Penny Jordan - The Hidden Years

‘GOT a date, have you?’

Lizzie flushed, even though the question was asked in a friendly enough way. The moment she had left Edward and Kit, she had collected her bike and ridden back to the hostel.

Mindful of Kit’s commands, she had rifled frantically through her meagre wardrobe, looking in vain for anything that might be described as ‘pretty’. There wasn’t anything, of course, but she could unpin her hair from its braids, brush it until it shined and leave it hanging loose.

That it felt odd and slightly uncomfortable didn’t matter. Kit had demanded it of her, and for him she was prepared to make any sacrifice…do anything that might please him.

Now though, confronted by the amused scrutiny of the other girls who also had the time off from working at the hospital, she felt acutely self-conscious, her face burning as she stammered an assent.

‘Not going to go out wearing that, are you?’ another girl commented, grimacing.

Lizzie blushed harder. She wasn’t used to confiding in others, to encouraging intimacy with them. Aunt Vi always kept her at a distance and had taught her to do the same to others.

‘I…I don’t have anything else.’

It shamed her to admit it. She bent her head forwards, so that her curtain of hair swung across her face.

‘I could lend you something,’ one of the girls offered. ‘We’re about the same size.’

‘Give over, Rosie, you might be the same height, but she’s much thinner than you.’

‘Not that much,’ Rosie protested. ‘She could wear that dress I got from Meg the other week. With a belt round the waist.’

‘Well, I suppose she could try it, only she’s going to need a bit of make-up as well, isn’t she? And some decent shoes. What size do you take, Lizzie?’

Thoroughly bemused, Lizzie stood there while they argued good-naturedly and loudly all around her.

‘It’s a pity you didn’t think to put your hair in rags last night,’ one of them told her. ‘Then it would have a bit of a curl to it. You’re lucky to be so blonde. Men really go for that. What is he? Yank?’

‘No, no, he’s—’

‘Here’s the dress,’ Rosie interrupted. ‘Come on, Lizzie, try it on.’

Suddenly she was one of them, an outsider no longer, but she flinched when they laughed at her sturdy utilitarian underwear.

‘Heavens, just look at it,’ one of them derided as she slipped off her cardigan and blouse to reveal the heavy cotton brassière which, like the rest of her clothes, had been inherited from someone else.

Normally she tried to undress and dress in privacy. Aunt Vi had always made her feel somehow that her body was something she ought to be ashamed of and, even when she had had the luxury of her own bedroom, she had always studiously avoided looking at herself.

Now she blushed deeply as one of the older girls announced cynically, ‘My God, whoever he is, he’s going to get a shock when he sees that. Let’s hope he’s in the artillery. They’re used to dealing with armour plating.’

The other girls laughed, but it was good-natured laughter, Lizzie recognised.

‘You’ll have to take it off,’ Rosie told her decisively, and before she could protest the other girl had stepped behind her and unsnapped the fastener.

She had never stood in front of anyone before clad in only her knickers and she felt a sharp stab of shock ricochet through her system as she realised how easily she was shedding Aunt Vi’s rules.

‘Look at her,’ someone said mockingly. ‘She doesn’t need to wear anything. There’s hardly anything of her.’

‘No, but at least what she’s got is in the right place,’ another girl responded.

Rosie turned to her and said kindly, ‘Don’t pay any attention to Mavis, she’s jealous because her boyfriend says her chest is too big… Poor Mavis. She’s used to them thinking it’s wonderful. She needed taking down a peg or two. The rest of us were sick of hearing about how wonderful her forty inches were… Here you are, get this on,’ she instructed, handing her a flimsy cotton garment.

Lizzie hesitated as she stared at the fabric, its white background rather dingy from too many washings of a poor-quality cloth. The fabric was overprinted with a too-busy design of bright red and yellow flowers that made her feel slightly dizzy, but everyone was waiting and if she refused she would offend Rosie and probably everyone else as well. They were, after all, trying to be helpful.

As she put the dress on and fastened the buttons down the front she realised how much plumper Rosie must be. The dress, which on Rosie hugged the waist, hung loosely on her, and the V-neckline was surely much more revealing on her than it was when it strained across Rosie’s plump breasts.

She tried not to feel relieved as she reached for the buttons. ‘It’s kind of you, Rosie, but it doesn’t look anywhere near as good on me as it does on you,’ she said tactfully.

Although she was loath to admit it she was actually longing to get back to Lady Jeveson’s cast-offs. At least in them she felt she was decently dressed. She had been horror stricken to realise that through the thin fabric of Rosie’s dress it was actually possible to see not only the outline of her nipples, but also the dark shadowing of their surrounding areola.

‘No, keep it on,’ Rosie protested, ‘all it needs is a belt. You’ve got a red one, haven’t you, Jean…? Bring it here and let’s see how it looks…’

Jean Adams was a tall thin girl, with dark hair and dense brown eyes. The belt in question was made of bright red shiny plastic and had been a present from an admiring GI.

Lizzie felt her fingers recoil from contact with the sharp shiny stuff in distaste. The only belts she was familiar with were soft leather, often worn, with the stitching gone in places, and always in dull browns and greys.

‘Give it ’ere, Jean,’ Rosie instructed, obviously enjoying her role as transformer-in-chief. ‘Now breathe in, Lizzie, while I get it fastened… My goodness, you are thin, aren’t you? Even Jean can’t get it fastened on that first notch, can you, Jean? No, you can’t look at yourself yet,’ Rosie told her firmly as she tried to step to one side so that she could see her reflection in the dormitory’s one spotted mirror.

‘What you need now is a bit of colour in your face. Some nice bright red lipstick and a bit of rouge…’

‘And some blacking on her lashes,’ someone suggested. ‘What size shoes does she take?’

‘Threes,’ Lizzie said weakly.

‘So small…well, it will have to be Mary’s white courts, then… You take a four, don’t you, Mary? We’ll have to stuff the toes. Where’s he meeting you, love, outside?’

Lizzie shook her head. ‘On the back lane to the hospital.’

‘She’s not walking all down there, not in my white courts,’ Mary objected indignantly.

‘No, well, she’ll have to wear her own shoes and then change just before she meets him. Leave her own hidden—she can pick them up in the morning.’

Lizzie wanted to object that it wasn’t necessary for Mary to make such a sacrifice. Aunt Vi had always told her that a lady never wore white shoes, but it was difficult to speak with Rosie determinedly outlining her mouth with what felt like sticky paste, and someone else spitting on a cake of mascara ready to attend to her eyelashes.

It was a good half-hour before they were satisfied with their efforts and ready to let her look in the mirror.

When she did, the image confronting her was so totally unfamiliar that she could only stare at it in confused disbelief. She looked so much older, so much more worldly, so…so common, a sharp inner voice derided, but with the circle of expectant faces watching her she could only swallow down her dismay and weakly thank them.