Mr Ward held up a podgy, but pacifying, hand.
‘Raw materials are so hard to come by, there’s no choice. We can’t guarantee the quality and we don’t want to compromise the name.’
‘But … you can’t do that! If you can’t send us your best, can’t you at least send us something? And … well … call it something else?’
Genius, thought Lily admiringly. That’s where Miss Frobisher’s years of experience came in.
Mr Ward beamed.
‘I knew you’d think of that – and it’s exactly what we plan to do. And keeping with the Sherwood Forest theme, we thought we’d call the different lines after trees. Maple for underwear, Olive for baby blankets and pram covers, and so on.’
And so on? thought Lily. Maple, maybe, but since when were there olive trees in Sherwood Forest? What next? Coconut palms?
Privately she and Jim had joked about the Robin Hood name – robbing people with their exorbitant prices – but surely the point was for customers to make the connection with a label they’d trusted in the past? On top of which, not using native trees was hardly patriotic!
Miss Frobisher had emphasised that Lily was there to observe, not to intervene, but as always, she couldn’t help herself.
‘Why those trees, Mr Ward?’ she asked.
Now she was the one pierced with a poisoned arrow – a poisonous look, anyway – from her boss. She scrambled to apply an antidote.
‘I only thought, Miss Frobisher, that if a customer happened to ask, it’d be good to know.’
Mr Ward beamed again.
‘That’s a fair point,’ he said. ‘It’s personal, really. My son’s doing pilot training in Canada, hence the maple. And olive was Mr Keppler’s suggestion, for the homeland his people have long wanted in Palestine. But if you’re worried about them not being thoroughly British, we’ve got oak, beech and pine as well.’
‘Does that answer your question, Miss Collins?’
Lily nodded dumbly, but Miss Frobisher didn’t seem cross really. She was too relieved, probably, that she was going to have something to sell.
‘So when will the new lines be ready?’ she asked. ‘And in what quantity?’
Before Mr Ward could answer, there was a rat-a-tat on the door and a head poked round.
‘You asked me to pop by, Mr Ward. If it’s convenient …?’
‘Perfect timing, Frank. Come in.’
Mr Ward extracted himself from his chair – not an easy process – and Lily swivelled in her seat to get a better look at the arrival as he crossed the room. He had a broad, open face, a head of dark curly hair, very blue eyes, and a cheeky smile.
‘Miss Frobisher, I presume?’ he said in a soft Irish accent, speaking as if he was greeting Dr Livingstone in the jungle. ‘Frank Bryant.’
Miss Frobisher shook the extended hand without a word.
‘And this is …?’ Frank turned to Lily.
‘A colleague,’ replied Miss Frobisher coolly.
‘Miss Collins,’ Mr Ward supplied helpfully.
Frank shook Lily’s hand too.
‘How do you do?’ he said formally, obviously noting that the temperature in the room had dropped by ten degrees.
Mr Ward, insulated perhaps by his fleshy covering, seemed oblivious.
‘Frank’s our new Midlands representative,’ he beamed. ‘Of course, he won’t be calling as frequently as Mr Harris did.’ Mr Harris had been the previous rep, now a stores orderly in the RASC. Lily wondered why Frank wasn’t in the Forces himself, but Mr Ward was continuing. ‘Petrol and so on. But he’ll be round as often as he can to check you’re happy with the goods and to let you know in advance of any new lines.’
Lily stole a glance at Frank. He was straightening his tie and trying to look serious, but not succeeding very well. He caught her looking at him and winked.
Lily looked away rapidly, but though Miss Frobisher seemed to have her head bent over her paperwork again, Lily could tell from the set of her shoulders that she was more Queen Victoria than Dr Livingstone. Definitely not amused.
Frank excused himself after that, (‘Invoices!’ he said with a comical grimace), and Miss Frobisher and Mr Ward began an intense round of haggling. Lily watched, intrigued, as they danced around each other like hares boxing before Miss Frobisher yielded slightly on quantities and Mr Ward gave a little on price. Lily could see that it was important that neither of them lost face, but the handshakes at the end were warm enough, and as they left, Mr Ward even pressed a couple more biscuits on a delighted Lily. She secreted them in her gas mask case, knowing she should take them home for another day, but knowing too that she was bound to give in and eat them on the train.
‘Were you happy with how it went?’ she ventured as she and Miss Frobisher waited for their taxi.
‘Reasonably,’ was all Miss Frobisher said, but Lily could tell the meeting had been a success because at the station bookstall Miss Frobisher bought two fashion magazines and a bar of chocolate. On the train, she broke the bar in two and handed one half to Lily. As the train clanked and swayed, Lily munched happily – she could save the biscuits after all – and they leafed through the magazines together, Miss Frobisher pointing out how even proper couturiers like Hardy Amies and Norman Hartnell were adapting to Utility requirements. She even unbent enough to eat a square of chocolate in front of Lily: the remainder she tucked away – presumably a treat for her little boy.
When they arrived back in Hinton, so late that the station was half deserted, Lily thanked her profusely.
Miss Frobisher simply smiled her measured smile.
‘Look and learn, Lily. And don’t be distracted. That’s all I ask.’
On Wednesday, just a week after the excitement of the party and the dismay of Jim’s telegram, Lily was seated at the kitchen table sorting silver paper for salvage. Gladys had suggested their usual half-day treat of a cheese roll at Peg’s Pantry and a matinee, but Lily had had to disappoint her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she told her. ‘I can’t. I just want to be at home – in case.’
‘In case Jim comes back,’ was unspoken but understood – and dear Gladys did.
‘I’d be the same,’ she said, ‘if I thought there was half a chance of Bill turning up off his ship. Some hope! But I still want to hear all about Monday – I know you haven’t told me the half of it!’
‘You will, I promise,’ said Lily, but she knew it wouldn’t mean much till she told Jim. He’d understand the significance of it all.
She’d almost finished with the bottle tops – some people hadn’t even bothered to wash them, disgustingly – when she heard the latch on the back gate click. Could it be …? She jumped up, bottle tops skittering to the floor, and skidded to the back door, flinging it wide. There he was. She’d have flung herself at him too but, pale and pinched, he looked as though the force would knock him flying. Instead she took his hand and led him inside.
‘Sit down,’ she ordered. ‘You look all in. Tea and toast coming up.’
Lily was her mother’s daughter, all right – and as always, Dora’s prescription was right. As he ate, Jim revived enough to tell her what he’d left behind.
‘A right lash-up,’ he sighed. ‘But it’s the best I can