The Postmistress

by Maggie Sullivan

  ‘I always think that trolley buses look more like trams, only without the road tracks, don’t you?’ Claire commented, when the overhead wires of their bus flashed and sparked as they connected to the electricity source. ‘And of course we have lots of local railway lines in Cricklewood. There’s a whole network of them which go underground near where we live and Cricklewood has its own station which is only about a ten-minute walk from our house. Where’s your nearest station? I wonder if I could have come out on it and saved you the trouble of coming all the way into town?’

  Claire was about to say more, not feeling comfortable with the silence that kept lapsing between them, but she was aware of Rosie rolling her eyes heavenwards so she tried not to comment on everything she saw. But that didn’t stop her asking questions.

  ‘Are there any other villages like Greenhill near here? Have you got your own cinema or do you have to go into Manchester? Where are the nearest smart dress shops?’ she asked in quick succession, though from the look on Rosie’s face she worried that she was bombarding her cousin with too many questions without Rosie showing any curiosity in return. After a while, though, Claire sat back in silence, taking in the changing scenery as it shifted from the predominantly red-brick structures of the city centre to varying degrees of the slate greyness of buildings and sky. They seemed to be riding over endless mud-covered cobblestones but she’d seen nothing yet in the way of the promised greenery.

  The bus trundled through the sprawling suburbs where the majority of houses seemed to be lined up in rows of back-to-back terraces with the occasional relief of a large stone house with its own garden. In some ways the villages didn’t look all that different from Cricklewood in layout, although Cricklewood boasted more signs of industry and several streets of grander brick-built Victorian and Edwardian houses. It wasn’t until they eventually transferred to a small single-decker local bus that she was finally rewarded by expanses of green grass punctuated by the occasional tree against a backdrop of hills, which she had definitely never seen in Cricklewood. A street sign announced that they had arrived in Greenhill and, as the bus chugged its way up and down the hilly terrain, Claire was surprised how small the place was. It had narrow streets, many of them boasting a variety of shops selling fresh produce or providing local services. It might be styled as a town, Claire thought, but in reality it was no bigger than a village and it was certainly not as big as Cricklewood.

  The bus stopped halfway up a hill by a small parade of shops and they alighted. Claire dragged her suitcase off the bus and thanked the driver, then she struggled to follow Rosie into the end shop called Knit and Sew. They went in through the shop entrance, the doorbell pinging as Rosie pushed it open. An older woman, looking not unlike Claire’s own mother, though wearing a far thicker pancake of make-up than Hannah ever wore, instantly stepped out from behind the counter, holding out her arms.

  ‘Claire, my love,’ she cooed, embracing Claire in a huge hug. ‘I’m so glad Rosie found you – or should I say you found each other? Come in, anyways, you made it. Welcome to our home.’ She reached out to take Claire’s suitcase but made no attempt to move it. ‘Your Uncle Archie was really sorry to be missing you, but he had to go away on business today and he’ll probably be gone for some time. He does go away quite a lot, I’m afraid,’ she said, taking on a confidential tone, ‘though that shouldn’t affect us.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘In any case, if the war does go ahead, chances are that you’ll still be here when he gets back. So why don’t you take your suitcase up to your room for now. Rosie will show you where to go, won’t you, my love? I hope you’ve left Claire plenty of space in the cupboards.’

  Rosie gave her mother a cross look and made a noise that sounded as though she was clearing her throat as she led the way up the stairs.

  ‘I’ve made a whole shelf ready for you,’ Rosie mumbled as she opened one side of the tall cupboard that fitted tightly into the alcove beside the fireplace. The plain wood had once been painted but it looked as if it was ready for a fresh coat. She indicated the highest shelf that Claire could just reach at a stretch. ‘And if you’ve anything to hang up I suppose …’ She grudgingly opened the door on the other side of the cupboard. ‘You’ll find some room in here …’ Her voice trailed off because the rail was already overflowing with dresses and skirts that she pushed as close together as possible.

  ‘That’s what you get when your mother’s a dressmaker,’ Rosie said with a giggle, obviously discomfited at having to reveal the full extent of her wardrobe.

  ‘Is she the knitter as well?’ Claire asked, trying to keep her voice light as she pointed to the jumpers that filled most of the lower shelves.

  ‘Well, it’s not me, I can assure you,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Do you think she’d show me how to knit properly?’ Claire sounded tentative. ‘Only, these fancy patterns are all the rage and I can only do plain knit and purl so I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  For the first time, Rosie smiled broadly. ‘I’m sure she’ll be delighted,’ she said.

  And so will I if it gets her off my back, she added silently.

  Chapter 7

  Vicky was woken by much banging and knocking and she hurried downstairs to find out what was wrong. To her surprise, she found Henry noisily opening and closing the doors of the food cupboards. He had thrown packets of biscuits and dry goods onto the table and he was now piling them into a large duffle bag.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked.

  He spun round and glared at her. ‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m off today so I’m taking as much stuff as I can with me. Emergency supplies.’

  ‘But I thought you weren’t going for several days yet?’ She had still hoped it wasn’t too late and that she might have one last chance at persuading him to stay; surely the army would understand if he changed his mind?

  ‘I’ve got things to do before I actually need to report for training, so I’m leaving Greenhill today,’ Henry said.

  ‘You mean you were going to sneak out without saying a word to anyone?’ Vicky challenged him.

  ‘You’re here, aren’t you? What more is there to say? I told you I was going and that’s an end to it.’ He bent down and peered into the cupboard to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind.

  ‘I can’t believe what a selfish blighter you’ve turned out to be,’ Vicky said in despair, for once not trying to hide the anger that was constricting her throat.

  ‘Oh, bugger off,’ Henry said. ‘You always were all about you.’

  ‘Me?’ Vicky was stung into responding and she couldn’t prevent the tears that sprang to her eyes from tippling down her cheeks. ‘Well, go then if that’s all you think of me and your dad.’

  ‘You know darned well I’m going with Dad’s blessing,’ Henry said. ‘You’re just jealous that you can’t do something heroic.’

  ‘Heroic? Is that what you think you’re doing? Empty gestures, more like,’ Vicky said with disdain.

  ‘Ha,’ Henry scoffed. ‘You heard Dad. He’d go out there himself if he could. At least I’m not hiding behind a stupid Post Office counter. Why don’t you get yourself a proper job?’

  ‘What on earth—?’ Vicky began.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d be much more use in the munitions factory, and you don’t even have to walk far to get there,’ he said, a jeering note in his voice.

  Vicky usually tried not to lose her temper, particularly at home where she knew it disturbed her father, but she could feel her anger beginning to boil and in the heat of the moment she looked round for something to throw. ‘Ugh, I hate you Henry Parrott! I want you to know that. And you certainly don’t go with my blessing,’ she screamed.

  Henry stopped what he had been doing and looked into her face. Vicky saw the thing she hated most, for there was pity in his eyes. ‘Do you know, you’ve turned into a right bitter old cow,’ he said. ‘No wonder your so-called boyfriend left the country. Even fighting in Spain was better than
staying here. He probably couldn’t bear having to look at the likes of you, day after day.’

  Vicky glared at him, horrified. ‘How dare you!’ She lowered her voice and all but spat out the words, ‘You aren’t fit to polish the boots of my Stan – or me, for that matter.’ She shook her head as if in sadness and disbelief. ‘And after all I did for you, even though you ruined my life.’

  Henry looked puzzled. ‘How do you work that one out?’

  ‘It was because of you that I had to leave school early, you know. Dad said he wasn’t prepared to keep shelling out money for Dot to take care of the pair of us when I was old enough to look after you on my own. I should have refused. I should have let him send you away to one of those homes. That’s all you’re fit for. You’re certainly not fit to be my brother and I don’t want you around here a moment longer. You can’t get out of here soon enough for my liking!’ And she grabbed one of the packets of biscuits from his hand and threw it back into the cupboard. ‘Go on, get out of here.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m going,’ he snapped back, zipping up his bag. ‘The sooner I can stop looking at your ugly mug the better. The war can’t come soon enough for me.’

  ‘Well, if that’s all you’ve got to say then you needn’t bother coming back!’ Vicky shouted, but even as she banged shut the door of the top cupboard, narrowly missing Henry’s head, she knew she didn’t mean what she had said. He had goaded her beyond endurance until she had uttered those vile words and she immediately wished she could take them back. Knowing she couldn’t, she ran up the stairs, where she slammed her bedroom door – momentarily forgetting that her father was still sleeping – and threw herself down onto the bed. It was only when she heard her father’s reedy voice calling out, ‘Victoria, what on earth’s going on?’ that she remembered where she was.

  ‘Nothing, Dad,’ she shouted back. ‘It was just our Henry coming to say goodbye. You can go back to sleep now. He’s gone.’ And she balled the end of the sheet into her mouth to stifle her sobs.

  Chapter 8

  In the High Street haberdashery store, Rosie Barker’s thoughts were filled with Trevor – and as she stared blindly at the colourful skeins of knitting wools, she realised they were the kind of thoughts she had no wish to share with anyone. Rosie had been smitten by Trevor at their first meeting on the factory floor and since then had been excited and flattered that he’d paid her so much attention. This was a new experience for her. She had never been particularly popular at school and she’d always had to fight for attention from the lads she’d played with on the street. But with Trevor it was different. He didn’t seem to look at any of the other girls and was always hanging around her at break time and at dinner. When their shifts coincided, she would often find him waiting by the entrance ready to walk her home, or as near to home as she would allow him to get.

  So she was surprised one afternoon when she stepped up to the gates as the metallic clang of the klaxon horn marked the end of the early shift’s working day to find a group of her bench colleagues waiting for her … and Trevor nowhere in sight. They were led by her High Street neighbour, Penny Downs.

  ‘We checked the rosters and he’s been swapped to lates,’ Penny said as Rosie gazed about her, trying to spot Trevor in the crowd.

  ‘That is, if you’re looking for who we think you’re looking for,’ a second girl said.

  ‘We’ve been wanting to have a private word with you for a while since,’ Penny said, ‘and as you know it’s well-nigh impossible in that place.’ She jerked her thumb in the direction of the factory.

  ‘Oh, but I …’ Rosie floundered, taken by surprise, but the group seemed to close in on her until she was uncomfortably surrounded. She tried to step forwards, then sideways, but the girls stood firm and showed no signs of giving any ground.

  For a moment Rosie felt intimidated and she took a deep breath, hoping her voice wouldn’t give her away while her eyes appealed to Penny. ‘What are you doing? I thought you were my friends,’ she said, trying to laugh.

  ‘We are your friends, and that’s why we want to talk to you. It’s for your own good. Honest,’ Penny said. ‘I’m sure you remember that I’ve mentioned it before, but it seems you’ve took no notice.’

  ‘Notice about what? What is it you want?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘We want to talk to you about him. You know … what’s his name? The one you’re always with,’ the third girl, who was now standing behind her, said. Rosie couldn’t see her face but she could hear a nasty snarl in the girl’s voice.

  ‘Trevor Jones,’ Penny supplied.

  ‘Ah yes,’ the second girl said. ‘The Mister Trevor Jones. How could I have forgotten that?’

  ‘What about him?’ Rosie shifted her weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, uncertain about where to look first.

  ‘Are you sure you want to be associated with the likes of him?’ It was the third girl who asked the question so Rosie had to spin at an awkward angle to face her. ‘We’re all wondering if you know what you’re doing? Because it seems to us you could end up making one hell of a fist of things if you don’t,’ she said, indicating the rest of the group.

  ‘Don’t forget, you’re the new girl here,’ Penny said, ‘so we’re only trying to help. We thought we’d better set you straight before you do something you might regret.’

  Rosie focussed on Penny for a moment and tried to stare her out as she was finding it almost impossible to pay attention to the whole group at once. ‘What do you mean?’ she said, then she deliberately looked from one face to the other, trying not to sound anxious. ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t be friends with him?’

  Now the girls looked at each other. ‘At last!’ the second girl said.

  ‘You do know he’s got a reputation …’ Penny said and Rosie wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.

  ‘And that none of us would ever give him the time of day,’ the second added and she poked Rosie in the shoulder in a pointed and provocative way.

  Rosie recoiled, looking puzzled. ‘And just what kind of a reputation would that be?’ she said.

  ‘The thing is …’ It was Penny who spoke again. ‘We’ve seen the way he’s always making sheep’s eyes at you, giving you smokes, fetching you cups of tea at dinner. And it doesn’t seem very healthy to us …’

  ‘Cos he’s not doing it out of the goodness of his heart.’

  ‘You must know what it is that he’s after …’

  ‘It can only be one thing with Trevor Jones,’ Penny had the final say as each took a turn to pass the warning around the group.

  Rosie sighed with relief and she glared at Penny. ‘I get it now. Jealous, are you?’ she retorted, relieved to feel that she finally understood. But she was disconcerted when the whole group laughed.

  ‘No, it’s not that at all. You’ve got the wrong end of that stick,’ Penny said. ‘Do you not get it?’

  ‘You must understand …’ the others chipped in. They still managed to sound threatening but they did begin to pull away. ‘What you don’t seem to realise is that—’

  But Rosie didn’t let Penny finish. ‘If that’s all you have to say I’ll thank you to butt out of my business and keep your comments to yourself. No one’s going to tell me who I can and can’t be friends with,’ Rosie said and, with as haughty an air as she could manage, she pushed through the ring of girls and marched away with her head held high.

  She didn’t want to admit even to herself that she felt rattled by the encounter. Of course she had heard of Trevor’s reputation – who hadn’t in the factory? And she well remembered Penny warning her before. But she had refused to listen then – and she still didn’t want to hear such things, convinced that the ‘Casanova’ label they tried to brand Trevor with wasn’t warranted. ‘I take folk as I find them,’ Rosie had said whenever anyone challenged her, for it was her honest opinion that no one could be as nice as Trevor had been and not mean it. Wasn’t it only yesterday that he’d told her he loved her and she had no
reason not to believe him, though it was a secret she would keep tight to her chest for the time being. Behaving badly was what he did with others, she’d decided, not with her, and she knew that for a fact. With her he might have tried to push his luck, asked her to go further than she wanted to, but what boy didn’t? But he had never forced her into going too far. He always treated her with the respect her mother had taught her was her due. He was polite and attentive, listening with interest to everything she had to say and as far as she was concerned she couldn’t ask for more. Well, not unless she considered the small matter of a ring. She looked down and stroked the third finger of her left hand. Without that she would never let him overstep the mark.

  Things remained unsettled at work for Rosie, though she refused to give up seeing Trevor, choosing to ignore Penny and her friends instead. And they weren’t much better at home. Rosie had known it wouldn’t be easy sharing her bedroom, especially with someone her own age who was used to having lots of space around her, though she had to admit Claire was doing everything she could not to get in her way.

  ‘I think you’re getting used to sharing your room, aren’t you, darling,’ Sylvia said one morning when Rosie added one of Claire’s newly washed blouses onto the pile for ironing. ‘I told you that would happen, didn’t I?’

  ‘You can get used to anything if you have to,’ Rosie grumbled, ‘but it doesn’t mean I like it. I still feel hemmed in and claustrophobic most of the time.’

  ‘Thank goodness she doesn’t have as many clothes as you do, is all I can say.’ Sylvia tried to laugh it off when Rosie complained and she patted her daughter’s arm. ‘Or if she has, she hasn’t brought them with her. But you’ve not been very fair, now have you? I don’t know how she’s managed to squeeze all her clothes into that wardrobe of yours. Some of her things are really lovely but they’re getting very badly creased. You really haven’t given her much space.’