She had no time for the kind of frippery, as she saw it, that her mother stocked, no matter how hard Sylvia tried to convince her of its importance within their local community.
‘I don’t understand what you’ve got against haberdashery. It fills an important need,’ Sylvia argued. ‘Things like knitting wools and sewing stuff are essential, particularly at times like these. You should think of them as raw materials. This county’s fortunes were founded on them, you know. Women make as important a contribution to looking after their families as men. What would they do if they couldn’t make their own clothes, knit their own jumpers, and run up something for the kiddies? Many’s the time what you call “fancy nonsense” has put bread on this table, let me tell you. When your dad’s been having a hard time selling any shoes, we’ve been glad of my shop then.’
Rosie stopped listening. She had heard it all before. She had learned to knit and sew while she was still at school – she’d had no choice – but regardless of her mother’s arguments, she still considered them to be hobbies rather than important skills to flaunt, much less encourage, in the workplace. Even the word haberdashery sent a shiver down her spine.
Sylvia shook her head. ‘I make no apologies for what I sell, Rosemarie, these things are just as important as your armoury and munitions.’ Rosie smiled. Her mother always used her full name when she slipped into lecturing mode. ‘You don’t have to be involved with heavy metals or gunpowder to prove your worth.’ Sylvia’s voice was scathing now. ‘I’m proud to be able to say that I earn a living by helping women to help themselves.’
At first, Rosie had been delighted when she left her mother’s business, convinced that she had made the right move. However, it hadn’t taken long for her to find out the true meaning of ‘real work’ and it wasn’t anything like the ideal she had dreamed of.
‘Hard labour’ was how Rosie usually described it to anyone who would listen, although she took care not to say such a thing in front of her mother. She didn’t dare to complain about her work when she was at home. She wouldn’t give Sylvia the satisfaction of gloating that that was exactly what she had predicted. And it wasn’t as though there was much opportunity for social contact on the benches, for the place was far too noisy for that. There had been a din when it had been a mill, enough to prevent anyone from talking, even those working within a few feet of each other on the same work bench, but the racket in the munitions factory was even worse. If you made the mistake of looking away from the machines for a moment to try to lip-read what someone was saying, there was the chance that the shift of focus of attention could result in an accident occurring or something going badly wrong with the machine. Not only was the work relentless and physically hard, it was also boring, and the structure of the shifts meant that the girls had to work much longer hours than in any shop.
There was only one saving grace in favour of the factory over the wool shop as far as Rosie was concerned – apart from the extra wages she found in her pay packet at the end of the week – and that took the form of a certain Trevor Jones, a young mechanic she’d discovered on her first day. But that was something else she wouldn’t admit in front of her mother.
‘Fancy a cuppa? The kettle’s not long since boiled,’ Sylvia called out from the kitchen.
‘No, thanks, you’re all right,’ Rosie said. ‘We’ll be having tea soon, won’t we? I’ll wait till then.’
Sylvia brought in her own cup of tea together with an oversized knitting bag stuffed full of skeins of wool yet to be unwound and several half-finished garments, and came to sit down at the table. She pulled out the jumper she was making for Rosie from an old cardigan of her husband Archie that she had unpicked. She checked where she was up to in the complex Aran pattern and began to knit.
‘Could be a while yet before we eat,’ Sylvia said. ‘Your dad phoned to say he’ll be joining us tonight, so I reckon it would be best if we waited.’
Rosie tensed involuntarily at the mention of her father’s name and looked across anxiously at Sylvia to see what she made of his impending visit. He was away so much these days that the occasional trip home felt like a special occasion to Rosie, though not a particularly joyous one. But Sylvia’s face gave nothing away and she refused to meet her daughter’s gaze.
‘It seems he’s had a busy couple of weeks selling off the old lines of shoes to make room for the new stock.’ Sylvia’s voice was chatty and her brow crinkled as she concentrated on crossing the small open-ended cable needles back and forth to maintain the flow of the complicated knitting sequence. ‘He’s taken lots of orders this week, particularly for the new line he had in men’s Oxfords and those lovely women’s high-heeled slingbacks that he had in several different colours,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have minded a pair of those myself and that’s always a good sign. I believe he’s sold all the old samples too. So he’ll have to load up the van with a whole new lot to take down to Derbyshire.’
Rosie was about to ask if that meant he might actually have some money to contribute to the household kitty for once, but then she thought better of it. She was having trouble working out how to formulate the question so her mother wouldn’t dismiss it as ‘Rosie being disrespectful’ or some such thing. There was hardly a beat before Sylvia changed the subject as she always did when they got on to the topic of Archie Barker. ‘You missed your friend Violet this afternoon,’ Sylvia said. ‘She came in after school to collect the last of her mother’s wool.’
Rosie recognised Sylvia’s opening gambit as one that she used when she was trying to interest her daughter in the affairs of the shop. She was going to put her hand over her mouth in a mock yawn, but then changed her mind; there was no need to antagonise her mother unnecessarily.
‘Violet finishes work early so she was able to slip in before I closed up for the night,’ Sylvia said. ‘It must be such a comfort to Mrs Pegg that her daughter always helps her out with things like that.’
Rosie refused to rise to the bait so several moments of silence elapsed before Sylvia asked, ‘Are you planning on going out with your friend Penny this week?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘I noticed there’s a good film on at the Plaza, though I’m afraid I can’t remember the name of it,’ Sylvia said.
Rosie bit back the retort that had sprung to her lips that if she did decide to go to the Plaza it wouldn’t be with Penny but, ‘I don’t know if I’ll have the time,’ was all she said out loud.
It was still daylight when Rosie came out of work a few days later, even though she’d had to work the couple of hours overtime that was becoming the norm.
‘One of the delights of summer,’ her friend Penny Downs said as they cleared the factory gates together arm in arm and set off down the towpath, the klaxon that had signalled the end of the shift still ringing in their ears. Penny and her younger sister Stella lived with their widowed father who ran the cobbler’s shop at the end of the High Street. Penny, Violet Pegg, and Rosie had gone to school together before Violet went off to train as a teacher and now Penny had taken Violet’s place as she and Rosie were mates at the factory, working as colleagues on the same bench.
Rosie stopped for a moment and whisked off her headscarf. The roll that she had so carefully pinned in that morning collapsed immediately and she shook out her golden curls, revelling in the fact that the breeze off the river immediately whipped them back from her forehead as she tilted her face towards what was left of the afternoon sun.
‘I love it when you can actually feel the days getting longer, don’t you?’ Rosie grinned. ‘And you can see people properly, too, not like when we’re all lurking in the gloom in there.’ She threw a disparaging look over her shoulder as she jerked her thumb in the direction of the old mill.
Penny chuckled at that. ‘Oh, and who can you see? Have you anyone in particular in mind that you’re looking for?’ She raised her brows.
‘No, of course not,’ Rosie retorted, though she tried discre
etly to peer around her friend as she spoke, in an attempt to catch a second glimpse of the young man she thought she recognised by the factory wall. He was sheltering a match in his cupped hands as he tried to light a cigarette and he had been standing with one leg pushing back against the wall behind him. Suddenly he lowered it and started walking towards her. She hoped that the fluttering she felt in her chest didn’t show on her face but she couldn’t help smiling when she realised he had clocked her too.
‘Aye, aye, look out! Here comes trouble,’ Penny said. ‘I hope that’s not one of the people you’ve been trying to see?’
Rosie looked at her sharply. ‘Why do you say that? What’s wrong with him?’
‘Can’t explain now.’ Penny lowered her voice as he came nearer, his intended target obvious. ‘All I can say is, you’d better watch your step with that one.’
There was no time to say any more as the lad approached. Rosie watched him take a long draw from his cigarette and when he reached her he proffered it in her direction. Rosie shook her head.
‘No thanks, I don’t smoke,’ she said, wondering from the look on his face if she should perhaps have taken it. His fingers were none too clean but he rubbed his hands up and down his drill dungarees that fitted over his regular trousers in an effort to clear the worst, though it made no difference to the ingrained yellow nicotine stains on his fingers. His mousey-coloured hair had been blown into something resembling a haystack but she found the wild look extremely appealing. She thought of her father, always immaculately turned out, with razor-sharp creases and turn-ups on his trousers, his hair slicked back with Brylcreem and she wanted to giggle. Whatever would he make of Trevor Jones?
Trevor shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
A cheeky smile played around Trevor’s lips and his almost jet-black eyes seemed to be enjoying the joke too, so that Rosie had to look way, but she couldn’t deny that in those few seconds he had made her feel as if she was the only girl on the street. Her hand fluttered to adjust the buttons of her cotton blouse, even though they didn’t need adjusting as they were tucked securely into the band of her skirt. She fingered the belt that she knew flattered her trim waist and smoothed the folds of the flared skirt over her generous hips, grinning up at him as if challenging him to ask for a twirl. He gave her the benefit of a full smile then and this time she braved meeting his gaze. He was close enough that she could see one of his front teeth protruded slightly and crossed over to cover half of its neighbour, something she hadn’t noticed before, but as far as she was concerned it somehow added to his appeal.
‘Where do you live? I’ll walk you home.’ He said the words casually but Rosie could feel the intensity of his gaze. At the same time, she was aware that Penny had stopped and was standing stiffly beside her with her fists clenched.
‘She’ll be coming home with me,’ Penny said pointedly. ‘We was walking home together, wasn’t we, Rosie?’
‘Oh, yes, well … we were … but you know you don’t have to worry about me.’ Rosie turned to Penny, trying to sound offhand. She didn’t want to appear too forward but she didn’t appreciate her friend’s interference.
Penny looked shocked. ‘You don’t have to mind me,’ she said somewhat petulantly. ‘I’ve some errands to do for my dad before I go home.’ Then her face softened for a moment and she hesitated long enough to allow Rosie time to change her mind. ‘If you’re sure …?’ Penny began.
‘Yes, really, I’m fine,’ Rosie said.
‘Then I’ll see you on the bench tomorrow, Rosie.’ And without looking at Trevor, Penny flounced off, leaving the two of them alone.
Rosie stood for a moment, not sure what she should say next. For all her nineteen years she wasn’t used to chatting up boys she didn’t know, and she didn’t find it easy to suddenly be flirtatious. She’d only stepped out with boys she’d grown up with from the neighbourhood, boys she’d known at school. Flirting with someone she didn’t know anything about was a new experience. But she didn’t have to worry for Trevor waited till Penny was out of earshot before he said, ‘You can change your mind now your friend’s gone, but you do know who I am. It’s not as though we’re strangers or anything.’
Rosie looked down at her heavy work shoes. One of the laces seemed to be coming undone, but she merely stared at it and didn’t try to fix it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I suppose that did sound rather rude, but I don’t think Penny meant anything by it; she didn’t mean to be awkward, but you know how it is.’
Trevor laughed. ‘No, I don’t really. It beats me sometimes what you girls think is going to happen when you’re left alone with a lad. I’m hardly Jack the Ripper!’
Rosie felt her cheeks burn. ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean to offend you,’ she said.
‘I wouldn’t bet money on that, but don’t fret. I’m used to it, particularly from the likes of her,’ Trevor said. ‘Perhaps I should wear a suit tomorrow, to stop the scaredy cats being so afraid.’ He chuckled. ‘She might even change her mind if she’d see me in my Sunday best.’ He strutted in front of Rosie for a moment with his fingers under the shoulder straps of his dungarees, flicking them as if they were lapels. She could see now that Penny had hurt his feelings and she felt sorry. She wanted to make it up to him, though she wasn’t quite sure how. She was glad when he said, ‘I tell you what, why don’t we have a fag together in the canteen, dinnertime tomorrow, then you can get to know me better? That would thumb your nose to your stuck-up so-called friend.’
‘Nice thought, but I’ve told you, I don’t smoke,’ Rosie said.
‘No, so you said, but we can soon change that.’ A smirk replaced his easy smile and he suddenly grasped hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him. For a moment Rosie thought he was going to kiss her and she knew she ought to protest, but to her surprise she was disappointed when he didn’t.
Instead he said, ‘Which way?’ and he jerked each of his thumbs in different directions.
Rosie hesitated, suddenly remembering Penny’s warning. Did she really want him to know exactly where she lived? ‘You can walk me as far as the High Street, if you like,’ Rosie offered.
Trevor let go of her and pulled away. ‘OK, best get going then.’ And he strode off in the direction of the shops. They didn’t talk as they walked and when they reached the parade Rosie was out of breath and glad to stop.
‘This do you?’ Trevor turned towards her.
‘That’s great, thanks,’ she said. He put his hand up to cup her chin. Rosie felt her cheeks flame and something churn in the pit of her stomach.
‘Then I’ll see you in the canteen tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll find us a table at the back near the tray trolleys. Then you won’t have to worry cos no one can see us there.’ And without another word he turned away and began to walk briskly back the way they’d just come.
Rosie stared after him, a puzzled look on her face. She was trying to work out what had just happened between her and a factory mechanic called Trevor that her friend Penny had cautioned her to avoid. His tall figure, topped by the unruly thatch of hair, was lost in the crowds straggling on the pavements and in no time at all he had disappeared into the distance. What had Penny got against him, she wondered? And as she walked up the parade as far as the wool shop, she speculated about what her mother would have made of the situation if Rosie had let him see her to the door.
Chapter 5
Roger Buckley was exhausted, so he was relieved when his bike finally crunched over the loose gravel path of the large detached house like a pianola playing a familiar signature tune. He was trying not to use the car on the days he didn’t have far to travel because he needed to save it for emergencies. Petrol was becoming scarcer and there were rumours circulating about rationing it.
It had been a long day – even longer than usual as he had begun his rounds very early in the morning. He tried to confine his visits to the mornings though he accepted that as the majority of his patients were not covered by any health insurance schemes and had
to pay for their own treatment they felt entitled to call on him at any time. The afternoons were usually designated to the drop-in clinic he had set up in his father’s house and wherever possible he tried to keep the evenings free to put his feet up and spend precious time with his own family. However, he never liked to turn patients away if they needed his services, particularly if there was a genuine emergency. Tonight, this last outing had been in response to an emergency call from the Post Office, long after it had closed, and it was not one he felt he could ignore. He trusted Vicky’s good sense that she would not request an out-of-hours visit unnecessarily. And his instincts had been right for he’d found poor Arthur Parrott lying prostrate on the couch having more difficulty than usual breathing. He had been unable to make it upstairs to his own bedroom, and was looking very unwell as he fought for every breath. He had seemed so bad at first that Roger had been inclined to suggest hospitalisation and was considering calling for an ambulance. But there was something about Vicky’s calming manner that held him back once he had administered an injection that relieved the most alarming of Arthur’s immediate symptoms and enabled him to breathe more easily. She hadn’t panicked but had listened to reason while he had debated the best course of action, just as she had done when he had first known her, but then the debate had been about her own difficulties. She really was a remarkable woman. She had the knack of bowing to the inevitable where she had no choice, while at the same time changing that which could be changed. It was a trait he had long since admired.
The Postmistress Page 4
