by Molly Green
‘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, who thumped her new boots up and down to kick off the snow.
The café was heaving. Iris pulled a face. ‘Ugh, I hate the horrible smell of dandelion they’re all using now instead of coffee. Camp. Who thought of a name like that? And who do they think they’re fooling?’
‘I suppose they can’t help it with the rationing.’ June looked about her and spotted a table. ‘Oh, that couple by the window are just leaving. And it doesn’t look quite so smoky.’
‘Did you go to both bookshops?’ Iris asked, when they’d settled in the still warm seats.
‘No, only Brown’s. He was very helpful so he must be the nice one.’
Iris smiled. ‘I’m glad you got on well with him.’
‘He found me exactly what I wanted. Maybe because I bought a book it cheered him up … even though a customer knocked him down from one-and-six to a shilling – on my behalf.’
‘Oh? Who was that then?’ I
ris gazed at her, curiosity sparking in her sapphire-blue eyes.
‘Just some man.’ Blast. She hadn’t wanted to mention Murray Andrews.
Iris immediately pounced. ‘What man? Another old boy?’
‘No. He was an officer – a pilot at that RAF station you mentioned.’ June hesitated. Might as well give the full account now. ‘Actually, I first saw him on the Liverpool train. He offered to help with my case but I wouldn’t let him.’
‘Gosh, it doesn’t take you long to get yourself a boyfriend.’ Iris laughed.
‘Don’t be daft. I doubt very much I’ll ever see him again. Anyway, he was nothing special.’
‘Then why have you gone pink?’
June put her hand to her cheek. ‘Because it’s so hot in here. I’m going to take my coat off.’ She was relieved to see a waitress hurrying over.
‘Tea for two, please, and two scones and jam,’ Iris said. She leaned across the table and gazed at June, her eyes full of mischief. ‘Don’t think you can change the subject. I want to hear all about your pilot. Every detail.’
‘He’s not my pilot and there’s nothing to tell,’ June said, annoyed with herself for starting all this. ‘He was after a map but Mr Brown told him in no uncertain terms there was a war on and a map could end up in the wrong hands. So of course I couldn’t tell him I was also after a map.’
Iris chuckled. ‘Well, you’re bound to bump into him again at one of the dances. Maybe he has a nice friend.’ She patted June’s arm. ‘It’ll be fun going with you. Sometimes a couple of the maids come and we catch a bus together but they giggle over nothing and have no conversation except boys and moaning about Cook. Course, they’re still wet behind the ears.’
The waitress set a tray of tea and the scones on the table.
‘No butter.’ Iris wrinkled her nose at the margarine. ‘But at least we’ve got a teaspoon of jam.’
June was relieved the conversation had taken a turn away from Murray Andrews. Iris chattered on about her family, then said, ‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’
It was the question June was dreading.
She swallowed. ‘I had two sisters, but one – Clara – died when she was only eight.’
Iris covered June’s hand with her own. ‘I’m so sorry, Junie. That’s awful. How long ago?’
‘More than five years but it still seems like yesterday. That’s why I’m here – to help children who need me.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘Mum died two years after Clara’s accident, when I was sixteen. She was broken-hearted and became … ill.’
‘Oh, poor you. And your father?’
‘I … he …’
‘Don’t tell me if it’s painful.’ Iris looked over at the wall clock opposite and shot to her feet. ‘C’mon, kid, we’ve got to get back. Harold won’t be able to take us home as he’s got to take the car in for repair. But we can get the bus if we hurry.’
‘This is my treat.’ June got out her purse and left the coins on the table. She dipped in again and drew out a thruppenny bit, hoping it was enough for a tip, and buttoned her coat. She picked up her bag and the shoebox with her old shoes and hurried after Iris.
An hour later they were back at the home. Just as Iris put her hand out to pull the bell cord the heavy oak door swung wide. Matron stood there, her face red and perspiring, eyes wide as though she were about to burst.
‘Have you heard the news?’ Matron threw her hands in the air.
June and Iris glanced at each other, puzzled
‘No, we’ve been—’ Iris began.
‘The Japs have bombed one of the American naval bases in Hawaii!’ Matron’s voice rose a decibel. ‘That means the Americans will be over here in droves, you’ll see! With all their money and fancy goods.’ She gave a contemptuous twist of her lip and shook her head with such force her cap hung at a precarious angle.
Iris shouted in delight. ‘But that’s wonderful news, Matron. They’ll be here to help us win the war – and not before time.’ She grabbed hold of June, who was trying to take it all in. ‘Isn’t it exciting, Junie?’ Iris whirled her so hard June’s head swam. ‘Junie, say something.’
‘I bet Mr Churchill’s relieved,’ June gasped, laughing as she nearly lost her balance when Iris suddenly let her go. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Matron’s grimace before she disappeared inside. June suddenly thought of all the boys and men and women who had already died. How many more would have to die before the world came to its senses? But at least it looked as though Mr Churchill would finally have help.
‘He’ll be dancing for joy like us,’ Iris said, this time pulling June into another spin. ‘The Yanks are coming – they’re really coming,’ she sang out. ‘Oh, thank God! We’re going to win this bloody war, you’ll see. This time next year it’ll all be over.’
Even the welcome news about the Japs invading Pearl Harbor wasn’t enough to stop Murray Andrews thinking about the girl in the bookshop. Fair enough, she was pretty, but he’d known loads of pretty girls. So what was so special about June Lavender? Was it her quiet determined manner? Or the hint of mischief behind those grassy-green eyes? Was it because she shared a love of books? Was it simply because she hadn’t shown the slightest interest in him when she’d tried to get past him in the corridor of the train? Her polite but firm reply when he’d offered to pay for her book? He was so used to women being impressed with his being a fighter pilot that it was odd not having to fend off yet another pretty girl.
He grinned. If he wasn’t careful he’d get the reputation of being a cocky sod. And that was best left to the likes of the handsome, full-of-himself Yank, Captain Charles (‘Call me Chas’) Lockstone, who’d breezed in six weeks ago along with a handful of other American volunteer pilots by going over the border and joining the Royal Canadian Air Force. It was inevitable that today’s news would bring the Yanks into the war and a lot more of them would soon be over here. No question we need them, Murray thought, lighting a cigarette, even though he couldn’t work up a lot of enthusiasm. He’d heard too many stories about them – many of them not very favourable – to look forward to their arrival. But Churchill would be ecstatic as he’d tried so hard and for so long to convince Roosevelt to enter fully into the war, so surely now the tide would turn in the Allies’ favour.
Murray tried to concentrate on his newspaper but it was impossible. Everything was bound to change now.
Chapter Five
The news about the Americans coming into the war was the only topic in the dining room at dinnertime. Even Matron couldn’t stop the children cheering and shouting ‘hurray’ when they heard the grown-ups talking and laughing that Jerry wouldn’t know what hit them now the Americans were about to swell the numbers in the military. Everyone joining in except Lizzie, June thought sadly. It didn’t matter that Lizzie and most of the children were too young to understand how much it meant that finally Churchill had got his wish. It was enough that they were following the older children, who were clearly excited. But not Lizzie. The little girl would be upstairs in the nursery having her dinner, but there’d be no childish laughter escaping the room as there were no other children to share it with. June was certain that if only she knew the full story she’d be able to help Lizzie, whom she hadn’t seen since those few minutes yesterday. She’d settle in for a few days and have a word with Iris and Kathleen – ask them their opinion – but until then she’d make sure to go to the kitchen every morning, where she knew Lizzie regularly curled up under the watchful eye of Bertie, and speak to her even if the little girl never answered. Momentarily, June closed her eyes. Lizzie reminded her so much of Clara.
‘Let us hope you’ve enjoyed your morning off,’ Matron said, a touch of sarcasm dripping through the words. ‘There’s plenty to learn and I want you to start right away, so please come to my office as soon as you’ve finished.’
June helped serve the dinner, which was stew and bread, with rice pudding to follow, all the while thinking of
Lizzie alone in the nursery, though it was hard to think straight with all the noise. The children were not allowed to talk but that didn’t stop them scraping their chairs, coughing, slurping, sniffing, whispering. One child was making a racket with two spoons and June was surprised Matron hadn’t reprimanded him. Then she realised. Matron would be watching to see whether she could control the children on what was only her second day.
‘Will you please stop banging those spoons,’ June said in a firm voice. The child took no notice, just grinned and carried on doing it. The child opposite with ginger hair and freckles began to giggle. She had to say something or else they’d get the better of her, though it was difficult as they were several seats away.
‘The boy who would love to play drums and is practising with two spoons – what is your name?’
There was a silence. The children’s heads swivelled to look at the offending boy. The boy banging the spoons gave another loud clash.
‘Could someone tell me his name if he can’t answer for himself?’ June persisted.
‘It’s Thomas, Miss. He’s always mucking about,’ said the ginger-haired boy.
‘No, I’m not,’ Thomas shouted.
‘No talking!’ Matron glared across from the neighbouring table. ‘That goes for you, too, Miss Lavender, unless there is an emergency.’
Several children giggled. June went red with annoyance. If Matron was going to pull her up in front of the children, she didn’t stand a chance. The children would think they could get the better of her every time.
‘This is an emergency, Matron,’ June spoke in such a low voice she wondered if Matron would hear. ‘If I hear any more from you, Thomas, I will … I’ll …’
‘What, Miss? What will you do?’ His eyes were like two shining pieces of coal, challenging her.
‘You will be promoted to monitor of the games room. And you will clean it up after the children every day for a fortnight whether you’ve played in there or not. They won’t have to do it – you will.’