Christmas for the Shop Girls

by Joanna Toye

  ‘There are six balls in each over, and the bowler changes ends after each ball,’ she explained. ‘Peter’s by far the better player – Derek’s a decent pace bowler, but no batsman, that’s why he’s in last – so Peter’s got to judge how many runs he can take on each ball, especially with the last ball of the over, to keep Derek in.’

  She might as well have been speaking Swahili, but Lily nodded sagely. Miss Frobisher must have been taught all this by Mr Simmonds and she’d actually bothered to take it in! If that wasn’t love …

  As they watched, the runs mounted. Two … another two … a ‘No ball’. Miss Frobisher’s hands were clenched, willing her hero on. Finally, a resounding whack from Peter Simmonds – a six! He threw down his bat and punched the air as if he’d won the Ashes. Miss Frobisher ran down the pavilion steps to cheer from the boundary while John, beside himself, had raced across the field and was bouncing around the victorious captain, who picked him up and threw him high in the air.

  ‘Well!’ as Beryl would have said, and Lily so recently had.

  Well!

  When the players came in to tea you could see how comfortable Miss Frobisher and Mr Simmonds were with each other. It showed in so many small ways – she knew that he took his tea without milk and Lily noticed she gave him an extra-large piece of cake. He, too, was chivalrous towards her, shielding her from an over-excited Derek who was unwisely demonstrating his pace-bowling moves in the middle of the crowd. But it showed most of all, Jim said, in the confident and fluid way Peter Simmonds had played – Marlow’s very own Douglas Jardine, he was thinking of writing.

  On the walk home, Lily was still marvelling.

  ‘I see Sicily’s old news,’ Jim observed drily, ‘and poor Gladys’ll be lucky to get a word in tomorrow about her wedding. As for the weekend’s other big story …’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Come on! Who else got married yesterday?’ prompted Jim.

  It took Lily a moment to think.

  ‘Robert and Evelyn!’ she exclaimed. ‘I wonder how it went!’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough. It’ll be in the Chronicle, won’t it?’ said Jim scornfully. ‘The usual forelock-tugging “local bigwigs marry”, with a blurry photograph of the loving couple.’

  ‘You can mock,’ warned Lily. ‘You’ll have to give it a big splash in the Messenger.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Jim sounded even more scornful. ‘I’ve got much better stories. I shall be breaking the big scandal – “Love Among the Sale Rails” – Eileen Frobisher and Peter Simmonds!’

  ‘Jim!’ Lily stopped dead. ‘You can’t! Don’t you dare!’

  Jim stopped as well.

  ‘Honestly, sometimes I think I could say I’m actually a secret agent who’s going to be dropped into France by hot-air balloon dressed as a gorilla and you’d believe me! I’m teasing. I’m leading on the night watchman’s clairvoyant dog, then the tug-of-war between Marlow’s and the volunteer firefighters. Then I might have room for a wedding – Gladys and Bill’s!’

  Another couple were on their way home too, a little boy walking between them. From time to time he tugged on their hands, and they swung his hands back and forth, chanting ‘A one … a two … and a three!’ On the three, they swung him up in the air to his great shrieks of glee.

  ‘So what now?’ Peter Simmonds asked when John had tired of that and was running ahead, kicking a stone along the pavement.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that after this afternoon, cats are out of bags and among the pigeons, hares’ll be running …’

  ‘About us, you mean? Because of Lily Collins being there?’

  ‘Well, yes! It’s bad luck really,’ he went on, ‘one of your own staff turning up. You know the blokes on the team’d never say anything at work – they’re not interested.’

  ‘Maybe they should be,’ Eileen observed wryly, ‘instead of obsessing about their forward strokes and silly mid-off or whatever.’

  ‘What?’

  But she was teasing: she smiled and called to her son. ‘John! Not too far ahead, please! And slow down, you’ll fall!’

  ‘Aren’t you concerned about Lily saying something? You know what the salesgirls are like for gossip.’

  Eileen stopped walking. He stopped too and turned to face her.

  ‘Two things,’ she said patiently. ‘First, Lily is the last person to gossip. And secondly, even if she were, our … friendship … is the worst-kept secret in the store as it is!’

  ‘Do you think so?’ He was genuinely amazed. ‘But we’ve been so discreet!’

  Eileen could see she’d have to spell it out.

  ‘Peter, let me tell you something, in case you haven’t noticed, which you obviously haven’t. Women have a sort of sixth sense about these things.’ She took a breath. ‘The whole reason the anonymous letters started when they did was because Jennifer Naylor had sensed there could be something between us.’

  His face was a picture of disbelief.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes! And trust me, so have most of the female staff at Marlow’s. I think it’s about time we came clean. I’m tired of pretending, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course,’ he stuttered. ‘But given that everyone thinks you’re married—’

  ‘I’m sick of that as well!’ Eileen burst out. ‘Pretending to be married, that is. Look, we – I – don’t have to go into details. But I’d like it to be known that I’ve parted from John’s father, I have been for years and that … well … oh, do you really need me to say it?’

  ‘You don’t mind people knowing that we’re a couple? In fact you want them to?’ He couldn’t keep the delight out of his voice, and there was another emotion there too. ‘If you knew how long I’ve wanted to be open about it—’

  ‘Really?’

  Now she was the one to be amazed. He was always so restrained.

  ‘Yes! And we’re not going to flaunt it at work, are we? But we need to tell Mr Marlow. You know what he’s like about “staff liaisons”.’

  ‘At least we don’t work on the same department – though you are technically my manager,’ Eileen reflected.

  ‘I like “technically”! Thanks! But look—’ He found he couldn’t take the grin off his face. ‘I’ll ask to see Mr Marlow first thing in the morning.’

  ‘And I’ll deal with Lily,’ Eileen confirmed. ‘Knowing her, she’s probably tying herself in knots about seeing us anyway.’

  Peter touched her cheek, then bent and kissed her briefly. She glanced towards her little boy. He was happily tapping his stone along with a stick. She slid her arms round Peter’s neck.

  ‘And if Mr Marlow huffs and puffs,’ she smiled, ‘just change the subject to your cricketing triumph. I’m sure you’d like to crow about that – only joking!’ she added as he gave her a hurt look. ‘You played brilliantly. Even I could see that.’

  Chapter 19

  Jim and Lily were nearly home. They crunched along the cinder path which ran between the backs of the houses in Brook Street and Mill Street, though it was years since there’d been a brook or a mill anywhere near, then through the back gate with the stiff latch and the hinge that had gone back to squeaking since there was no oil to be spared. The back door stood open, and from the kitchen, Lily could hear women’s voices.

  ‘Mum’s got a visitor,’ she tutted. ‘I hope it’s not Jean Crosbie.’

  Their next-door neighbour was a waspish woman with a fussy husband and an adenoidal son, but they had to tolerate her because the Anderson shelter was in the Crosbies’ yard, and they shared it. But as they got nearer, Lily realised it wasn’t a voice she recognised – it wasn’t a local accent and it was a young voice, too.

  She pushed the door open further and went in.

  Dora was sitting at the table, and a young woman was washing up some teacups. Lily gaped. Was her mother ill? Washing up had always been expected of her children, and Jim as well, but a visitor?

  The young woman turne
d when she heard the door scrape open – that needed fixing too. She pushed a lock of dark hair out of her eyes with a damp wrist.

  ‘You must be Lily!’ she smiled. ‘I’m so glad I haven’t missed you! I can’t shake hands – look at me, making myself at home! I’m Gwenda.’

  ‘Our Reg’s fiancée,’ said Dora, as if that explained everything.

  Yet more tea was made, not for Gwenda – (‘I’m practically afloat!’) but for Lily and Jim, who were agog.

  Excitedly, talking over one another – Lily had hardly ever seen her mother so animated – Gwenda and Dora explained between them. Gwenda, apparently, was a driver with the Mechanised Transport Corps based in Alexandria and she’d been sent back to England to collect a customised Daimler with a special long-range radio installed. She’d only arrived on Friday, had been given the weekend to see her family and was on her way back to an air base to fly off with the car the next day.

  As she talked about life in Egypt, a whole world opened up before Lily. She knew there were women bus and tram drivers in Hinton, and all over the country. She knew about the women of the MTC who drove Government officials and visiting foreign dignitaries. She knew they drove ambulances too, but she’d never thought about them working abroad. She gazed at Gwenda in awe.

  ‘Of course,’ Gwenda was saying in her slightly sing-song accent, ‘my dad having the garage business, he taught me to drive – me and my sister – on the lanes and the fields by us from when we were about twelve. So when the war came – well, there was only one choice for me.’

  ‘Her sister’s out there as well,’ Dora put in. ‘Not a driver though. She’s a plotter with the WAAF.’

  ‘That’s my twin, Bethan,’ supplied Gwenda.

  Bethan …

  ‘Where’s your home?’ Jim was intrigued for a different reason: he’d been trying to place the accent. His family home was in Worcestershire, but it was north of that, he sensed. ‘There’s Welsh in there somewhere. Shropshire? Border country? But which side of the border?’

  Gwenda clapped her hands and her dark eyes danced. Lily had never seen so much energy in such a small package.

  ‘Very good! Just over the border – Welshpool!’ she said. ‘My mam’s Welsh and I speak it with her.’

  Dora beamed.

  ‘Typical of our Reg, isn’t it, Lily, to keep it to himself? They’ve been courting since Christmas! Met at a dance!’

  ‘It’s only recently we got engaged,’ Gwenda leapt to her fiancé’s defence. Lily liked her instantly. ‘And we haven’t been able to see that much of each other. Oh!’ She checked herself. ‘I should put my ring back on. I took it off for the washing up.’

  She reached in her pocket and brought out a ring – an emerald surrounded by tiny petal-shaped diamonds.

  ‘He had it made,’ she said proudly, holding in out to Lily. ‘Designed it himself and had it made in the souk. Took me out for dinner by the Nile and proposed under the stars.’

  Lily was glad she was sitting down. Quiet, modest, unassuming Reg? Either the desert sun had turned his head or he had hidden depths which the murkier light of Hinton had never revealed.

  ‘So what … what happens now?’ she stuttered, as Gwenda eased the ring back on her finger. ‘Can you make any plans? Where is Reg, for a start? Is he part of the—’

  She didn’t want to say the word so Jim finished the sentence for her by asking:

  ‘Is he in Sicily?’

  ‘No! That’s the other thing!’ Dora answered for her future daughter-in-law. ‘Gwenda’s brought a long letter from him, but she’s told me anyway. He’s stayed behind! In North Africa!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Which means we can still see each other – well, in theory,’ said Gwenda. ‘But he’ll be safe where he is, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘He’s there for the duration,’ confirmed Dora. Relief had smoothed four years’ worth of wartime worry from her face. ‘He’s been assigned to help in the rebuilding of Libya. The fighting’s moved on, but he’s staying put!’

  ‘Oh Mum! Oh Jim!’

  Lily didn’t know which way to turn, and Gwenda looked on smiling as she hugged each of them, one after the other.

  ‘And Gwenda – oh!’ For good measure Lily hugged her too. ‘Thank you for coming! Thank you for telling us! And congratulations! Welcome to the family!’

  Gwenda left soon after, resolutely cheerful about having to rely on the trains. (‘No petrol rationing where I am. I’ve been spoilt rotten!’) She promised to keep in touch (‘I know what Reg is like with his letters – not very good!’) and left them admiring the presents Reg had sent them – a filigree bracelet studded with tiny stones for Lily, while Dora had a pendant with the head of an Egyptian Queen, and Jim a pair of olive wood bookends in the shape of the Pyramids.

  Lily read, then re-read, the letter from Reg. They couldn’t complain about that one – it was a full four pages. He told them again what Gwenda had told them, but also that they had ‘a hell of a job on’ as Libya was in ruins and he could see it taking to the end of the war and beyond. In the meantime, he said, he wanted them to stay well, and hoped against hope they took to Gwenda.

  I hope you’ll all like her, he wrote. And come to love her – Reg, quiet, undemonstrative Reg openly admitting it! – as much as I do.

  ‘Well, they’ve got enough in common,’ said Jim. They were finally having their tea – Dora had eked out the end of the Government Cheddar with a dab of mustard and top of the milk and toasted the result. ‘Imagine their pillow talk. Oil leaks. Kinks in fuel pipes. Carburettors. It’s a match made in heaven.’

  But Lily’s mind was running on.

  ‘Reg’ll move up there, won’t he?’ she ventured. ‘To Welshpool. It stands to reason. He’ll work for her father – maybe her dad will even take him into the business.’

  She wondered how her mother would take it – Reg had always been such a homebody – or so they’d thought. But Dora seemed remarkably easy about it: Gwenda’s good humour must be catching.

  ‘After Africa, Shropshire isn’t so very far away,’ she said. ‘And I’ll tell you another thing. That Mrs Wimbush – Madame Zuleika – wasn’t so far off with her predictions. Good news in a letter and in person!’

  Lily frowned.

  ‘It’s two out of three, but I’m still waiting for your tall, dark, handsome stranger!’

  Dora gave a tiny smile. Hugh had had sandy hair and blue eyes, and he was gone for good.

  ‘Gwenda’s small, dark and pretty,’ she said. ‘I’ll settle for that.’

  ‘What a weekend!’ Lily said to Jim as they took the crocks out. ‘Romance in the air or what?’

  Jim gave a theatrical sniff.

  ‘I don’t think so. Just the slop pail,’ he said. ‘I’ll take it down to the pig bin in a minute.’

  He saw Lily’s mouth compress into a line and smiled to himself. If her dropped hints got any heavier, they’d dent the kitchen floor. They were heading towards something permanent themselves, he knew that – they both knew it, surely? – but they were still young. All in good time.

  Lily clattered the plates into the sink and ran the water. It bounced up off a spoon in a vicious jet and she stepped back, irritated. Blow leap year, she thought. If Jim persisted in being so deliberately obtuse … well, Gwenda had given her another idea. She didn’t kid herself she could learn to drive and join the MTC, let alone be sent abroad, and she was still a year or so off conscription anyway. But she could always volunteer … What about the ATS?

  They were still recruiting – there was no use pretending that the war was going to end that quickly. Yes, the invasion of Sicily seemed to be going well, but it had only been forty-eight hours, and there’d been false dawns before. Hitler was going to fight to the death – his own and that of thousands, maybe millions of others, everyone realised that now. And much as Lily loved her job at Marlow’s, much as she loved Jim, she wasn’t going to hang around. Marriage wasn’t the be-all and end-all, whatever Glad
ys or Evelyn Brimble or even Gwenda might think. Time waits for no man, not even Jim Goodridge, Lily thought, as she turned off the tap with a fiercer twist than it needed.

  Her own romantic life paled further into insignificance when Lily saw Gladys next day. Her friend practically floated into the staff cloakroom, a dazed and dreamy smile on her face. Lily could see that the weekend’s other excitements would have to wait. Mr Churchill might have talked about the country’s finest hour after the Battle of Britain but this was Gladys’s, and she deserved to savour every minute.

  ‘Shall we both try to get on early dinner?’ Gladys breathed. ‘I’ve got so much to tell you, Lily, about Saturday night and Sunday!’

  Lily smiled and nodded, hoping Gladys would draw more of a veil over proceedings than Beryl had in describing her honeymoon. But that was Beryl for you. Gladys would surely be more discreet.

  And talking of discreet … Lily still hadn’t decided how to broach yesterday’s encounter with Miss Frobisher at the cricket. Was it up to her to say anything?

  She needn’t have worried. Within half an hour of the store’s opening, Miss Frobisher breezed over to Schoolwear, where Lily was organising a drawerful of gym knickers in size order.

  ‘Good game yesterday, wasn’t it?’ she said easily. Then she gave a faint frown. ‘Sorry, that should be “match”. Mr Simmonds would soon be picking me up on that!’

  He had reverted to being Mr Simmonds, of course, in the store. Lily had expected that much. But she hadn’t expected what Miss Frobisher said next.

  ‘In case you’re wondering, Lily, you needn’t feel compromised. You won’t have to treat anything you saw as a secret. Mr Simmonds and I have been seeing each other for a while, and it’ll soon be common knowledge. As will the fact that I’m perfectly free to conduct a relationship because I no longer see anything of my son’s father and I haven’t for years. To all events and purposes, he doesn’t exist.’