‘That would be perfect,’ June said, delighted. It would be fun to go to both bookshops and have a browse. She wondered if she would be able to tell which owner was which.
The snow was already beginning to melt and June wished she wasn’t wearing her beautiful new boots. They’d be ruined through all this slush. Then she smiled. They were made for that exact purpose. She’d give them a good clean and drying-out when she got home.
Home. Dr Barnado’s. Who would have thought it?
She crossed the road, narrowly avoiding a car coming at a pace along the slushy high street. Further along, the damage the Luftwaffe had done on their air raids made her sick to her stomach again. A whole row of terraced houses had been turned into a mountain of rubble – except for the end one, which didn’t look as though it had acquired even a bruise. Horses towing carts carrying the remnants of people’s homes patiently picked their way through the debris. Several shops had their windows boarded up but most of them had a notice on the door saying: ‘Open for business as usual’.
‘Usual’. June grimaced as she slowly walked along the pavement wondering how people could manage to run a business in such chaos.
The first bookshop she came to was simply called Brown’s Books. She opened the door and from somewhere within a bell clanged.
An RAF officer, his back towards her, was talking to an older man behind the counter.
‘We don’t keep maps any more since the war started,’ the bookseller was saying. ‘You ought to know more than most they could end up in the wrong hands.’ June saw him glare at the man in the blue coat, who turned at June’s approach. She gave a start.
The officer smiled and removed his peaked cap, then his blue eyes sparked with recognition. He beamed at her, showing strong, creamy-white teeth. She hadn’t been able to see his hair before. It was tawny-coloured.
‘Well, if it isn’t the independent miss who wouldn’t let me give her a hand with her luggage,’ he said, smiling.
June flushed. ‘I really didn’t mean to be rude but I was trying to …’ she trailed off, wishing her heart would stop pumping in her ears.
He chuckled. ‘It’s all right. I forgave you straightaway when I looked into those green eyes of yours.’ June felt her face go even redder.
‘Looking for anything in particular, Miss?’ The man behind the counter tipped his glasses back to the bridge of his nose.
‘Not really,’ June said. ‘Do you mind if I just have a browse and maybe I’ll see something?’
‘You go right ahead, Miss.’
‘What sort of books do you read?’ The officer made the question sound as though her answer was important to him.
His eyes were even more blue than she remembered.
‘Oh, whatever I can get hold of,’ June said, a little disconcerted. What a stupid answer. He would think she had no taste. ‘I enjoyed Monica Dickens’ book Mariana, and I tried to get her previous one from the library but they didn’t have it.’ It sounded just as feeble.
‘That’d be One Pair of Hands,’ the bookseller put in. ‘I should have a copy somewhere. One of my regulars brought it in a few weeks ago. Let me have a look.’
He tottered from behind the counter. ‘I think I’ll need those steps.’
‘Allow me, Mr Brown.’ The officer set them beneath the overladen shelves.
Mr Brown was up the ladder in a flash. ‘Ah.’ He triumphantly pulled out a book and clutched it with one hand as he backed down the steps. ‘You can have this for one-and-six, seeing’s how the jacket’s torn a bit.’
He made to hand it to her but the younger man was too quick for him. Forehead creased as though he was inspecting a valuable document, the officer flicked through the book, bending back some of the corners on the pages that had been turned down. ‘What about a shilling from the young lady?’ he asked Mr Brown, then looked up and sent June a wink and a smile.
Put out somewhat by his flirtatious manner, she frowned, which caused his smile to widen even further.
‘Seems fair to me when several pages are quite grubby and creased,’ he added, then handed the book to June, who removed her gloves and leafed through a few pages. The book was actually in a very respectable condition, she thought.
‘I’ll take it if a shilling is acceptable,’ June said, wanting to escape as quickly as she could.
Mr Brown frowned. He looked at the officer, then nodded. ‘All right, then. This young man here has twisted my arm. It’s yours. Shall I wrap it?’
‘No, don’t bother. It doesn’t look like rain.’
‘More snow, more like,’ Mr Brown said with a grimace.
The officer reached in his pocket and brought out a ten-shilling note. ‘As we’ve already met, I’d like to buy it for you, if I may – as a small gift.’
This was a pick-up, no doubt about it. June shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I would prefer to pay for the book myself.’ Her voice was sharper than she’d intended.
Disappointment spread over the officer’s face.
‘I’m sorry – that sounded awfully rude,’ June said, conscious of Mr Brown gazing curiously at the two of them. ‘It’s very kind of you but really I don’t—’
‘You don’t know my name,’ he finished. ‘Then let me introduce myself. Flight Lieutenant Murray Andrews. RAF Speke.’ He gave a mock bow. ‘At your service.’
Of course. A pilot. And cheeky with it. Not that she knew any but she’d been told often enough. Apparently they all had that charm. And he was at the station Iris had mentioned.
She offered her hand. ‘June Lavender. It’s been very nice to meet you again, Flight Lieutenant Andrews. And thank you for helping me to decide on the book.’
He took her hand. She hadn’t put her gloves back on and it was as though the warmth of his skin flowed between them. ‘I wouldn’t mind reading it after you.’ He finally allowed her hand to drop but kept his gaze on her.
A little shaken, she gabbled, ‘I don’t think it’s a man’s kind of book if the other one’s anything to go by.’
‘It’s a true story, isn’t it?’
June turned the book over. Monica Dickens smiled from the jacket cover. ‘Yes, it’s her autobiography.’
‘Then try me.’
By the look of his grin he was flirting with her. Willing her cheeks not to burn and trying her best to ignore the nearness of him, June handed over a shilling and said goodbye, but Murray Andrews reached the door before her.
‘Can I at least take you for a cup of tea, Miss Lavender? That wouldn’t be too forward of me, would it?’
His hand on the door frame. A strong, capable hand. Only moments ago her own hand had been lost in it. An image of him in his flying suit in the cockpit, blue eyes fixed firmly ahead … that same hand on the controls … Look away. Her eyes roved to a clock on the wall above Mr Brown. Oh, no. It was already five minutes over the time Iris had given her.
‘I’m really sorry but I’m late meeting someone.’ And with that June rushed out.
‘I’m ready for that cuppa,’ Iris said, holding the café door for June,