by June Francis
‘He’d just help save George’s life! What do you expect? That he’d look like he’d come out of a band box?’
Her smile widened. ‘Don’t get shirty. You’re as sly as ever, Flo. You didn’t tell me that you’d seen each other.’
Flora folded her arms and leaned against the table. ‘Why should I? You were wrong about its being over, by the way. But it shouldn’t matter to you,’ she said softly. ‘We’re not really in competition, are we? You have Mr Brown now.’
Hilda’s eyes narrowed and she flicked ash into the fire again. ‘What does Mike feel about Stephen?’
Flora was silent a moment then murmured, ‘What did you expect him to feel when you told him he was my fiancé? Troublemaker.’
Hilda grinned. ‘Didn’t like it, did he?’
Flora smiled sweetly. ‘Which proves that he cares. Fortunately he trusts me more than he does you.’
Hilda pulled a face. ‘And you trust him? More fool you! Think of his past. For a long-term prospect, Stephen’s a much better bet.’
Flora’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why is it that you want to throw me into Stephen’s arms all of a sudden?’
‘You’re thirty and it’s unlikely that you’ll go off to America with Mike, so why don’t you plump for money and comfort? It’s what we both should be looking for.’
‘Is that why you have your eye to Mr Brown?’
Hilda wiggled her darkened eyebrows. ‘He’s not short of a bob or two and he certainly likes his comfort and he’s gorgeous-looking. As well as knowing how to give a girl a good time. I had steak on Saturday. Thick steak! What did you have for your dinner that night?’
Flora felt like saying ‘Love in front of the fire’ but instead said, ‘Spam butties.’
‘There you are,’ said Hilda with a touch of triumph. ‘Wake up to reality, Flo. I wanted to go to America, as you know, but I’ve accepted that things are different than during the war and just after – a lot of this batch of Yanks are years younger than me for a start.’
Flora straightened up from the table. ‘I’m not in a rush to make any decisions about the future. I’ve got enough on my mind at the moment, worrying about George.’
Hilda reached for her coat, her mouth pursed. ‘When will he be home, did you say?’
‘By Christmas hopefully.’
Hilda smiled as she opened the door. ‘Roll on Christmas then – who knows what will have happened by then!’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Now be careful, George,’ said Flora, stumbling in her son’s wake as he walked stiffly up the step.
‘Don’t fuss, Mam.’ He scowled as she took his arm. ‘Let me go! I’m all right.’
She moved away. ‘I’m just concerned about this one high step. You might leap up it like a Red Indian on the warpath,’ she joked.
‘Don’t be daft, Mam.’ He stared at the front door, feeling quite emotional. ‘Hurry up and open it,’ he said roughly. ‘It’s cold out here.’
‘Sorry!’ She hastened to put her key in the lock and led the way in.
Vivien and her grandfather looked up as they entered and both stared intently at George as he entered the kitchen. ‘You’ve put weight on, lad,’ said Jack gruffly. ‘You’ll have to run that off.’
‘I will, Grandad.’ His voice was subdued. ‘Soon be playing for the team again.’
‘Sit down, son. You must be tired.’ Flora brought forward one of the straight-backed dining chairs.
‘I’m not,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve been doing nothing for weeks, haven’t I? I’m hungry, though.’
‘I’ll get you something to eat.’ She went into the back kitchen.
George glanced about him.
‘D’you like our decorations?’ Vivien approached him, her eyes shining. ‘Me and Grandad did all the paper chains this morning.’
‘It’s great,’ said George, rubbing his nose. ‘Although everything looks strange at the moment.’
‘Mike’s coming later,’ said Vivien. Her grandfather grunted and muttered something under his breath. She ignored him. ‘Did you know he’s still in England?’
‘Of course, I do, stoopid! I haven’t been to the moon.’ He sat down, easing his back against the chair. ‘And he’s been sending me comics, hasn’t he? And candy.’
Vivien’s smile faded. ‘You don’t look very grateful. He saved your life, you know. You should be happy.’
‘God saved me life,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t know what for, though, if I can’t play for Liverpool.’
‘And why shouldn’t you be able to play for them, lad?’ His grandfather’s gaze was fierce as he pressed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.
‘Yes, why shouldn’t you?’ said Vivien pertly, tossing her curls. ‘You’re just feeling sorry for yourself. At least you’re alive! That’s what Uncle Steve said.’
‘Uncle Steve,’ muttered George. ‘Is he still around? I was hoping Mam had got rid of him.’
‘Well, no, he’s not,’ said Vivien with a gusty sigh. ‘We haven’t seen him for ages.’
‘Don’t be so grumpy, lad,’ said his grandfather, waving his pipe. ‘I know how you feel, but you’ve got to think of your mother. She’s only a young woman and you could do with a new dad to keep you in order. Stephen would make a good job of that. Although he seems to have given up since that Yank came on the scene.’ His face clouded over.
‘I’d prefer Mike if I had any say in it,’ George said irritably. ‘Although I don’t want to go to America. They don’t play proper football there.’
‘There’ll be no chance of that,’ rasped his grandfather, his gnarled old fingers trembling slightly as he lit his pipe. ‘I won’t be having your mam marrying any Yank. Especially one called Mike. You can bet your last ha’penny that he’s Catholic with that name.’
‘His grandfather was Irish,’ said Vivien promptly. ‘He kissed the Blarney Stone.’
‘Dammit!’ exclaimed her grandfather, drawing on his pipe and thumping on the arm of the chair. ‘He is a bloody Catholic! And he’s been in this house and taken my daughter out.’
‘What are you going on about, Father?’ Flora had come into the kitchen without any of them hearing her.
He glowered at her. ‘This Yank of yours – he’s a bloody Catholic, isn’t he?’
‘And if he is?’ murmured Flora, flushing slightly. ‘Does it really matter, Father?’
‘Don’t talk stupid, girl. Of course it matters. I won’t have any papists in my house.’
Her expression tightened. ‘I’ll remind you, Father, that Mike saved George’s life,’ she said in a vibrant voice, pushing back a handful of hair. ‘And besides, this isn’t your house.’
‘Don’t be speaking to me in that tone, girl. You know what I mean,’ he grunted, his brows twitching. ‘We’ve had no mixed marriages in our family.’
She folded her arms and stared at him. ‘Who’s mentioned marriage? Not me.’
‘You mean – you’re not getting married, Mam?’ demanded George quickly.
‘I haven’t said so, have I?’ she retorted. ‘Can’t a woman have a man friend without everybody jumping to conclusions?’
George let out a long breath. ‘Then you’re not going to America?’
‘Not that I know of,’ she said briskly, filling the teapot from the kettle and avoiding his eyes. She had thought a lot about going to America. Mike had been painting pictures of it that made her feel as she had when she was young and romantic, and wanting to find an enchanted land. So far she had resisted saying yes.
George began to whistle. Relieved, she gave her father the first cup of tea.
He fixed his fierce eyes on her. ‘Stephen would make you a good husband as I’ve said before,’ he growled. ‘I don’t know why you don’t see him any more. George needs a man who can keep him in hand and share his interests.’
‘He has friends for sharing. And he’s not so bad that I can’t control him.’ She handed Vivien a milky tea.
The girl thanked her, then said casually, ‘Mam’s get
ting married.’
Flora’s eyes dilated. ‘Since when?’ She had known Hilda was still seeing Mr Brown, but it was sudden for a wedding.
‘Since this morning.’ Vivien stared at her over the rim of her cup. ‘She called after you’d gone the hospital but wouldn’t come in. She said to tell you.’
Flora exchanged glances with her father. ‘It’ll be Mr Brown, of course.’
‘He told me to call him Uncle Kevin,’ said Vivien, wrinkling her nose. ‘They’re getting married in the New Year. The banns are getting read this week. We’re all invited. Even Grandad, she said.’
‘I won’t be going.’ Her father glared at Flora. ‘Does she think to get round me to give her away?’
‘It’s what you’ve been wanting to do for years,’ said Flora, her eyes twinkling. ‘Do it if she asks you, Father. You’ll never get a better chance.’
‘Hmmph,’ he said, and lapsed into silence.
Flora decided to change the subject and turned to George, ‘I hope you don’t mind, son, but we’ve put some of your dad’s painting equipment in your room. Mike thought it might be of some use to you. He’s helped me to clear out the back room, and we’re doing it up for Viv, now she’s getting bigger.’
‘It’s okay by me,’ said George, twiddling his thumbs. ‘I think I might have a bit of his knack with a pencil and paintbrush.’
‘Mike’s coming tonight so you’ll be able to give him a hand decorating.’
His face brightened. ‘I don’t mind. I’m quite looking forward to seeing old Mike.’
‘Good.’ Flora’s smile was forced. Obviously it was one thing for her to have Mike as a friend, another for a husband.
‘I think it’s going to look lovely,’ said Vivien, watching Mike painting the window frame in the back bedroom.
‘Loverly,’ mocked George. He was having a go at painting the door pink.
‘Everything’s lovely.’ Vivien swung her legs as she sat on a box. ‘Uncle Mike, do you have Father Christmas in America?’
He flashed his wide smile. ‘Sure, we have old Santa Claus.’
Vivien put her chin in her hand. ‘That makes it even harder to believe that he’s real,’ she said with a deep sigh.
Flora looked up from the curtain she was sewing. ‘What’s this, Viv? I thought you believed in Father Christmas?’
Vivien wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know any more. A girl at school saw her dad sneaking presents on to the bottom of her bed last year. Why should he do that if there’s a real one?
‘Giving the real one a helping hand, young lady,’ said Mike, smiling. ‘You can bet your bottom dollar if you don’t believe in him then you won’t get any presents in your stocking.’
‘I do want to believe,’ said Vivien quickly, her expression changing. ‘Honest, Mike. I’d really like there to be a Father Christmas. But why should I have had so little over the last few years if there is?’
‘You’re not the only child in the world,’ put in Flora. ‘So is it that you want Father Christmas’s elves on even more overtime?’ she teased.
Vivien’s brow puckered. ‘They wouldn’t need to do over-time. It’d be all done by magic. Just like Father Christmas would need magic to get round the world.’
‘Maybe he could conjure up some jet propelled reindeers,’ said Mike, his face deadpan. ‘They could wear little red fur-trimmed boots on all their hooves with wing-shaped jets. And the sleigh could have rocket boosters on its runners.’ He glanced at Flora and winked.
Her lips twitched. ‘That’s all right if he doesn’t over-shoot roofs and land in our backyard.’
Vivien’s eyes shone. ‘Imagine finding Father Christmas with a sack of toys in your backyard on Christmas morning! It would be as good as finding the baby Jesus in a shed down the yard.’
‘With angels and a cow and everything else, I suppose,’ murmured George, eyeing the door for runs in the paint.
‘There might be shepherds,’ said Flora.
‘They could bring their sheep,’ suggested Mike.
‘They’d make a mess but it would be good for the flowers,’ she said.
‘Marigolds in December?’ drawled Mike.
‘Why not – if there’s magic in the air?’ Their eyes caught.
‘Magic me up three wishes,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s deadly real in the bleak mid-winter at the camp.’
‘Where would you like to be magicked to instead? The North Pole with Father Christmas perhaps?’
‘I could think of warmer places,’ he said softly, and her cheeks burned as he continued to look at her. She knew exactly what he was thinking and she would have liked it too. She was suddenly depressed and looked away. Mike got on with his painting.
Later when they were alone in front of the fire with Flora sitting on Mike’s knee, trying to rub away a streak of pink paint in his fair hair, she said, ‘I do hate you having to go back to the camp the way things are.’
‘There’s gonna be improvements. Rumours are rife that the top brass are on their way to have a look at us.’ He paused. ‘We had Jean Simmons, the film star, come to visit,’ he muttered, stroking Flora’s thigh. ‘Very English.’
‘You sound like you don’t like that.’ She pulled a little away from him and gazed into his frowning grey eyes. ‘I’m very English, Mike. Even if I said yes to your proposal and went to America, I doubt if I could ever be real American.’
‘It’s not your Englishness that I object to,’ he said seriously, forcing her against him again. ‘It’s your bulldog spirit that makes you hold out against all that I’d give you. We could have a real good life together, Flo.’
‘I don’t have only myself to think about.’ Her voice was quiet.
‘I know,’ he drawled. ‘There’s your father and he doesn’t like me.’
‘He’s old and set in his ways. He only has me and he doesn’t really know you. He only sees the uniform. And now –’
‘And now what?’ His lean face wore an impatient look.
She let out a low breath. ‘He’s twigged on to your being a Catholic. And you know he’s Orange.’
They stared at each other. ‘How much does it matter to you, the differences?’ asked Mike.
There was a pause before she answered: ‘I’m not bigotted. Mrs Murphy’s a Catholic and I’m fond of her – and of the whole family. But I’ve been brought up to worship God differently. Although at times I think it’s a sin that Christians should be at such odds with each other. Like on the twelfth of July.’
‘We could agree to differ,’ he murmured, kissing her neck.
‘And if we had children – what then?’
He was silent, rubbing his cheek slowly against hers.
‘See,’ she said sadly. ‘It matters to both of us, and one of us would have to give in. I don’t know if I could agree to let you have it your way.’
‘I’m the man.’
‘And I’m a woman who’s been used to making her own decisions and ruling the roost for quite a while,’ she said strongly. Then suddenly she smiled. ‘See what you want to take on, Mike. A bulldog bitch!’ She kissed him lightly. ‘We’d always be scrapping.’
‘I like a good scrap now and then,’ he said. Their lips met and this time they clung. The kiss deepened and her arms went round his neck. Differences were set aside as their need for each other took over.
Later over a cup of tea Flora said, ‘Our Hilda’s getting married.’
‘Nice for some,’ he said lightly. She gave him a look and he shrugged. ‘The tall, dark handsome guy, is it?’ He dunked a cookie in his tea.
She nodded, her eyes on the long strong fingers. ‘In the New Year so Viv says. I haven’t seen her myself to have it first hand.’
‘It’ll be interesting to see what kind of job she makes of it,’ he said. ‘I can’t see her in a Mrs Miniver role. Is Viv going to live with her?’
Flora stilled. ‘I hadn’t even thought of it,’ she said slowly and fell silent. She could not imagine her sister wanting
her daughter permanently. And it was hard to picture Hilda and Kevin Brown wanting her living with them. Still it was a possibility that made her feel slightly depressed.
‘I know you’ll miss her,’ said Mike, ‘but maybe having Viv with her would help Hilda settle down. And it would be one less problem for us to worry about.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Flora. ‘I’ll have to wait and see our Hilda to find out.’ She switched the conversation into different channels, not wanting to consider losing Vivien, and soon after Mike went.
Flora did not have long to wait to see her sister.
The next morning she was rushed off her feet, despite two new girls having been taken on over the last few weeks. Mr Brown stayed in the back, which made it easier for her in a way. She found it difficult to accept that he would be her brother-in-law. Family!
She popped into her father’s as usual at lunchtime, only to find him out. She made herself a cup of tea and sat in the rocking chair, biting into a sausage roll. Her father mightn’t be long. The door knocker sounded and she went to answer the door.
‘I thought you might be here,’ said Hilda, looking relieved. ‘Is he in?’
‘Father?’ Flora inspected her sister, face scrubbed clean of make-up for once and wearing a plain brown coat. She smiled. ‘Can it be true? You’ve come to kiss and make up – and ask him to give you away?’
Hilda frowned. ‘You can mock all you like, Flo, but if I’m going to have a big wedding, I want to do the whole thing properly. Is he in?’
‘No, but come in and wait.’
‘I can’t stay long,’ said Hilda hurriedly, following her in.
She stopped in the middle of the room and looked about her. ‘Good God! It’s unbelievable that nothing’s changed at all since I left. No, since Mother died. That awful cream and brown paint.’ She whirled round, scanning every wall with the pictures of the king and queen on one and a plaque of William of Orange crossing the Boyne on another. ‘How did she put up with living in this crummy place?’
‘You moving into a palace, are you?’ said Flora drily.
Her sister smiled. ‘Jealous, Flo? It’s some size the flat above the shop, I can tell you. Two floors and the rooms are huge. Nice tiled fireplaces and lovely high windows.’