Some Lucky Day (17 page)

‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about,’ Fran complained. ‘To be sure, I’m not a little girl any more. I’m over twenty-one and perfectly entitled to see who I want, when I want.’

‘That you are,’ replied Peggy, ‘but as you’re living under my roof, I expect the courtesy of knowing who you’re with, and what time you plan on coming home.’

She watched as Fran sipped the tea, then went to dampen one of Daisy’s flannels. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘use this to wash your face. You look like a clown with all that mascara and lipstick smeared over your cheeks.’

Fran slowly ran the warm flannel over her face, looked at the mess of make-up she’d left on it and slumped in her chair. ‘To be sure, I’m sorry, Peggy,’ she said softly. ‘I didn’t mean to stay out so late, but he took me to a dance, and I forgot the time.’

‘Why don’t you tell me about him?’ Peggy encouraged.

Her green eyes sparkled and her face became animated. ‘His name’s Charles Hoskins, but everyone calls him Chuck. He’s twenty-eight and has just been promoted to Captain. He comes from New Jersey and went to Yale. His father is a surgeon and Chuck was studying medicine when he was called up. After the war he plans to finish his studies and join his father’s private practice. He’s an absolute dream on the dance floor,’ she finished with a sigh.

Peggy thought he sounded far too good to be true, but she let it pass. ‘You must invite him in the next time he comes to pick you up,’ she said. ‘I’d like to meet him.’

Fran grinned. ‘You’ll like him, Aunty Peg, really you will. He’s tall and handsome, with beautiful teeth and the sort of smile that makes you go weak at the knees. He has lovely manners, too, and he makes me feel like a princess when we’re together.’

The alarm bells were ringing and Peggy couldn’t ignore them. ‘Then he must definitely come to tea,’ she said. ‘How about this weekend? Saturday’s clear.’

Fran squirmed in her chair. ‘Well, it will depend on his duties, Aunty Peg.’

‘I’m sure it will,’ said Peggy, ‘but before you go out with him again, I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist we are introduced. It’s what your mother would want, and if this young man is everything you say he is then I can’t see why you’re reluctant for me to meet him.’

‘I’m not at all,’ Fran said with wide, innocent eyes. ‘It’s just that it’s early days, and I don’t want him to think I’m trying to push him into anything by bringing him home to meet the family.’

‘Just how long is it since you started seeing one another?’

‘I met him at one of the dances up at the Cliffe estate,’ she said defensively. ‘We’ve been walking out for about two months.’

‘Then it’s definitely time I met him,’ said Peggy. ‘Tea on Saturday. Four o’clock sharp – and no excuses. Now go to bed.’

‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Peggy,’ Fran said mournfully.

Peggy took her into her arms and gave her a reassuring cuddle. ‘Just for pity’s sake be careful, Fran,’ she murmured into the halo of autumnal curls. ‘Those American boys are far too sure of themselves, and most of them have wives or sweethearts waiting for them back home.’

Fran drew back from the embrace. ‘Chuck’s not married,’ she said with a shy smile. ‘And I’m not doing anything silly, I promise.’

Peggy shooed her out of the room and then sank back into the kitchen chair. She hoped for Fran’s sake that Chuck was all he said he was, for despite her Irish charm and cheeky enthusiasm, Fran was far from sophisticated, and clearly madly infatuated. She could only hope it wouldn’t all end in tears.

DAISY WAS IN
her playpen in the back garden, taking great interest in what her grandfather Ron was up to as Harvey sat as close as he could to her, keeping guard. It was still early morning, but it promised to be another hot July day.

Ron finished picking the juicy raspberries off his canes and carefully draped the fine netting back over them to keep off the marauding birds. He popped a raspberry into Daisy’s mouth as a treat, then took them in to show Peggy.

‘There are plenty more where these came from,’ he said proudly. ‘So I’m thinking they will make a lovely summer pudding for tea tonight.’

Peggy admired the plump red fruit. ‘What a treat!’ She was standing at the sink in the scullery, the steam rising from the hot water as she washed the nappies and baby clothes. ‘I’ve got plenty of stale bread left over, as long as you don’t use it for the chickens’ mash or the ferrets’ breakfast.’

‘Ach, to be sure, there’s enough bread to go round, and I’ve asked Mr Timmons at the bakery to put another two loaves aside for you to pick up later.’

He stood and watched her for a moment, noting the damp curls sticking to her forehead, the weary set of her narrow shoulders, and her reddened hands. Peggy worked so hard, and there was little let-up with a baby in the house. ‘But maybe I’ll be fetching the bread before I go fer me walk,’ he said. ‘Ye’ve enough to be doing here.’

Peggy began to thread the sodden nappies through the mangle rollers. ‘That would be helpful,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got the WVS this afternoon, and Cordelia and I plan to bake a cake later this morning.’

She dropped the flattened nappies into the washing basket at her feet and pulled out more from the hot rinsing water which had been coloured by the blue-bag she always used to get things white. ‘Cordelia found a lovely recipe for scones, so we’re going to try and eke everything out to make a batch as a special treat. She’s in the kitchen now, washing out the baking tins.’

Ron’s mouth watered at the thought of cake and scones. It had been a long time since Peggy had done any baking and he loved her sponges. ‘Where on earth did you manage to get hold of flour, butter and sugar?’ he asked.

Peggy went rather red and refused to look at him as she fed the nappies through the wringer and turned the handle. ‘I stood in a queue for an hour yesterday and got the sugar, and Jane brought butter home from the dairy.’

‘And the flour?’ he asked suspiciously.

Her blush deepened. ‘I managed to get hold of some from one of Jim’s old friends.’ She stopped turning the mangle and wagged a finger at him. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Ron,’ she said defensively. ‘It’s not as if you’re whiter than white.’

‘I’m cut to the quick at your insinuations,’ he protested with a hand on his heart and a twinkle in his eyes.

‘Well,’ Peggy said. ‘I just happened to mention I had no flour and he just happened to have some, and I’ve got some strawberry jam left over from last year’s crop, and the chickens are laying well, so I’m planning on doing a Victoria sponge,’ she finished in a rush.

Ron laughed. Peggy was a dear, and obviously feeling very guilty about buying flour on the black market, so he decided not to tease her. ‘That would be a real treat, so it would,’ he murmured appreciatively. ‘Me mouth’s watering at the thought already.’

‘It’s for tomorrow, so I don’t want you helping yourself and cutting great chunks out of it,’ she said sternly.

‘As if I would,’ he protested with wide-eyed innocence. ‘Anyway, what’s so important about tomorrow?’

‘Fran’s American GI is coming to tea,’ she replied.

Ron frowned. ‘I thought you didn’t approve of her seeing him?’

‘I don’t,’ she said flatly. ‘But I want to meet him and see what he’s made of before things go any further. It’s important he realises she’s a respectable girl, living with a respectable family, and that I will not tolerate any nonsense.’

Ron could understand her reasoning, but he didn’t quite see how feeding the Yank with Victoria sponge was going to be any sort of help. With a sigh of puzzlement, he picked up the heavy laundry basket and carried it outside, past the baby in her playpen to the washing line. What went on in women’s heads was a mystery to him.

‘I’ll be getting the bread then,’ he muttered. ‘And when I get back, I’ll be taking Daisy for a bit of fresh air while I exercise Harvey and the ferrets.’

‘That will certainly help me get through the morning more easily,’ Peggy replied as she began to peg out the nappies. ‘She’s been a bit grizzly since she woke, and I think she’s teething again.’

Ron looked down at the playpen where Daisy was chewing frantically on a brightly coloured plastic ring. There was high colour in her little cheeks, and he could tell that she was feeling miserable. ‘Poor wee wain,’ he muttered. ‘I know just how she feels when me shrapnel’s on the move and there’s no comfort.’

‘Your shrapnel only seems to be on the move when there’s something unpleasant to be done around the house,’ retorted Peggy dryly.

‘Ach, to be sure, you’re a hard woman, so you are, Peggy Reilly,’ he grumbled without rancour. ‘Me shrapnel’s no laughing matter, and a man should be shown a bit of sympathy after what he went through in those heathen trenches.’

‘Go and get the bread, Ron,’ she said with the hint of a smile.

Ron grabbed the string bag from the back of the door and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. He rolled up the sleeves of his faded shirt and hitched up his sagging trousers, wishing he could find the belt that had disappeared in his bedroom several weeks ago. But the room was in a bit of a jumble and it would take a month of Sundays to find anything, so he got a bit of garden twine from the shed and used that instead.

‘Come on Harvey,’ he said. ‘To be sure, it’s no sympathy we’ll be getting around here, and no cake either if Peggy gets her way.’ He shot his beloved daughter-in-law a cheeky grin and stomped off down the garden path, his dog at his heels.

It was a pretty day and despite his grumbling, all was right with his world. Ron paused at the end of the twitten to light his pipe and take an appreciative look at the glittering sea at the bottom of the hill and the clear sky above him. The gulls were hovering and gliding, and the sun was warm on his face. One could hardly believe there was a war on such a lovely day – but for the reminders in the wrecked house on the corner and the huge bomb crater halfway down the hill that still hadn’t been filled.

Content and at peace with himself, he crossed the street and headed down Camden Road towards Timmons’ Bakery. He paused again as he reached the Anchor, and after a momentary hesitation, went down the alley and through the side door into the gloom of the ancient pub.

‘Rosie, me darlin’,’ he called up the narrow wooden stairs. ‘Are ye decent?’

She appeared at the top of the stairs, gloriously tousled and eminently desirable in a cream silk dressing gown. ‘About as decent as a girl can be at this unearthly time of the morning,’ she replied with a soft smile.

Ron felt stirrings as he imagined what was beneath that dressing gown. For a woman nudging fifty, Rosie was a glorious temptress. ‘It’s nearly nine o’clock,’ he said.

‘But I didn’t get to bed last night until gone midnight, as you very well know,’ she replied.

He grinned foolishly as he remembered the kisses he’d stolen as they’d cleaned the bar and restocked the shelves after everyone had been turfed out and the pub door was bolted. ‘Are you not going to ask me up for a cup of tea?’ he asked hopefully. ‘To be sure, I’m parched, so I am.’

Rosie laughed and flicked back the platinum hair from her heart-shaped face. ‘And to be sure you’re not coming one step further, Ronan Reilly. There’s a gleam in your eyes that I know all too well, and if it’s tea you’re after then I’m a Dutchman.’

He chuckled. ‘Would you be after coming with me for a walk in the hills then, Rosie? ’Tis a beautiful day, and I’m taking me grand-daughter for a breath of air after I’ve done Peggy’s shopping.’

She shook her head and tightened the belt on her dressing gown, which only served to emphasise her tempting curves. ‘I can’t, Ron,’ she said regretfully. ‘The other girls are off today, so I’ll be running the bar on my own this lunchtime.’

‘Ach, well, it was just a thought,’ he sighed as his gaze drifted longingly over the swell of her breasts and hips beneath that cream silk.

‘If you’re back before I have to open again at six, why don’t you call in for a cup of tea?’ She smiled broadly. ‘I’ve got cake.’

It wasn’t cake he was after – and Rosie knew it – but she also knew that cake was a temptation he couldn’t resist, even if it was a poor substitute. ‘You’re a wee tease, Rosie Braithwaite,’ he replied with a wink. ‘I’ll see you this afternoon.’

She blew him a kiss, then, with a giggle, she flitted away into her living quarters.

Ron left the Anchor, warmed by her lovely smile and feeling very chipper. He strolled down Camden Road, his thoughts in a jumble as Harvey watered every lamp-post and sniffed up walls. To be sure he didn’t want to wish a man dead, but Rosie’s sick husband was all that kept them apart. The ridiculous laws barring people from divorcing their insane partners meant they would have to wait until he was dead, which rather overshadowed what he and Rosie felt for one another.

He stopped to relight his pipe, and then continued on towards the bakery. Rosie was a good, honest woman who took her marriage vows very seriously, and she’d kept him at arm’s-length ever since their relationship had begun to blossom. It was a sadness and a frustration that he bore because he loved her, but he did wish he hadn’t seen her in that alluring dressing gown.

‘Sit there and don’t move,’ he ordered Harvey as he reached the bakery. Stepping into the shop, he found he’d walked straight into a furious argument.

‘This isn’t proper bread,’ said one woman crossly.

‘You can’t palm us off with this,’ said another. ‘It weighs a ton, looks dirty and is nothing like a proper loaf of bread.’

Mr Timmons was usually a mild-tempered, patient man, but he’d clearly had enough this morning. ‘Ladies, ladies, please just listen,’ he pleaded, his face reddening. ‘It’s the new government ruling because of the shortage of white flour.’

‘I don’t care what the government says, my Bert won’t eat that,’ said a large woman in a flowery wrap-round apron and matching headscarf. She slammed the loaf back down on the counter and folded her meaty arms. ‘I want my usual two white loaves,’ she demanded.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Pike, but as you very well know, there’s a war on,’ he retorted rather crossly. ‘Most of our flour has to come from abroad, and it takes up space on the convoys for more important things. So the government has ordered all the bakers to use only the home-grown wheat flour, to ensure that all the crops we grow are used to the full.’