The Victory Girls

by Joanna Toye

  ‘I’m simply trying to say that as far as Marlows is concerned, as far as you and I are concerned, the incident is explained and forgotten. The only question now is …’ He paused. This was delicate. ‘The question now is what you’re going to do instead.’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘To keep yourself occupied. To fill that void. Maybe to do something else that your daughter would approve of.’ He gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘I’m not expressing myself very well. Violet’—he saw her flinch at the name—‘she wouldn’t want you to be in trouble for … for collecting a few trinkets for her, would she? I’m sure she’d far rather have you do something – again, if I may – more worthwhile with your time.’

  She lifted her eyes to his – very blue eyes, he noticed. She sounded puzzled, but also hopeful.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘There are so many things a woman like you could be doing!’

  Her shoulders sagged.

  ‘Oh, you mean voluntary work.’ It was as if she’d thought he had some miracle to offer, and her disappointment had a touch of exasperation too. ‘I do that already, all of it! I’ve made pounds of jam; the scarves I’ve knitted laid end to end would reach the Middle East and back!’ She shook her head impatiently. ‘If you knew how sick I am of khaki and navy blue! How I’d love to knit something sky blue or magenta!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Cedric retreated rapidly. ‘I should have realised—’

  ‘No, no, I’m sorry.’ She retreated even further. ‘I shouldn’t take it out on you, of all people! But you men have no idea. They say it’s important work, and I know it is, it is—’ She sighed, frustrated. ‘Maybe if Violet were here, we’d do it together, and it would mean more, be fun even. But to me, alone, it simply seems pointless.’

  This was a blow; Cedric had been sure he’d had the answer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘But I’m sure all you do is valued. And essential.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said resignedly. ‘Yes, I know you’re right. I shall carry on with it and … well, now I don’t have my other little time-filling exercise, I shall be able to do even more, shan’t I? But enough of that. To business.’ She reached down for her handbag. She took out a cheque book and a pen. ‘I’m grateful, of course, that you’ve taken a personal interest in this. And that you don’t want to pursue the matter.’ He could see her steeling herself to say it. ‘To prosecute. But I must compensate you for what I owe. Which, I believe, is two pounds twelve shillings and sixpence. And of course, I’ll give you the items back.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Cedric was unusually impassioned. ‘I don’t want the money and I don’t want the things back! They’ve been written off already. And I can assure you the same will apply to anything you’d, er, acquired from other stores.’

  ‘So what shall I do?’ she asked, nonplussed. ‘I was going to send the other things back anonymously. I can’t keep them! I don’t even want to look at them.’

  This time, Cedric was prepared.

  ‘I suggest,’ he said, ‘that you parcel them up and send them to a charity of your choice – not round here, for obvious reasons. They can hand them out or sell them as they see fit.’ He tested out another smile. ‘Think of it as another sort of contribution to the war effort.’

  Worry disappeared from her face like lines erased from a page. She still sat upright, but the tension in her shoulders had gone. The china-blue eyes found his again, relief and thanks in them this time.

  ‘I’ll do that. Thank you.’

  They chatted a little more about the usual things – the weather, the progress of the war, a couple of mutual acquaintances. But it was time to go. She saw him to the door, gave him back his hat and coat, and they shook hands.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘But you’re a busy man – please don’t let this take up any more of your time. I shall be quite all right now.’

  ‘I hope so. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  The taxi driver put away his paper and started the engine. Cedric touched his hat to her and got in. As they drove off, he raised his hand in a wave. Framed in the doorway, watching him go, she waved back.

  He hadn’t solved things quite as neatly as he’d hoped – she was already doing the voluntary work he’d thought would be the perfect substitute to fill her time. He frowned. All over the world, people were suffering losses like Daphne Tunnicliffe but something about her loneliness in that large house had moved him, reminding him of his own grief.

  Day by day, week by week, Jim had watched the columns in his Post Office book fill up. At Christmas, when they’d first talked about getting engaged, he’d given Lily a pretend ring out of a cracker. He’d said at the time that he’d never dare choose her a ring as she had such decided ideas of her own, but as time had passed, he’d changed his mind. He wanted to surprise her. For once in his life, he was not going to be sensible, sober, doing-as-he’d-said Jim. He was going to be bold, daring, dashing even. He was going to take a risk.

  And it was about time he got on with it, he thought, reverting to his sensible self. Les’s teasing was becoming even more pointed.

  ‘Had a reply from the Palace yet?’ he asked when they met on the loading bay. ‘If the Queen can’t spare you the Koh-i-Noor, how about some sparkler from a tiara she doesn’t wear much?’

  ‘I was going to tell you,’ said Jim with dignity. ‘I’ve started looking.’

  Les punched him lightly on the arm.

  ‘About blooming time! I never thought your Lily had that much patience. What have you got in mind?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’

  The problem, as he’d found out from a quick tour of Hinton’s jewellers, was that jewellers didn’t display their prices. Peering through the criss-cross grilles that covered their windows was tricky enough, but the minute price tags were always cunningly tucked away in slits in the velvet display pads. Jim thought he had enough money, but he dreaded pointing out a ring he liked the look of only to find it was five times as much as he had to spend.

  ‘You’re lucky you and Beryl married so quickly,’ he told Les. ‘There’s so many to choose from, I can’t remember what I’ve seen where – and there’s no prices on any of them.’

  ‘They’re not daft, are they, jewellers?’ Les retorted. ‘That’s to lure you in. Want me to do it? I don’t mind asking the price. I’m not proud!’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Jim. ‘It’s my engagement, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Let me know the worst!’ Les grimaced. ‘Lord knows how I’ll afford the kind of ring Beryl’s on about unless I win on the horses and the chance of that’s less and less with Aintree a blooming prisoner-of-war camp and an anti-aircraft battery at Epsom!’

  ‘Les! Not by betting! You know it’s a mug’s game!’

  ‘I like that!’ snorted Les. ‘It’s all your fault, anyway, you and Lily! Beryl’s leaving film magazines all round the house now, with Ava Gardner sporting some great rock! If the nag I’ve got my eye on doesn’t come good at Newmarket, nag’ll be the word! I’ll be in trouble, I can tell you!’

  Jim kept a lookout for any Picturegoer magazines left open at theirs, and for Lily slowing down when they passed a jeweller’s, but there was nothing. It was puzzling; months had passed and it was true, she wasn’t known for her patience. But Lily had other things on her mind.

  ‘Do you think we should call round to Mrs Tunnicliffe?’ she fretted to Jim one Sunday as they took a stroll along the cut. There were catkins on the willows and six fluffy, yellow-brown goslings were still finding their sea – or rather their canal – legs, listing uncertainly in their parents’ wake. ‘I can’t stop thinking about her, and how sad it all is … that sort of shrine to Violet.’

  ‘I know it’s tough,’ Jim agreed. ‘But Uncle Cedric said he’d deal with it. And he will have done; he’s a man of his word.’

  ‘I wish I knew how, and what he’s done exactly!’ Lily burst out. She hated unfinished b
usiness. ‘She’s so alone in that great house. I mean, what’s she doing this afternoon? Wandering about the place? Staring out of the window?’

  ‘Maybe she’ll start directing her energies into the garden. It could do with it.’

  Jim instantly he wished he hadn’t spoken – Lily’d be suggesting they went round and gave her a hand. But she was hardly listening.

  ‘And what’s happened to all those things she took?’ she sighed.

  ‘We may never know,’ said Jim. ‘Sometimes, Lily, you have to accept you’ve done all you can.’

  Lily screwed up her mouth in a way he recognised. It meant that she wasn’t going to argue any more. It didn’t mean she’d let the matter drop.

  Next day she was determined to buttonhole Mr Marlow when he made his tour of the store. He did it every morning, greeting customers with his old-fashioned half-bow, conferring with buyers, pulling straight a display stand, picking someone up on a sloppily-tied shoelace. Though ‘buttonhole’ was hardly the word. Miss Frobisher had warned Lily from the first that when Mr Marlow stopped at your department, it was like meeting royalty. You didn’t speak till you were spoken to.

  He was agonisingly slow, of course. He lingered on Jewellery, where flimsy clasps were a concern. Then he got stuck on Handbags while Rita’s friend expounded at length about clutch bags. Finally, he made his way to Small Leathers. Rita smiled her most ingratiating smile. Lily smiled too, hopefully.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Ruddock,’ he said, as courteous as ever. ‘Miss Collins.’

  Lily looked at him beseechingly as she replied. He didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘Any problems?’ he asked, running his eye over the brass-handled drawers, the glass tops of the counters, and the goods within. Lily could sense the junior holding her breath.

  ‘Nothing to report, sir,’ Rita replied. ‘All running smoothly.’

  Thanks to me, was the implication.

  ‘Good, good,’ murmured Mr Marlow. Lily’s eyes scanned his face like searchlights; it was a wonder he wasn’t shielding himself from the glare. She willed him to look up and he did.

  ‘Miss Collins,’ he said evenly. ‘A word, please.’

  Lily felt Rita stiffen beside her but Mr Marlow drew her away to the furthest end of the counter, where even Rita, however much she strained, wouldn’t be able to hear.

  ‘You have the reputation,’ Mr Marlow began in his usual dry manner, ‘of being something of a terrier, Miss Collins. So I daresay you’re curious about the conclusion to the incident you witnessed.’ Had he been to one of those ‘Psychic Fairs’ you saw advertised, Lily wondered; he’d read her mind accurately enough. ‘I visited the lady and the matter has been fully resolved. I assured her that none of the stores would want the items back so they’ll be donated to charity. There’s no more to be said.’

  There was a lot more as far as Lily was concerned, but Mr Marlow had neatly wrapped up the business side of things, anyway. She nodded and smiled as unresignedly as she could.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He looked at her with something which, if it hadn’t been Cedric Marlow, Lily would have said was almost a twinkle.

  ‘No more to be said … except perhaps about the lady’s state of mind, which I’m guessing is of equal concern to you. She promised me that she is, and will be, using her time more productively in future. And rest assured, I’ve made sure someone is keeping an eye on her.’

  Lily’s smile this time was genuine. Jim had been right, as usual, blast him!

  ‘Oh, I am glad!’

  Mr Marlow had known her husband; maybe he’d contacted one or both of her sons and told them how lonely and bereft their mother was. They must be doing a better job of keeping in touch.

  ‘Good. Now back to work please.’

  Dismissed, Lily scuttled back along the counter. Rita was ostentatiously rearranging the oddments. She turned on Lily at once.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Lily flannelled.

  ‘Nothing? You looked very chummy!’

  ‘Not at all!’ Lily wondered how she could phrase it without telling an outright lie. ‘He just wanted to let me know that things would be, um, getting back to normal.’

  ‘Meaning …? Oh, I see! You’ll be going back to Kidswear, and Betty’ll be coming back here?’

  ‘Hmn,’ said Lily, trying to make it sound as much like an agreement as she could.

  ‘Did he say when?’

  ‘I didn’t ask him that,’ said Lily truthfully.

  ‘Fair enough. Still, good to know, eh?’

  Rita’s mood had changed rapidly. For the rest of the morning, she was almost pleasant, and after lunch and the canteen’s brave but ill-advised attempt at curried mutton, she even offered Lily a surreptitious peppermint.

  In his office, meanwhile, Cedric Marlow was inscribing something in his pocket diary. He’d just made a phone call, part of his ‘keeping an eye’ on Daphne Tunnicliffe and, as he’d hoped, had managed to get himself invited to tea on Sunday.

  ***

  The month of May went on its merry way – and there was merriment, or at least relief, when the long battle for Monte Cassino in Italy, which had cost so many Allied lives, was finally won and their flags fluttered above the ruins of the hilltop abbey.

  A week on, and while the inside pages were still giving details of the victory, the headlines had moved on.

  PHEW! WHAT A SCORCHER!

  they blared, and:

  BRITAIN BAKES IN 90º HEAT!

  In the last few days of the month, the heat built up alarmingly. Gladys was feeling it intensely.

  ‘I don’t know what to do with myself!’ she moaned, shifting uncomfortably in the back room at the Collinses’. ‘I’m sticking to this chair! There’s not a breath of air!’

  This was unfair but true. The back door stood open and the sash window was thrown right up. Lily was seated on the rush-topped stool fanning Gladys with a copy of The People’s Friend, but she was only really moving the warmth about.

  Dora laid aside her knitting.

  ‘I’ll fetch you some more cool water,’ she said, stooping to retrieve the enamel bowl. ‘Pop your feet on the towel a minute, there’s a love.’

  Gladys put her dripping feet on the towel Dora had laid down.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said pitifully. ‘You are good to me, all of you.’

  Dora smiled thinly. Poor girl, she deserved it; she was still getting no consideration from her gran. Dora had called on Florrie the other week to make another appeal of Gladys’s behalf but still found the old besom unmoved and unmoveable.

  ‘I was stood standing in the laundry where I worked till the day before I had Gladys’s mum,’ Florrie had declared. ‘Had her the next night, nobody to help but old Mother Cooper that lived over the back of us, no training or nothing bar the six kids she’d had herself. Gave me a rag to bite on and told me to hang onto the bed frame, that was all the assistance I got!’ Dora opened her mouth to reply but Florrie wasn’t to be interrupted. ‘Back at work two days later, couldn’t afford to lose the pay, and look at it now! All this free stuff and running back and forth to this clinic for “check-ups”! Girls today,’ she added without any sense of irony, ‘they don’t know they’re born!’

  ‘Have you seen her ankles?’ asked Dora sharply. ‘Like footballs, they are!’

  ‘Tch! Hypochondriac. Her mother was the same.’

  Somehow Dora managed to not say anything about pots and kettles. The only way to take care of Gladys was to have her round at theirs as much as possible, which was why she was in the stuffy back room that hot night.

  Even when the burning ball of sun had dipped below the roofs of the houses, the heat remained. In fact it seemed even more oppressive, and the thought of having to put up the blackout once they needed the lights on was unbearable. Buddy was lying at full stretch on the tiled scullery floor and Jim had gone out to water the veg. Lily’s arm was aching from flapping the magazine; it was making
her even hotter, but she didn’t like to complain. Gladys had her eyes closed. She really was a size, Lily thought, as she watched her friend’s face. She dropped her eyes and suddenly noticed a dark patch on the front of Gladys’s chair. She looked again. The light was going … was it a shadow? She put out her hand and touched it. When she took her hand away, her fingers were damp.

  ‘Mum!’ she hissed. ‘Mum!’

  Dora looked up and Lily signalled her over.

  ‘I think Gladys has wet herself.’

  Dora shook Gladys’s shoulder gently.

  ‘Gladys! Gladys, dear. Wake up. That’s it, you had a little doze … Can you stand up for me?’

  ‘Eh?’

  Dazed and still dopey, Gladys stood up. It was a good job the bowl was there, because as she did, liquid poured out of her, splashing into the bowl and over its sides. Lily gasped.

  Gladys swayed, though Dora was holding her arm.

  ‘I feel a bit funny,’ she said.

  ‘Your waters have broken, love,’ said Dora. ‘The baby’s coming!’

  Chapter 7

  It was chaos after that. Jim was sent off for the midwife, while Lily and Dora somehow managed to get a still-bemused Gladys upstairs. Dora led the way into her own bedroom and told Lily to fetch all the towels in the house.

  ‘And get some water on to boil, lots of it, and bring me up the dustsheets off the front room furniture,’ she added in a low voice as Gladys, seated numbly on the edge of the bed, began to unbutton her dress. ‘You never know what we might need.’

  Lily dashed off, while Dora helped Gladys to undress and rummaged in the chest of drawers for her oldest nightdress to preserve what was left of Gladys’s modesty.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she was murmuring. ‘Your chair! I’m so embarrassed!’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Dora smoothly. ‘It’s only water, more or less! There’s a lot more to come than that to embarrass you!’

  ‘Why can’t I feel any pain?’ Gladys looked up at her. ‘I thought it was supposed to— Ooh. Ooh. That felt funny.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Dora helped Gladys to unhook her bra.