When Lily had first shyly confessed to her friends that she and Jim had finally moved things on from being friends, Gladys had leapt ahead to suggest cosy double dates with herself and Bill, as Lily had known she would. Gladys and Bill were going to get married on his next leave, though when that would be, neither of them knew. Bill’s ship was on escort duty in the Northern Passage so it might not be till well into next year. If the war lasted that long, of course.
Before Gladys could get to double weddings, though, Lily had firmly had to tell her that she and Jim were happy to let things unfold slowly – very slowly.
‘We’re no age, Gladys,’ she’d protested. ‘I know you and Bill aren’t much older, but just because marriage and babies is right for you, it doesn’t mean it’s right for us. I mean, can you see me as a full-time wife and mother, honestly?’
It was generally agreed that Lily’s attempts at knitting would have been useful colanders; Dora despaired of her daughter’s anything-but-light touch with pastry.
Gladys had looked baffled by Lily’s reluctance to swoon at the whiff of orange blossom and the idea of a ring on her finger, but Beryl, forthright as always, had weighed in on Lily’s side.
‘Look,’ she reasoned. ‘We all know Lily and Jim are marked out for something a bit better than the shop floor at Marlow’s. It wouldn’t affect Jim, but Lily could kiss goodbye to any idea of promotion if she got married, let alone up the duff.’
‘Rubbish!’ Gladys defended herself. ‘There’s loads of married women working now, and ones with children. In Marlow’s and everywhere else.’
‘Only because the men are away fighting! When they come home, they’ll take back their jobs and shove us women straight back in the kitchen, you wait and see!’
Lily nodded, grateful for the support, but then Beryl wasn’t a full-time wife and mother herself. She couldn’t be called up for war work now she had the baby, and her old job in the Toy department at Marlow’s, even if she’d wanted it, had been filled by Gladys. So, starting in a small way with her own wedding and bridesmaids’ dresses, she’d set herself up in business hiring out bridal wear from home. Les’s picture of himself as the family’s sole breadwinner was a complete illusion: Beryl had a five-year plan for Beryl’s Brides that would have had Stalin stroking his moustache.
‘Did you get much out of Les?’ Lily asked Jim quietly now. The adoring acolytes weren’t listening, still worshipping the wonder child.
Jim kept his voice low, even so.
‘It may not be quite as bad as we thought. He had a horrible infection, but it sounds as if he’s going to be OK. Like he said, he just needs to build his strength up.’
‘Thank goodness for that. Did you tell him about the job?’
‘He jumped at it.’
‘Good.’
Lily sighed contentedly. The worry had mostly subsided; there was still the cinema to look forward to. After the long, dull morning, and the concern over Les, what a perfect end to the afternoon.
It was getting on for six by the time everyone had gone, the last of the crocks were put away and the banner could come down. Jim was shutting up the hens.
‘It hasn’t got Les’s name on it,’ Lily said as she folded the banner carefully. ‘We can use it for Reg.’
She really was starting to think, or at least hope, two things – first, that the war might be over soon, and second, that both her brothers might get through it unscathed.
Reg was a mechanic with the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, attached to the Eighth Army. General Montgomery was leading them now, experienced, energetic, determined: everyone was hoping against hope that he was the one who’d finally drive Rommel into the sea. Lily had an even better reason to hope for the safe return of her other brother, the middle one of Dora’s children. Sid had joined the Navy but an injury picked up in training meant he’d had to settle for a desk job. He was up in Scotland at a place called Largs, and though he wasn’t thrilled at being a penpusher instead of a fighting man, he’d had to acknowledge that it took away some of the worry back home.
Dora, though, wasn’t one to cross bridges or to count chickens: hope for the best but take what comes was nearer the mark for her. She changed the subject.
‘Hadn’t you better get a wriggle on if you two are going out?’
‘Yes! You’re right. We should.’
Dora smiled fondly at her daughter. She was thrilled that Lily and Jim were courting. They were always discreet about it in front of her, but no one could fail to notice the even readier smiles, the even more affectionate teasing, the sneaked glances, the surreptitious squeezes. Lily had always been bright and strong-minded; she needed someone like Jim to catch her, and then to match her. He might seem the quiet type but he was no pushover. He was quick and clever too – Lily needed that.
‘Off you go then. But see to your hair before you do!’
Lily’s blonde curls, as strong-minded as she was, had a tendency to resist arrest, and the fact that her few precious hairgrips had long since lost their grippiness didn’t help.
‘Beryl says I should get a permanent, now I’m a salesgirl proper, but I’m not sure … Jim?’ Lily broke off as Jim came in from the kitchen. He was ghost-white.
‘The bucket,’ he said blankly. ‘I was taking it to the pig bin and I met him in the street. The telegram boy.’
Oh no, not Reg! Please, not Reg! Not today – not any time, but especially not today!
Dora held out her hand for the telegram, but Jim shook his head.
‘It was for me,’ he said. ‘It’s my mother. She’s had a stroke.’
Wasn’t that just like life, thought Lily, as she stood and watched Jim fling a few things into a bag. At the start of the afternoon they’d been worrying about Les, and when she’d heard the word ‘telegram’, she’d automatically assumed it must be about Reg. Even then, when Jim had said it was for him … of his parents, the one you’d expect to get bad news about was his father, gassed in the Great War and left semi-invalided with a bad chest. Yes, just like life, to creep up and sandbag you from behind when you were looking in the other direction!
Jim zipped up his holdall and turned to face her.
‘I’m sorry about the cinema.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m sorry for you. And your mum. Will you go straight to the hospital?’
Jim’s family home was in Worcestershire, in a small village, Bidbury. The telegram had said his mother was in the Cottage Hospital at Pershore.
Jim spread his hands.
‘I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ve got to get there first.’
You couldn’t count on the trains, when or if they’d run, and there was no direct train. Jim would have to go from Hinton to Birmingham, change there for Worcester, then for the branch line, a slow, jolting journey in a blacked-out carriage with long waits in between.
Lily put her hand on his arm.
‘They wouldn’t let you see her in the middle of the night anyway. Perhaps you’d be better going home to see to your dad. He can’t manage on his own, can he?’