’

‘You mean you …?’ Vicky said.

‘I’ll be volunteering, yes. I don’t imagine I’ll have any problem passing a medical so I’m not waiting for any kind of forced conscription, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m taking fate into my own hands and doing summat useful for my country at the same time.’

He beamed as he spouted what Vicky knew to be the message on some of the recruitment posters she’d seen pasted up around the town. She felt a cold shiver that was more like an electric charge shoot down her spine. ‘You mean you can’t wait to get away. To leave us here to our own devices?’ she finally managed to say.

Henry looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean? You’re capable of managing perfectly well on your own. You don’t need me.’

Vicky wondered if there would have been a different outcome if she had managed to get her two penn’orth in first before he’d made his announcement. What would have happened if she’d had a chance to tell him of her fears and concerns? Would she have made him change his mind? She had to admit that she doubted it but she asked the question anyway. Turning to face Henry and using as quiet a voice as possible she said, ‘And how am I to cope if Dad gets really sick? I do worry about him, you know.’

Arthur had picked up his empty pipe from the table and was pulling hard on the stem as if it were lit. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, girl. I shan’t be any bother,’ he said quickly as if to show her he’d heard her whispered words. ‘Of course he must go and fight for his King and country,’ he said with a satisfied smirk.

‘How can you say that? Look where fighting for your country got you.’ Her voice was twisted in a sob. ‘And where did fighting get my poor Stan?’ Vicky stopped, angry that she couldn’t disguise her voice breaking. ‘And I didn’t notice the King or your country stepping in to do much once you were wounded.’

‘I was unfortunate. But Henry’s got a chance to be the hero I never was,’ Arthur said, a broad smile on his face now.

Henry blushed but didn’t respond.

‘And you and me will manage, lass, you wait and see.’ Arthur patted Vicky’s leg under the table.

Vicky screwed up her eyes tight but to her chagrin scalding tears still managed to make serious tracks down her cheeks.

‘So once again it’s me that’s left with all the responsibility, me that will have no choice, no life.’ She thought she had whispered the words so that only she could hear them but Arthur’s response was swift and cruel when he gave a scornful laugh.

‘You’ve not shown any interest in having a life for the past however many years, so why suddenly the concern now? You don’t even respond when someone does take an interest in you.’

Vicky looked puzzled but her father didn’t elaborate. Instead, he went on, ‘And once upon a time you were prepared to throw your life away completely for a fella – and you would have too, if the war hadn’t stopped him in his tracks.’ Vicky could feel the colour rising from her neck to her cheeks and up to the top of her head as she glared at her father.

‘All I can say is, I’m glad you’re not thinking of doing that now, sis,’ Henry suddenly said and he reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘We’ll be needing the likes of you to keep the home fires burning and all that. Isn’t that what they used to sing about in the Great War, Dad?’

‘They did indeed,’ Arthur said and he began to hum the first line of the well-known song. ‘Besides, you should be thankful your life’s turned out so well, given the kind of start you had. There’s lots of girls would give their eye teeth to have what you’ve got right now: a good job, a home, a family.’

Vicky could only stare at him, her thoughts momentarily bound up with all that she had lost, though she switched her gaze as Henry stood up and pushed his chair back.

‘Well, I’m off to tell my mates.’ He grinned. ‘See if I can shame them into joining me. I’ve got a feeling I might be the first, but I know I certainly won’t be the last.’

Arthur slowly got up from the table. He went over to Henry and patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’m proud of you, son,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re doing the right thing.’ Then he turned to glower for a moment at Vicky. Unexpectedly, she shuddered. It was the kind of look that had frightened her when she was a little girl, when her father had just come back from the war, just after her mother had died. And it frightened her now to think that in her father’s eyes she would probably always be second best. As if to underline the sentiment, Arthur turned his attention back to Henry and beamed at his son one more time.

‘You don’t worry about us, lad,’ he said. ‘You go and do what you’ve got to do.’ And he patted him one more time on the back, ‘We’ll manage, same as we always have.’ And with that he slowly made his way up the stairs.

Chapter 2

‘Daddy! Daddy!’ The little girl squealed with joy as she ran across the hall and into her father’s arms. Roger Buckley put down his doctor’s Gladstone bag that suddenly felt heavy and he opened his arms wide to accommodate the sturdy six-year-old.

‘Julie, my love. What a wonderful welcome, as ever,’ he said. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her gleaming black hair that hung straight to her shoulders. It was smooth and sleek just like her mother’s had been. Such moments always brought a tear to his eyes.

‘Don’t touch my hair, you’ll mess it up,’ Julie said, patting it down with her hands.

Roger didn’t mind that his daughter was unusually vain for her age about her hair. He found it strangely comforting. He loved to see her comparing it with the well-thumbed photos of Anna that, at Julie’s insistence, adorned her bedroom. If she deemed it to be so much as an inch longer than the hair in the photographs, she insisted that her granny cut it.

At that moment Freda Buckley appeared and, as she opened the door from the family’s living quarters that led into the hall, Roger was greeted by the appetising smell that suggested his mother’s indulgence of his favourite – cottage pie.

‘Roger, darling.’ She greeted him warmly. ‘You’re later than usual. I nearly sent your father on a trek to the surgery to make sure you hadn’t got lost coming from there to here.’ She grinned but Roger only shrugged, too tired even to laugh at the well-worn family joke, the clinic where he worked most afternoons being attached to the other side of the house.

‘You know how it is,’ he said. ‘There’s always someone likes to arrive just as I’m about to close up for the night. It’s as if they can’t bear to let me go home.’ Then he smiled. ‘Though I must admit it has been busier than usual today. I think people are gearing themselves up to the fact that there really will be a war and they want to get any niggles sorted out while things are still running relatively normally. I suppose it won’t do them any harm to be in as good a condition as possible if we’re going to be hit by rationing and food shortages.’

‘You might be right. But you should be more assertive.’ Freda playfully wagged her finger at him. ‘Meanwhile, your dinner awaits. Julie’s already had her tea but your father and I haven’t eaten yet; we thought we’d wait for you, though we had almost given up on you.’

‘But I want you to read me a story first!’ Julie tugged at his arm. ‘I’ve been waiting soooo long.’ She sighed in such a grown-up way that it made Roger smile.

‘All right, I’ll read you a story.’ He bent down and kissed her forehead. ‘Though only one. No nagging for another one.’

‘I promise.’ Julie momentarily put her thumb in her mouth and quickly turned away before she could be admonished.

‘But while I take off my things why don’t you tell me all about your day at school,’ Roger said.

Julie let go of his hand and ran through the short corridor that led into the kitchen while he hung up his coat on the hall stand and took off his jacket. She skipped back into the hall waving a piece of sugar paper that had been carefully folded so that it looked as if it had wings, and he could see it had been decorated with patches of pastel-coloured tissue paper that had been stuck all over it.

‘Miss Pegg said it was really good and she pinned it up on the achievements board for the afternoon.’ She made the word ‘achievements’ sound more like a sneeze and the doctor laughed. ‘And I got a star on my work chart,’ Julie said, refusing to be put off.

‘That’s very clever of you,’ her grandmother intervened. ‘And now I think you should go up to bed and Daddy will come and read to you shortly.’

‘Oh, can’t I stay up a little bit longer?’ Julie begged.

‘You heard what Grandma said,’ Roger said. ‘I’m very tired and I need to have something to eat, but I’ll put you to bed first with one story, as I said. And if you’re really good and go to sleep then, like you promised, then we can go fishing in the park, maybe even this weekend so long as it doesn’t rain.

‘Ooh, goodee!’ Julie clapped her hands with delight as she started up the stairs.

‘But haven’t you forgotten something?’

‘Oops!’ Julie said and she ran quickly back into the kitchen where Roger heard the sound of a sloppy kiss.

‘Night-night, Grandad,’ she called and within seconds she was back in the hall where the sound of the kiss was repeated. ‘Night-night, Grandma,’ she said. ‘Come on, Daddy.’ She pulled on his hand. ‘Come and read Mr Galliano’s Circus to me.’ She put on an imitation of an adult voice, ‘The sooner we start, the sooner you can eat. Isn’t that what you always say?’

Roger couldn’t help laughing at that. ‘It is indeed.’ He ruffled her hair. ‘Now come on, my precocious little child, or Grandma will be chasing after the both of us.’

He didn’t even get to the end of the chapter before he heard Julie breathing deeply and he crept downstairs so as not to disturb her. His father poured two fingers of whisky into a crystal glass and pushed it towards him almost the moment he appeared, and his mother began serving up the appetising dish of well-seasoned meat topped with creamy potatoes as if she had been standing, ladle poised, waiting for him to appear. But on cue, as they were ready to begin eating, they were assailed by a loud wail from upstairs followed by, ‘Where’s my water? I want a glass of water.’

Roger half rose but his mother patted his arm. ‘You stay and eat; I’ll see to her.’ And Roger didn’t protest.

‘I’ll be back in a moment, Cyril,’ she said to her husband as she poured a tumbler full of water ready to take upstairs.

‘Long day?’ his father said when Freda had left the room. Roger nodded. ‘I remember them well,’ Cyril said smiling. ‘And I can tell you, long hours are not something I miss.’

Roger took a sip from his whisky glass then sat back. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘That sounds ominous.’

‘Oh dear? What’s that supposed to mean?’ Cyril said.

‘It means I was hoping you were going to say something else. Does a tiny part of you really not sometimes hanker to come out of retirement and go back to work for a little while? Just to keep your hand in?’

The older man exploded into a blustering laugh. ‘Good heavens, no! Why should I want to do that?’ He picked up his whisky glass but he put it down again before it reached his lips and he gave Roger a quizzical look. ‘You’re serious? Come on, spit it out, old chap.’

‘Unfortunate choice of phrase, Dad.’ Roger gave a humourless laugh.

‘Are you really saying what I think you’re saying?’ Cyril said, his brow creasing with a frown.

‘Yes, I think I am,’ Roger admitted. ‘You must have seen the recruitment posters? They’re all over the place.’

‘And you’re thinking … what, exactly?’

‘I’m thinking that, as a medic, I could make a damned useful contribution.’

Cyril frowned, looking worried for a moment, but then he sat back with a look of genuine relief. ‘But they won’t want you, Roger. You’re too old.’ He hesitated. ‘Aren’t you? You won’t have to go into the forces, surely?’

‘Not immediately, no. But once this thing gets going, how long do you think it will be before they widen the parameters?’

‘What? Do you mean extend the age groups?’

‘That and the fact that they’ll want trained doctors, not just medics or nurses.’

‘You really think it’s going to happen?’

‘Without a shadow of a doubt, I’m afraid. If you listen to the news it sounds inevitable.’

‘Hmm.’ The older man nodded. ‘You’re probably right. So you’d rather pre-empt a compulsory call-up and volunteer?’

‘I thought that if I did it might give me the edge, a little leverage, a bit more choice about where I end up.’

‘Who knows what’s going to happen? Who knows?’ Cyril looked pensive but didn’t ask any more questions and nothing further was said about it when Freda came back to join them.

They finished their meal without further conversation, the only sounds in the room being the genteel tapping of the highly polished silver-plated cutlery on the fine china plates. Then Roger helped his mother pile the dirty dishes into the sink in the kitchen and left her to deal with them while he poured another splash of whisky for himself and Cyril. He sat at an angle next to his father so they both faced the hand-embroidered fireguard that hid the empty fireplace and he pulled a small table into place between them. He refused the offer of a cigar but leaned across the table to grasp hold of the table lighter to light one for Cyril.

Dr Buckley senior puffed on the cheroot and turned his gaze on his son. ‘So, what have you in mind then? When are you planning on going?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ve nothing specific in mind at the moment,’ Roger said, ‘because there are certain things I’ll need to do. But first I wanted to check out your thinking on the subject, to find out where you might stand in all of this.’

‘Well, I’m essentially anti-war – as far as one can be – as you know, but I’m also cognisant of the fact that one does have a moral duty when push comes to shove.’

‘So, I suppose what I’m really asking is … would you be willing to?’ Roger stopped and fiddled for a few moments with the lighter, flicking the blue flame on and off several times.

‘Willing to what?’

‘To come out of retirement and keep things afloat here if I did sign up? In other words, would you be willing to hold the fort and keep the practice going?’

Cyril cleared his throat. ‘I would have to ask your mother before I could commit to anything definite, for it would affect her too, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Roger agreed.

‘It would mean her looking after Julie full time, for a start.’

‘Yes, I’d already come to the same conclusion, but I can’t see her objecting to that, can you?’

‘No, but she’s the kind of woman who does like to be asked about things that affect her. You can’t just take her goodwill for granted.’

‘No, I understand that,’ Roger said, quietly sighing with relief in the knowledge that this particular battle was already as good as won. ‘But I know she loves Julie and that the feelings are mutual, so that would make things easier all round.’

‘And what about you?’ his father asked. ‘I know you’ve never tried to replace Anna, and I don’t usually pry into your private life but isn’t there some …’ He hesitated. ‘Some sweetheart, some ladylove or potential amour whose feelings would need to be considered before you took such a step? In my experience, the womenfolk do like to be consulted.’

Roger felt his face flame and for a moment, without thinking, almost blurted out his guilty secret. But then he realised that that was all it was still, a secret, and unless he chose to give it away, that was how it would remain. No one knew of the woman he admired, the woman he wished he could get closer to, the woman he really didn’t want to leave behind. At this moment there were no such complications for only he knew. No one else. Not even Pretty Polly herself.

Chapter 3

Violet Pegg found the airletter at the bottom of the capacious bag she took to school each morning when she was clearing it out at home at the end of the day. She always had to make sure no one had dropped their rubbish into it as some of the cheekier little ones were prone to do. The almost transparent blue paper was badly crumpled and she tried to smooth it out on the kitchen table. She wasn’t sure why she had bought it. She and her Canadian penfriend, Danny, didn’t exchange letters as often as they used to, not like when they had first started writing while they were both still at school. Then they had sent a reply almost immediately they received new post. In fact, she’d only just sent off a letter to him that morning so who knew when she’d be writing to him again? She sighed. And what would happen if the war came, as everyone was predicting? Would she still be able to send letters abroad?

‘Looks like you should be taking an iron to that,’ her mother Eileen said, coming into the living room and loading a large knitting bag onto the table. ‘What is it anyway?’

Violet explained. ‘Knowing me, I’d scorch it if I tried to put the iron anywhere near it, so it would be no use anyway,’ she said and giggled.

‘Well, you can’t afford to throw it away. It’s the price of a good stamp that is,’ Eileen said. ‘And talking of throwing away, I need you to get round to Mrs Barker’s and fetch me the rest of that knitting wool she’s set aside for me, before she gets rid of it.’

‘She wouldn’t do that!’

‘Oh yes she would if she thought I hadn’t fetched it fast enough. Like as not she’d sell it to someone else.’

‘She never would? Not once she’s put it aside with your name on it?’ Violet insisted.

‘According to her that’s all she does, puts it aside and it’s not mine by right until I’ve paid for it.’

‘Hmm. That’s not very neighbourly, is it?’

‘I’m learning that neighbourly doesn’t count for much in her book. Believe me, she’s done it to me before. Sold off my wool without any warning. Said I was too slow in claiming it. She can be a right misery, that Sylvia Barker, I can tell you – and her daughter can be even worse.’ She stopped for a moment. ‘I’m sorry if I’m speaking out of turn because she’s your best friend,’ she went on after a moment, her voice firm, ‘but I’m saying it as it is. I’m not surprised they don’t work well together in the shop.’

‘Maybe Mrs Barker’s got things to be miserable about.’ Violet always tried to see the best in everybody. ‘I’ve been hearing all sorts about her husband and if only half of it’s true it’s enough to make anyone feel downright miserable.’

Eileen looked at her sharply. ‘Have you been listening to gossip again? Where did you pick that up from?’

‘The usual place.’

‘Oh, Violet.’ Eileen looked disappointed. ‘You do know you can’t believe everything you hear, don’t you? Particularly not if you hear it in the Post Office. That’s the last place.’ She shook her head. ‘People do love a good gossip.’

‘I know, Mam, and I promise I won’t spread it any further than this room. But whether you want to believe it or not, when you hear such things coming from several different quarters, you can’t help wondering whether there might be some fire to go with all that smoke.’

Chapter 4

Rosie Barker didn’t get home from work until late that evening, the third time in a week she’d been expected to do overtime without warning. She threw her bag down and slumped into the armchair, though only briefly, for she sat stiffly upright as soon as she heard her mother’s footsteps. She had no intention of admitting that she might have made a mistake leaving the family business as abruptly as she had, even though at the time it had seemed like a smart move. When the local mill had closed down and reopened as a government-funded munitions factory, it had offered better-paid jobs to local women than they could get elsewhere. It had seemed like the perfect opportunity for Rosie to get away from Sylvia’s small-time haberdashery shop, which she loathed. She was keen to take on what she called ‘real work’ and was soon boasting to her mother about the new job she was about to begin, for rumours had quickly spread that the factory would be manufacturing some ammunition as well as small but significantly important armoury parts. These would then be taken away to be assembled elsewhere into actual, formidable-looking weapons. On the face of it the work had seemed ideal. It sounded as though it would not be too heavy and should be reasonably manageable, and Rosie was happy to think that, without having to exert herself too much, she would be making a significant contribution to the country’s needs should the threatened war actually materialise.

She had no time for the kind of frippery, as she saw it, that her mother stocked, no matter how hard Sylvia tried to convince her of its importance within their local community.

‘I don’t understand what you’ve got against haberdashery. It fills an important need,’ Sylvia argued. ‘Things like knitting wools and sewing stuff are essential, particularly at times like these. You should think of them as raw materials. This county’s fortunes were founded on them, you know. Women make as important a contribution to looking after their families as men. What would they do if they couldn’t make their own clothes, knit their own jumpers, and run up something for the kiddies? Many’s the time what you call “fancy nonsense” has put bread on this table, let me tell you. When your dad’s been having a hard time selling any shoes, we’ve been glad of my shop then.’

Rosie stopped listening. She had heard it all before. She had learned to knit and sew while she was still at school – she’d had no choice – but regardless of her mother’s arguments, she still considered them to be hobbies rather than important skills to flaunt, much less encourage, in the workplace. Even the word haberdashery sent a shiver down her spine.

Sylvia shook her head. ‘I make no apologies for what I sell, Rosemarie, these things are just as important as your armoury and munitions.’ Rosie smiled. Her mother always used her full name when she slipped into lecturing mode. ‘You don’t have to be involved with heavy metals or gunpowder to prove your worth.’ Sylvia’s voice was scathing now. ‘I’m proud to be able to say that I earn a living by helping women to help themselves.’

At first, Rosie had been delighted when she left her mother’s business, convinced that she had made the right move. However, it hadn’t taken long for her to find out the true meaning of ‘real work’ and it wasn’t anything like the ideal she had dreamed of.

‘Hard labour’ was how Rosie usually described it to anyone who would listen, although she took care not to say such a thing in front of her mother. She didn’t dare to complain about her work when she was at home. She wouldn’t give Sylvia the satisfaction of gloating that that was exactly what she had predicted. And it wasn’t as though there was much opportunity for social contact on the benches, for the place was far too noisy for that. There had been a din when it had been a mill, enough to prevent anyone from talking, even those working within a few feet of each other on the same work bench, but the racket in the munitions factory was even worse. If you made the mistake of looking away from the machines for a moment to try to lip-read what someone was saying, there was the chance that the shift of focus of attention could result in an accident occurring or something going badly wrong with the machine. Not only was the work relentless and physically hard, it was also boring, and the structure of the shifts meant that the girls had to work much longer hours than in any shop.

There was only one saving grace in favour of the factory over the wool shop as far as Rosie was concerned – apart from the extra wages she found in her pay packet at the end of the week – and that took the form of a certain Trevor Jones, a young mechanic she’d discovered on her first day. But that was something else she wouldn’t admit in front of her mother.

‘Fancy a cuppa? The kettle’s not long since boiled,’ Sylvia called out from the kitchen.

‘No, thanks, you’re all right,’ Rosie said. ‘We’ll be having tea soon, won’t we? I’ll wait till then.’

Sylvia brought in her own cup of tea together with an oversized knitting bag stuffed full of skeins of wool yet to be unwound and several half-finished garments, and came to sit down at the table. She pulled out the jumper she was making for Rosie from an old cardigan of her husband Archie that she had unpicked. She checked where she was up to in the complex Aran pattern and began to knit.

‘Could be a while yet before we eat,’ Sylvia said. ‘Your dad phoned to say he’ll be joining us tonight, so I reckon it would be best if we waited.’

Rosie tensed involuntarily at the mention of her father’s name and looked across anxiously at Sylvia to see what she made of his impending visit. He was away so much these days that the occasional trip home felt like a special occasion to Rosie, though not a particularly joyous one. But Sylvia’s face gave nothing away and she refused to meet her daughter’s gaze.

‘It seems he’s had a busy couple of weeks selling off the old lines of shoes to make room for the new stock.’ Sylvia’s voice was chatty and her brow crinkled as she concentrated on crossing the small open-ended cable needles back and forth to maintain the flow of the complicated knitting sequence. ‘He’s taken lots of orders this week, particularly for the new line he had in men’s Oxfords and those lovely women’s high-heeled slingbacks that he had in several different colours,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have minded a pair of those myself and that’s always a good sign. I believe he’s sold all the old samples too. So he’ll have to load up the van with a whole new lot to take down to Derbyshire.’

Rosie was about to ask if that meant he might actually have some money to contribute to the household kitty for once, but then she thought better of it. She was having trouble working out how to formulate the question so her mother wouldn’t dismiss it as ‘Rosie being disrespectful’ or some such thing. There was hardly a beat before Sylvia changed the subject as she always did when they got on to the topic of Archie Barker. ‘You missed your friend Violet this afternoon,’ Sylvia said. ‘She came in after school to collect the last of her mother’s wool.’

Rosie recognised Sylvia’s opening gambit as one that she used when she was trying to interest her daughter in the affairs of the shop. She was going to put her hand over her mouth in a mock yawn, but then changed her mind; there was no need to antagonise her mother unnecessarily.

‘Violet finishes work early so she was able to slip in before I closed up for the night,’ Sylvia said. ‘It must be such a comfort to Mrs Pegg that her daughter always helps her out with things like that.’

Rosie refused to rise to the bait so several moments of silence elapsed before Sylvia asked, ‘Are you planning on going out with your friend Penny this week?’

Rosie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘I noticed there’s a good film on at the Plaza, though I’m afraid I can’t remember the name of it,’ Sylvia said.

Rosie bit back the retort that had sprung to her lips that if she did decide to go to the Plaza it wouldn’t be with Penny but, ‘I don’t know if I’ll have the time,’ was all she said out loud.

It was still daylight when Rosie came out of work a few days later, even though she’d had to work the couple of hours overtime that was becoming the norm.

‘One of the delights of summer,’ her friend Penny Downs said as they cleared the factory gates together arm in arm and set off down the towpath, the klaxon that had signalled the end of the shift still ringing in their ears. Penny and her younger sister Stella lived with their widowed father who ran the cobbler’s shop at the end of the High Street. Penny, Violet Pegg, and Rosie had gone to school together before Violet went off to train as a teacher and now Penny had taken Violet’s place as she and Rosie were mates at the factory, working as colleagues on the same bench.

Rosie stopped for a moment and whisked off her headscarf. The roll that she had so carefully pinned in that morning collapsed immediately and she shook out her golden curls, revelling in the fact that the breeze off the river immediately whipped them back from her forehead as she tilted her face towards what was left of the afternoon sun.

‘I love it when you can actually feel the days getting longer, don’t you?’ Rosie grinned. ‘And you can see people properly, too, not like when we’re all lurking in the gloom in there.’ She threw a disparaging look over her shoulder as she jerked her thumb in the direction of the old mill.

Penny chuckled at that. ‘Oh, and who can you see? Have you anyone in particular in mind that you’re looking for?’ She raised her brows.

‘No, of course not,’ Rosie retorted, though she tried discreetly to peer around her friend as she spoke, in an attempt to catch a second glimpse of the young man she thought she recognised by the factory wall. He was sheltering a match in his cupped hands as he tried to light a cigarette and he had been standing with one leg pushing back against the wall behind him. Suddenly he lowered it and started walking towards her. She hoped that the fluttering she felt in her chest didn’t show on her face but she couldn’t help smiling when she realised he had clocked her too.

‘Aye, aye, look out! Here comes trouble,’ Penny said. ‘I hope that’s not one of the people you’ve been trying to see?’

Rosie looked at her sharply. ‘Why do you say that? What’s wrong with him?’

‘Can’t explain now.’ Penny lowered her voice as he came nearer, his intended target obvious. ‘All I can say is, you’d better watch your step with that one.’

There was no time to say any more as the lad approached. Rosie watched him take a long draw from his cigarette and when he reached her he proffered it in her direction. Rosie shook her head.

‘No thanks, I don’t smoke,’ she said, wondering from the look on his face if she should perhaps have taken it. His fingers were none too clean but he rubbed his hands up and down his drill dungarees that fitted over his regular trousers in an effort to clear the worst, though it made no difference to the ingrained yellow nicotine stains on his fingers. His mousey-coloured hair had been blown into something resembling a haystack but she found the wild look extremely appealing. She thought of her father, always immaculately turned out, with razor-sharp creases and turn-ups on his trousers, his hair slicked back with Brylcreem and she wanted to giggle. Whatever would he make of Trevor Jones?

Trevor shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

A cheeky smile played around Trevor’s lips and his almost jet-black eyes seemed to be enjoying the joke too, so that Rosie had to look way, but she couldn’t deny that in those few seconds he had made her feel as if she was the only girl on the street. Her hand fluttered to adjust the buttons of her cotton blouse, even though they didn’t need adjusting as they were tucked securely into the band of her skirt. She fingered the belt that she knew flattered her trim waist and smoothed the folds of the flared skirt over her generous hips, grinning up at him as if challenging him to ask for a twirl. He gave her the benefit of a full smile then and this time she braved meeting his gaze. He was close enough that she could see one of his front teeth protruded slightly and crossed over to cover half of its neighbour, something she hadn’t noticed before, but as far as she was concerned it somehow added to his appeal.

‘Where do you live? I’ll walk you home.’ He said the words casually but Rosie could feel the intensity of his gaze. At the same time, she was aware that Penny had stopped and was standing stiffly beside her with her fists clenched.

‘She’ll be coming home with me,’ Penny said pointedly. ‘We was walking home together, wasn’t we, Rosie?’

‘Oh, yes, well … we were … but you know you don’t have to worry about me.’ Rosie turned to Penny, trying to sound offhand. She didn’t want to appear too forward but she didn’t appreciate her friend’s interference.

Penny looked shocked. ‘You don’t have to mind me,’ she said somewhat petulantly. ‘I’ve some errands to do for my dad before I go home.’ Then her face softened for a moment and she hesitated long enough to allow Rosie time to change her mind. ‘If you’re sure …?’ Penny began.

‘Yes, really, I’m fine,’ Rosie said.

‘Then I’ll see you on the bench tomorrow, Rosie.’ And without looking at Trevor, Penny flounced off, leaving the two of them alone.

Rosie stood for a moment, not sure what she should say next. For all her nineteen years she wasn’t used to chatting up boys she didn’t know, and she didn’t find it easy to suddenly be flirtatious. She’d only stepped out with boys she’d grown up with from the neighbourhood, boys she’d known at school. Flirting with someone she didn’t know anything about was a new experience. But she didn’t have to worry for Trevor waited till Penny was out of earshot before he said, ‘You can change your mind now your friend’s gone, but you do know who I am. It’s not as though we’re strangers or anything.’

Rosie looked down at her heavy work shoes. One of the laces seemed to be coming undone, but she merely stared at it and didn’t try to fix it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I suppose that did sound rather rude, but I don’t think Penny meant anything by it; she didn’t mean to be awkward, but you know how it is.’

Trevor laughed. ‘No, I don’t really. It beats me sometimes what you girls think is going to happen when you’re left alone with a lad. I’m hardly Jack the Ripper!’

Rosie felt her cheeks burn. ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean to offend you,’ she said.

‘I wouldn’t bet money on that, but don’t fret. I’m used to it, particularly from the likes of her,’ Trevor said. ‘Perhaps I should wear a suit tomorrow, to stop the scaredy cats being so afraid.’ He chuckled. ‘She might even change her mind if she’d see me in my Sunday best.’ He strutted in front of Rosie for a moment with his fingers under the shoulder straps of his dungarees, flicking them as if they were lapels. She could see now that Penny had hurt his feelings and she felt sorry. She wanted to make it up to him, though she wasn’t quite sure how. She was glad when he said, ‘I tell you what, why don’t we have a fag together in the canteen, dinnertime tomorrow, then you can get to know me better? That would thumb your nose to your stuck-up so-called friend.’

‘Nice thought, but I’ve told you, I don’t smoke,’ Rosie said.

‘No, so you said, but we can soon change that.’ A smirk replaced his easy smile and he suddenly grasped hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him. For a moment Rosie thought he was going to kiss her and she knew she ought to protest, but to her surprise she was disappointed when he didn’t.

Instead he said, ‘Which way?’ and he jerked each of his thumbs in different directions.

Rosie hesitated, suddenly remembering Penny’s warning. Did she really want him to know exactly where she lived? ‘You can walk me as far as the High Street, if you like,’ Rosie offered.

Trevor let go of her and pulled away. ‘OK, best get going then.’ And he strode off in the direction of the shops. They didn’t talk as they walked and when they reached the parade Rosie was out of breath and glad to stop.

‘This do you?’ Trevor turned towards her.

‘That’s great, thanks,’ she said. He put his hand up to cup her chin. Rosie felt her cheeks flame and something churn in the pit of her stomach.

‘Then I’ll see you in the canteen tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll find us a table at the back near the tray trolleys. Then you won’t have to worry cos no one can see us there.’ And without another word he turned away and began to walk briskly back the way they’d just come.

Rosie stared after him, a puzzled look on her face. She was trying to work out what had just happened between her and a factory mechanic called Trevor that her friend Penny had cautioned her to avoid. His tall figure, topped by the unruly thatch of hair, was lost in the crowds straggling on the pavements and in no time at all he had disappeared into the distance. What had Penny got against him, she wondered? And as she walked up the parade as far as the wool shop, she speculated about what her mother would have made of the situation if Rosie had let him see her to the door.

Chapter 5

Roger Buckley was exhausted, so he was relieved when his bike finally crunched over the loose gravel path of the large detached house like a pianola playing a familiar signature tune. He was trying not to use the car on the days he didn’t have far to travel because he needed to save it for emergencies. Petrol was becoming scarcer and there were rumours circulating about rationing it.

It had been a long day – even longer than usual as he had begun his rounds very early in the morning. He tried to confine his visits to the mornings though he accepted that as the majority of his patients were not covered by any health insurance schemes and had to pay for their own treatment they felt entitled to call on him at any time. The afternoons were usually designated to the drop-in clinic he had set up in his father’s house and wherever possible he tried to keep the evenings free to put his feet up and spend precious time with his own family. However, he never liked to turn patients away if they needed his services, particularly if there was a genuine emergency. Tonight, this last outing had been in response to an emergency call from the Post Office, long after it had closed, and it was not one he felt he could ignore. He trusted Vicky’s good sense that she would not request an out-of-hours visit unnecessarily. And his instincts had been right for he’d found poor Arthur Parrott lying prostrate on the couch having more difficulty than usual breathing. He had been unable to make it upstairs to his own bedroom, and was looking very unwell as he fought for every breath. He had seemed so bad at first that Roger had been inclined to suggest hospitalisation and was considering calling for an ambulance. But there was something about Vicky’s calming manner that held him back once he had administered an injection that relieved the most alarming of Arthur’s immediate symptoms and enabled him to breathe more easily. She hadn’t panicked but had listened to reason while he had debated the best course of action, just as she had done when he had first known her, but then the debate had been about her own difficulties. She really was a remarkable woman. She had the knack of bowing to the inevitable where she had no choice, while at the same time changing that which could be changed. It was a trait he had long since admired.

Roger thought back to the beginnings of their friendship. Was it only three years ago that their paths had crossed so dramatically? He was transported back to another time when the three of them had been closeted in the same small room as they had been tonight, locking horns over life and death issues. But what they had discussed then had never been referred to since, not by any of them. And when Roger saw Vicky in the Post Office as he so often endeavoured to do, she showed no signs of wanting to rekindle any of the personal connection he felt they had forged on that day. She treated him no differently to any other customer, no matter how hard he tried to engage her in more personal conversation and he wondered if she knowingly misinterpreted his advances.

Was she really not aware of how he felt? He had often asked himself that question. Or had life changed for her so radically at that time that she wanted to shut out all memories of her former connections and the decisions she had made? There was no question that she had changed in the few years he had known her. She no longer had the youthful bluster, the almost cocky self-confidence she’d had when he had first known her. A layer of sadness now lurked behind her gentle grey eyes but he put that down to life experience and the maturity of her twenty-five years. Her dark hair was no longer cut short the way it had been when he had first set eyes on her, but when she swept it back off her face he could clearly see the fine lines of her delicate features. She was still a beautiful woman. And as he watched her stroke her father’s hand, he wondered how much the inner Vicky had changed. But that was a question she had never allowed him to ask.

He watched her face and couldn’t help his lips spreading into a smile. Despite her determined efforts to appear so capable, so completely in charge, she was unable to mask the compassion that she obviously felt for her father, and in that moment Roger knew that on the inside she was the same kind, empathic Vicky he had first known. He wished he could tell her how much he admired her, had always admired her, but he wasn’t sure she would believe him. Yet he couldn’t help but respect how she had handled this difficult situation, just like she had once before when she herself had been the subject of his ministrations. That was one of the things that he— He stopped, afraid to shape the word ‘love’ even in his own head, knowing how futile it was to dwell on the past. He looked over to where she was gently stroking her father’s hand and he knew that it was important for him to refocus his thoughts on the present.

‘Did you have any warning that that was what Henry was intending to do?’ It was Roger who broke the silence. Arthur seemed to be sleeping.

‘Yes, we both did. Henry told us last week that he was going to sign up,’

‘And what was your father’s reaction?’

‘Dad seemed genuinely proud – even pleased. It can’t be that that’s triggered this attack, can it?’ Vicky said.

Roger shrugged. ‘It’s impossible to say but I doubt it. With damage such as your father suffered to his lungs, it doesn’t have to be anything you can put your finger on. There’s any number of things that could bring on such an attack.’

‘So we can expect something like this to happen again? At any time?’ Vicky asked. She turned to look at Roger and though she was dry-eyed there was a sore-looking redness round the rims.

‘It’s possible,’ Roger said, ‘if I’m brutally honest.’

‘I don’t understand my brother,’ Vicky said. ‘I’d have thought after he’d seen what two wars had already done to this family, volunteering for a third would never have been on his agenda.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘He knows what could happen.’ Her voice was muffled. ‘But he doesn’t seem to care. That, I suppose, is typical Henry.’

‘And did you try to dissuade him from going?’ Roger asked. ‘Did you point out your position regarding …?’ He nodded towards Arthur who was now breathing deeply and steadily with only a slight wheezing sound as he exhaled. ‘He must know how difficult things are for you trying to cope with it all.’

Vicky gave a sardonic laugh. ‘It seems that when you’re the prodigal son you don’t have to care; you can get away with anything.’

‘I suppose in a strange way you should be flattered,’ Roger said. ‘Henry sees you as his big, capable sister who doesn’t need help.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the sister who picks up after him and who deals with everything he leaves behind.’

Roger smiled. She was being so brave, taking on whatever life threw at her, he thought.

‘I’m sure you must worry about not being able to cope in an emergency and I know things could change very quickly, but I think you’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for.’

‘You mean I shouldn’t have called you tonight?’ she interrupted. ‘I’m really sorry; it won’t happen again.’

‘No, no, I’m not saying that it wasn’t appropriate to call me out tonight.’ Roger was regretting what he had said now. ‘Really, you mustn’t hesitate to call me day or night if you’re worried. I totally trust your judgement on that one.’

They sat in awkward silence for a few moments before Roger asked, ‘Will you be seeing Henry again or has he already been sent away for training? I don’t suppose there’s any possibility of making him change his mind?’

‘There’s still a few days before he says his final goodbyes, though Dad could find that upsetting, don’t you think? But I believe he’s actually signed up now so there’s no going back.’

Roger looked at Vicky, not wanting to ask what Henry’s reappearance might do to her. Vicky sighed and stood up. ‘But you don’t want to be spending what should be your evening off hearing about our family nonsense. I do appreciate you coming out, especially when you’re having to use your bike, and I’m sure Dad will want to say thank you too when he wakes up to what’s happened.’ She moved towards the door and Roger moved with her.

‘Vicky,’ he said, ‘I want you to know that you’re not completely alone with this, although I can see how it might feel like that sometimes. I am here for you.’ Without thinking, he clasped her arms and was pleased when she didn’t shy away. ‘I want you to look at me,’ he said, and she looked up, startled. He removed his hands. ‘I’m here for you, always,’ he said again.

Vicky looked away and nodded.

‘I’m hoping things will settle down for a while now. I honestly think your dad will be all right for now at least, but you mustn’t hesitate to call me if he does have another episode.’ Roger looked around the tiny room. For him, this was often an awkward moment with patients, and in this instance he was glad Arthur was part of the GPO’s Health Insurance scheme which would cover his bill. He always felt uncomfortable charging patients when he knew they were having to pay the bills for his visits from their own pockets.

Roger felt confident that Vicky had everything under control and he made a move to open the door before the two of them stood together for a moment. It took some willpower on his part not to put his arms around her completely and offer a more concrete form of support. Instead, he clenched his fists, holding his arms stiffly by his sides, and then settled for parting with a firm handshake.

All the way home, as he pedalled through the deserted streets to the outskirts of the town, Roger worried about Vicky and tried unsuccessfully to erase the vision of her sad eyes from his mind. She was a grand lass, as local people were always reminding him – still young enough to look pretty, and interested enough in things going on around her to be good company. But right now there was no doubt she was facing an almost impossible situation as she juggled her various roles and he had no easy solution to offer. When would Arthur wake up to the fact that he was undervaluing her contribution and that without her the whole household, including the Post Office business, could fall apart?

When he finally reached home he rode up the path and dismounted, then wheeled his bike to the gable end of the house where he parked it with the rest of the family’s bikes under the tarpaulin that protected them from the elements. His mother must have been watching out for him for he could see that she had opened the side door before he’d even had time to unhook his bicycle clips.

‘You must be worn out,’ she said as he wiped his feet vigorously on the coconut matting. ‘Julie was sure she would still be awake when you came in because she wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten your promise to take her to the park fishing tomorrow. She made a valiant effort to keep her eyes open, I must say, kept insisting I read her one more story, but in the end she gave in.’

‘Is she awake now?’ Roger asked.

‘No, she fell asleep in the middle of one of her favourites second time around – or maybe it was the third – and thank goodness she’s stayed that way. I’ve just looked in on her now.’

‘I hate to say it but I’m glad to hear that, for I’m afraid I’d have had little patience for reading stories tonight,’ Roger said. ‘And I must admit, I had forgotten it was tomorrow I said we might go fishing. I’ve had a lot of other things on my mind.’

‘A difficult visit?’ Freda said.

Roger paused to think for a moment as the events of the evening replayed in his head, leaving him with a clear image of Vicky’s face. ‘You could say that,’ he said. He patted his mother’s hand. ‘But it will all still be there tomorrow – and right now I could murder a cup of tea.’

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