Joanna Toye - Secrets in Store

‘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.’

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 …’

Lily shook her head. She didn’t see, either. Then Jim spoke, flatly.

‘That’s me, Lily. Eyesight not up to it. Rejected.’

‘No!’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, Jim, I’m so …’

What could she say? Her feelings trumped each other in a game of emotional whist.

First of all, and mostly, she was sorry for Jim, desperately so. She could see how bitterly disappointed he was, ashamed even, though it was hardly his fault. How could anyone have known? Yes, he wore glasses, but Lily certainly hadn’t guessed how bad his eyes were – and presumably Jim didn’t think they were either, or he’d never have seemed so casual about the medical in the first place. Now she wondered how much he compensated for his eyesight and remembered how often he rubbed his eyes when he’d been reading, how it always took him a while to adjust when he came into the house out of the sun, and how he squinted at small print.