Secrets in Store

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 …’