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‘Well, what do you want me to say?’ Lily retorted childishly, then added, ‘Oh, I know. Of course. Good luck.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jim levelly. ‘See you tonight.’
And he was gone, straightening his glasses, pulling down his cuffs, tall and lanky in his threadbare overcoat. Oh, why had it come out like that? Angry and bitter and sullen, when what she really felt was … what was it? She felt betrayed – he’d betrayed their friendship, the closeness she’d thought they had. But more than that, she felt … bereft. And in a flash, she knew she felt for him far more than she’d properly feel for a friend.
Lily blinked – hard – and looked down at her feet. She could still see Jim walking away, but this time he was wearing an Army greatcoat and he was walking away down a crowded station platform to the troop train. She blinked again. Can’t cry, won’t cry, she thought, looking even more determinedly down. But the pavement was slimed with dirt from the melted snow, and her boots, which just a short while ago she’d been so proud of, looked shabby and pathetic, and she hated, hated this war.
Lily made it to work in time – just. She’d been there for six months now, but having a job, and a job at Marlow’s at that, was still enough of a novelty for her to feel a secret thrill every morning when she walked through the door, even at the staff entrance around the back, and even on a cold, dark Monday. Every morning – until this one.
It had never before seemed like dull routine, but it did today; clocking in with the timekeeper, taking off her outdoor things and stowing them in her locker in the clatter and din of the women’s cloakroom, always especially loud at the start of the week as everyone swapped stories of their precious Sunday off. Waiting her turn for the speckled mirror to check her appearance, brushing stray hairs and lint from her skirt, and hurrying along the long corridor past the goods lift and up the back stairs with the rest of the staff …
Even stepping through the double doors on to the sales floor didn’t give her heart its usual joyful lift. The store always looked so beautiful first thing, so pristine and tidy, with the faint strafe marks on the carpet from the cleaners’ vacuums, the counters gleaming and the goods deftly displayed. Though the heating was turned to its lowest setting, some of the overhead lights had had their bulbs removed – another Government order – and the stock on the rails was thin, the first floor at Marlow’s, in comparison with the increasing drabness of everything else in life, still looked impressive, glamorous, even.
She glanced automatically across to Furniture, as she usually did. Though they walked to work together and clocked in at the same time, Jim always beat her to the sales floor, because men never had to spend so long over their appearance, did they? Lily had seen it done enough times at home – a quick duck in the front of the mirror, smooth their hair, and that was it. It was a source of much envy to Lily. Even though she’d got much better at managing them for work, her strong-minded blonde curls still required a lot of handling and were the subject of many silent prayers – and curses.
She wouldn’t be the only one who’d miss Jim when he left, Lily thought. With his absence today, it had fallen to the new junior on Furniture to try to anchor a stand-up price card on the bilious green satin waves of an eiderdown. He was not making a very good job of it. He eventually gave up and propped it drunkenly against the headboard.
That was always one of the first jobs of the day, making the stock look its best. On Childrenswear, that meant taking the dust sheets and tissue-paper covers off the more delicate baby clothes, lifting every hanger and polishing the rails beneath. She’d better get to work.
Gladys was already there, brushing the velvet-collared coats – a mere seven (seven!) coupons, plus the marked price, a pretty steep one in this case. But at least when you shopped at Marlow’s you knew you were getting quality – or the best quality that was available these days. ‘Nothing but the best’ was the store’s motto – so if you bought a big enough size for your child, a Marlow’s garment would last and last. Anything else was a ‘false economy’. That, at least, was the sales pitch Lily had heard many a time from Miss Thomas and Miss Temple. They were the department’s two salesladies – or salesgirls, as they were called – absurd when they’d both been summoned out of retirement to replace younger staff who’d volunteered or been called up.
Lily mouthed a ‘hello’ to Gladys, found a duster, and started working her way around the rails. If she concentrated really hard, perhaps she could stop thinking about Jim and how he was getting on. She knew what he’d be going through from what Sid and Reg had told her about their medicals: breathing in and out under the cold disc of the stethoscope, sticking out your tongue and saying ‘Ahhh’, being quizzed about your bowels. She wondered if Jim knew what Reg had also told her last night, that once Jim had been trained, he might be sent abroad sooner than young men had been until now. But she knew he would. Jim wasn’t daft. No wonder he’d kept his decision to himself.
As she polished, Lily could see Miss Frobisher in conversation with the new floor supervisor, Mr Simmonds. Well, he wasn’t that new – he’d been in place since the autumn. He’d been the buyer on Sportswear before. It wasn’t the biggest of departments, so he’d been something of a surprise appointment, but announcing it to her staff, Miss Frobisher had been diplomatic.
‘Mr Marlow obviously thinks he has what it takes,’ she said, but Lily had noticed that she’d raised an eyebrow – she had very expressive eyebrows – when she’d first opened the staff office memo.
Mr Simmonds hadn’t even been at Marlow’s that long. He’d been a PT instructor in the Army, which was a qualification of sorts for selling sportswear, Jim had said, and he was certainly ‘on the ball’. Apparently, he’d risen to Warrant Officer Class II but had been invalided out with a niggling shoulder injury. Tall and lean, he strode about the first floor with an athlete’s vigour and a springy step which made you think he was going to vault the counter, not point out a smear. With his quick eye and brush-cut hair, he radiated energy and vitality, and Lily and Jim had concluded that he’d been given the job to shake things up.
As Lily watched, Mr Simmonds placed one hand under Miss Frobisher’s elbow and with the other indicated the door to the stairs. That meant they were going up to the management floor – quite possibly to an audience with Mr Marlow himself.
Miss Frobisher shot a quick look at the hand beneath her elbow, then a longer one into Mr Simmonds’s face. It was not a happy look, and it didn’t make Lily any happier either. On top of the worry about Jim, did it mean Childrenswear was in for a jolly good shaking?
Chapter 5 (#u21c8cd86-824c-5fca-a4a2-cd52d07923b1)
The surface of Cedric Marlow’s mahogany desk was usually empty apart from a calendar, blotter, pen tray and telephone. The accounts and paperwork that he took daily from his ‘In’ tray were efficiently placed, annotated, directly into his ‘Out’ tray. Anything that reposed for more than half an hour in the tray marked ‘Pending’ he regarded as a grave dereliction of duty.
Today, however, something had gone very wrong. For a start, he barely bothered with the usual pleasantries – and he was normally the most courteous of men. Secondly, the desk’s surface was barely visible for paper.
‘Have you seen this?’ he demanded of Miss Frobisher.
She was barely halfway across the Turkey carpet, and Mr Simmonds was still closing the door behind them.
Mystified, she came closer as Mr Marlow pushed Saturday’s copy of the local paper, the Hinton Chronicle, across the desk. Eileen Frobisher hadn’t seen it at the weekend; she’d had better things to do, but now, as he jabbed an impatient finger, she saw what Cedric Marlow was getting at.
She sat down on the chair that Mr Simmonds had thoughtfully placed at her side and drew the newspaper towards her.
‘WOMEN WANTED!’ ran the headline – pithy and to the point for the usually long-winded Chronicle.
She read on.
An appeal has gone out for women, especially young women aged between 18 and 25, to ‘do their bit’ and join the war effort in a new munitions factory in North Staffordshire. The Ministry of Labour and National Service is seeking no less than ten thousand workers in total and it is hoped to recruit ten per cent of them from our area.
Girls and women of Hinton, what are you waiting for? The factory’s machine shop could be turning out tens of thousands of shells a day for our brave fighting men. Instead it is standing shamefully idle. Answer this call and you could be actively helping our troops and our Allies in their valiant fight for justice and freedom! Not only that but you could be enjoying excellent working and living conditions.
The factory is situated in rolling countryside, but within easy reach of major towns. The workers will be housed on-site in a veritable home from home, not in dormitories but in their own separate bedrooms, equipped with a bed with sprung mattress, wardrobe and cupboard. There is an airy dining room serving three hot meals a day. There will be recreation rooms and hairdressing and laundry facilities. In addition, boyfriends will not be discouraged …
She understood at once why Mr Marlow was so agitated, and Peter Simmonds confirmed it. He plucked some papers from the ‘Pending’ tray.
‘The Chronicle’s fevered prose has already had some success. Mr Marlow has had six letters of resignation.’
Six! Now Miss Frobisher was worried. Surely not … well, not Gladys, a home bird if ever there was one. But had Lily Collins been tempted? She’d seemed unnaturally quiet that morning … but surely Lily would have had the decency to mention it to her first – and anyway, neither Lily nor Gladys was old enough, thank goodness!
‘Two girls from Haberdashery, one from China and Glass, and three – three! – from Perfume and Cosmetics!’ Cedric Marlow expostulated.
Miss Frobisher let out a breath.
‘I see. Well, I’m sorry, Mr Marlow. That’s a blow, obviously.’
‘It is, it is,’ fretted Cedric. ‘We’ve invested time and money in training those young women. I hoped they’d be with us for the duration – or until they reached the age for conscription anyway.’
‘Of course it’s a shock, sir,’ said Peter Simmonds smoothly. ‘But let’s try to look at it another way. With stocks ever lower, profits aren’t what they were – and in the present climate, they’re not going to recover. A little – shall we call it natural wastage? – may be a good thing.’
‘But six at once! If this goes on—’
‘There may be no more to come,’ soothed Miss Frobisher. ‘I’m sure most of the girls know they’re very well off where they are.’
Cedric Marlow turned his ire on Simmonds.
‘There’s enough natural wastage, as you put it, as it is. Whatshername – Beryl Bulpitt – Miss Salter as was – she’ll be leaving soon, won’t she, to have her baby? That’s another vacancy. There’ll be more customers than staff at this rate!’
‘I’m glad you said that, sir.’ Peter Simmonds extracted a sheet from the clipboard he always carried. ‘I’ve been taking a look at staffing levels. And without going so far as to outnumber staff with customers, I think there are several departments where a little rationalisation could be called for.’
Eileen Frobisher stiffened. Now she knew why Mr Simmonds had brought her up here. He had her department in his sights.
‘Rationalisation, that’s the word that was used,’ said Miss Frobisher. She wasn’t going to say who’d used it, though anyone would know that it wasn’t a word that would fall easily from Cedric Marlow’s lips.
It was ten thirty, and, having gathered her thoughts, she’d collected her staff together to explain ‘how things stood’. Everyone looked blank.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Frobisher,’ began Miss Temple, ‘you’ll have to explain. Something to do with rationing?’
‘Not quite. Though it seems I do have to give something up – a member of staff.’
Lily’s heart gave a pancake-like flip. Oh, no – no, no, no! Hadn’t she had enough bad news that morning? Yes, profits were down, yes, times were hard, but – no, please no! She’d be the one to go; last in, first out, wasn’t that the rule?
Miss Frobisher saw the panic in her eyes and quickly spoke.
‘I’m sorry, I put that badly,’ she said. ‘To be honest, I’m still taking it in myself. The good news is that no one will be losing their job. But there will be some shifting around.’
Bit by bit, Lily’s heart slowed its insane thudding and she took a deep breath. So did Miss Frobisher, who resumed.
‘Beryl – Miss Salter – Mrs Bulpitt as she is now – will be leaving in a couple of months to have her baby and the store will not be recruiting a replacement. Instead, it’s been decided that you, Gladys, will move to Toys to fill her position. In fact, it’s a promotion, because Mr Marlow’s agreed to create a junior-cum-Third Sales role, and that will be yours.’
Thrilled, Lily reached out to squeeze her friend’s arm. Gladys’s mouth had fallen open before breaking into a delighted smile and Lily couldn’t help feeling a swell of satisfaction.
Just a few months ago, Gladys would have been terrified at the thought of anything that might jolt her out of her safe little rut.
But friendship with Lily, bolder and more outspoken, and, when he was home, being on the receiving end of Sid’s easy banter, had gradually brought Gladys out of herself. Sid had even engineered her a pen pal, Bill, from among his naval mates, who at Christmas had given her a bracelet and asked if she’d officially be his girl. With that inner glow lighting her face, and a little advice on make-up from Beryl, Gladys didn’t even look quite so plain any more.
Lily would be sorry to lose her friend from the department, of course, but she’d only be across the sales floor, and Gladys deserved the promotion – she was already sixteen and had been at Marlow’s for over a year.
‘So that leaves Childrenswear.’ Miss Frobisher smoothed the jacket of her black barathea suit, the one with the buttons like liquorice cartwheels. She was always beautifully turned out. ‘I’ve been lobbying for another salesgirl for some time.’
Miss Temple and Miss Thomas, obviously privy to this, looked expectant.
‘Well, I was told today that there’s no hope of that in the current climate.’
The shoulders of Miss Thomas and Miss Temple sagged again.
‘But I wasn’t going to let that go. In the spirit of striking a hot iron, I suggested that this department should have a junior-cum-Third Sales too. And I’m pleased to say that Mr Marlow has agreed.’
She looked at Lily encouragingly. Lily was bemused. Did she mean her?
‘Well, Lily?’ said Miss Frobisher coolly, when Lily said nothing. ‘I take it you’d do me the honour of accepting the position? Or would you like some time to consider?’
Oh Lord, Miss Frobisher must think she was a right dope! It was only because ninety-nine per cent of her brain was still thinking about Jim …
‘Of course, Miss Frobisher! I’d be thrilled – I was just so surprised!’ she stuttered.
Miss Frobisher inclined her head. Gladys hugged Lily, and Miss Temple and Miss Thomas looked pleased for her too, and for themselves: it would take some of the pressure off them.
Customers at Marlow’s were dealt with in strict order of staff seniority. Lily wouldn’t be serving any of the most prestigious ones – they were Miss Frobisher’s preserve – or the ones who spent less, but regularly, or were new, but who had the look of becoming regulars. To start with, she knew, Lily only would be sent forward to serve the less promising-looking new ones, or the tiresome occasionals who spent ages agonising over a single pair of socks and went away without buying anything – the dreaded Mrs Pope sprang to mind. The theory was that Lily could practise on them. But if her manner was good, she might convert them, and they’d become her regulars. Equally, if the other salesladies were busy, or at lunch, she’d be allowed to serve one of their customers, who might look to her again in future, and so gradually, bit by bit, she’d build up her own clientele. She’d even have her own sales book!
‘Thank you, Miss Frobisher.’ Lily was pink with embarrassment, pleasure – and disbelief. ‘That’s – I’m sorry, I was stunned! Thank you!’
‘Good,’ said Miss Frobisher. ‘I did wonder! Now back to work, everyone, please.’
In so many ways, Miss Frobisher could not have been more different from Lily’s mum, but in one very important way they were the same. Neither ever showed much emotion, but it didn’t mean they weren’t feeling it.
From the start, Eileen Frobisher had had Lily marked out as promising, and she was secretly triumphant at having secured her this small victory. She also felt some pride in the fact that she’d put down a marker with Peter Simmonds. He might have been used to people jumping to attention and saluting when he was in the Army, but she had no intention of being a pushover. Warrant Officer Class II indeed!
‘What was the matter with you?’ asked Gladys later. They’d been sent to the stockroom to stow away the last of the unsold January sale items. ‘I thought for a minute you were going to turn Miss Frobisher down!’
‘I was miles away. Silly of me,’ said Lily. ‘Anyway, I’m really chuffed. And for you, Gladys.’ She pushed a couple of dusty cartons to the back of a shelf to make room for a box of socks.
At least, thought Lily, her new role would give her something to concentrate on once Jim was away. Learning a new skill would keep her occupied, and if she threw herself into work then the days would surely pass, which would only leave the evenings to fill … and her Wednesday half-day … and Sundays …
What would she do without Jim to joke about with, to play cards with, to watch as he dug the veg plot? Well, she could do something a bit more useful, like go along to her mum’s WVS and Red Cross meetings and address envelopes and sew gloves. She’d have to listen to the other women droning on about how they missed face powder and Lister’s Lavenda 3-ply, of course – not the most appealing prospect, but it wouldn’t kill her, and if Jim was doing his bit, she should jolly well do hers. Lily sighed inwardly. No Jim to go to the pictures with, to walk to work with, to fight for the last spoonful of stew. Oh, pull yourself together, she thought. She could always rely on Gladys for company, and in due course there’d be Beryl’s baby for everyone to coo over … She might even try knitting it a little something herself.
Gladys, of course, was focussed on the excitement of telling Bill about her promotion. Lily couldn’t help thinking that it would certainly be a change for Gladys to have something to report. She found it hard enough to find something to write to Sid and Reg every week apart from Marlow’s gossip about people they’d never meet, or tiny tragedies like the hens going off lay or the scarcity of soap. She couldn’t imagine what on earth Gladys found to put in her thrice-weekly letters to her sweetheart.
The relationship had only come about because Gladys had had a huge crush on Sid, which was pretty embarrassing for them all. Sid had realised, though, and had cleverly set her up with Bill to extricate himself. Gladys always maintained that Bill was the spitting image of the blond, athletic Sid, though in truth Bill was nothing like him – shorter and more solid, with the almost invisible eyelashes that went with hair more ginger than fair, and, though admittedly he shared Sid’s wide grin, rather snaggly teeth.
But the important thing was that Bill was gentle, sincere, and well-meaning, all the more to his credit since he hadn’t had the most promising start in life – no father that he knew of, given away by his mother and brought up in a children’s home in London. Gladys had lost her parents in the Coventry Blitz and now lived with her grandmother, so they were both, in a sense, all alone in the world – until they’d found each other. They were a perfect match.
Bill and Sid were on different naval bases now. Bill was learning all about wireless and telegraphy – or something of that sort. He’d been vague in his letters – he had to be – and Gladys, relaying it to Lily, had been even vaguer. Sid’s letters were vague too on his training, but at least they were full of the japes he and his new mates had got up to – dances and pub visits, which Sid claimed were the only things to look forward to in between cleaning your kit and endless drills. That was the trouble, thought Lily. All these young men signed up raring to go, but then they found life in the services dreary. Most of them would leap at the chance to go abroad as soon as they could and get stuck into some real fighting.
Which of course, brought her back to Jim.
‘Lily! You do know those are girls’ socks you’re putting on the boys’ shelf?’
Gladys’s question jolted her back to the stockroom.
‘You’re not yourself today, are you?’ pursued her friend. ‘Come on, what is it?’
‘Nothing,’ lied Lily. ‘Everything’s fine.’
Chapter 6 (#u21c8cd86-824c-5fca-a4a2-cd52d07923b1)
Her mum was at the sink when Lily got in, scrubbing potatoes. A leek, a carrot, and half a swede meant it was Woolton pie for tea – again – though Dora usually managed some stroke of genius to make it moderately tasty. A tin of Colman’s mustard on the side gave a clue towards today’s inspiration.
‘Jim not with you?’ she asked, tutting at the scabs on the potatoes that were revealed when the mud washed off.
‘No, we didn’t leave together,’ said Lily truthfully. ‘I’ll go and change, then I’ll set the table, Mum.’
Upstairs she got out of her Marlow’s uniform of dark skirt and white blouse and hung them up carefully. The bedroom was cold and she shivered in her slip as she got into her home jumper and skirt. Her mum had put the blackout up, so she couldn’t see the backyard, but she heard the latch on the back gate click – Jim had oiled the hinge – and hurried her feet into her slippers. When Jim came up the stairs, she was waiting on the landing.
‘The mood you were in this morning, I take it this isn’t a welcome committee,’ he said coldly. He looked tired. What had they made him do? Run around the parade ground?
‘Well?’ It was all Lily could do not to fold her arms. Then she’d look like a real nagging wife.
Jim glanced up at the bulb above them in its cracked parchment shade. Buying time, thought Lily unkindly. Then he looked at her, straight.
‘No, not well, actually.’
‘Jim …’
Lily’s heart catapulted in her chest. For all the terror she’d felt at the prospect of losing him to the Army, she’d never considered this. Had the medical uncovered some awful illness? A heart murmur? TB?
‘What is it? What did they find?’
‘You know that song, “The Quartermaster’s Stores”? You know how it goes, the chorus?’
Before she could answer, he began to sing:
‘My eyes are dim, I cannot see
I have not got my specs with me …’
