The Forget-Me-Not Summer (29 page)

Miranda sat up; she was red-eyed and the tears still brimmed over, but she muttered something inaudible and reached for her cup.

‘What did you say?' Steve asked, rather apprehensively. ‘Look, Miranda, it's no use blamin' me because what's done can't be undone . . . oh, dear, don't start again! Here, take this.' He offered her a moderately clean handkerchief, with which Miranda began mopping-up operations, whilst continuing to mutter.

‘It's always the same,' she said in a small, hoarse voice. ‘Nobody really likes me, not enough to stay with me, at any rate. First it was my mum; she pushed me away by making me call her Arabella, and left. Then it was Missie, who went off to her island, then Pete Huxtable took Timmy, and now it's you!'

‘And next it will be you,' Steve pointed out. ‘You've said yourself that as soon as you're old enough you're going to join one of the forces. So all you've got to do is wait a while, and you'll be off yourself. And remember, I'm joining the air force. From what I've heard the chaps in the air force don't necessarily go abroad. I might be posted to somewhere within a few miles of Liverpool; think of that!'

Miranda gave her eyes one last rub then handed the now sodden handkerchief back to Steve. Then she picked up the remainder of the éclair and began to eat it. ‘You're
right, of course,' she said as she finished the last delectable mouthful. ‘I was being silly. The truth is, knowing that you had kept something a secret from me made me feel left out, rejected if you like. Why
didn't
you tell me, Steve? You could have come round to Russell Street before you left, or you could have come to the office.'

‘Oh yeah? And have you either bury your fangs in my throat or burst into floods of tears and try to stop me going?' Steve said, grinning. He leaned across the table and rumpled Miranda's already rather untidy hair. ‘Besides, I wasn't sure whether I'd be accepted or not.' He eyed the remaining cakes on the stand. ‘Want another one?'

Miranda shook her head. ‘No thanks; now that I've pulled myself together I really should be getting back to the flat, since it's my turn to do the spuds and get some sort of a meal together. Want to come to tea with Avril and me? If so I dare say we could run to fish and chips.'

Steve paid the bill, agreeing to forgo his mam's Lancashire hotpot and have supper in Russell Street, and they left the tea room. Outside on the pavement Steve gave Miranda's hand a squeeze. ‘Are we pals again? Bezzies? Or are you still cross?'

Miranda gave a watery giggle and shook her head. ‘No, I'm not cross; I was a fool to be annoyed. Of course you should join up, and I'll do the same when I'm old enough. Can you come straight round to the flat now, or do you want to go home first?'

Steve considered. ‘I'd best nip back to Jamaica Close and tell Mam I shan't be in for tea,' he said. ‘Come back with me, why don't you? Mam's always glad to see you and you can have a good old moan about me leavin'
home, 'cos Mam was just as upset as you were when I told her I'd joined the RAF.'

Miranda suspected that he was crossing his fingers behind his back, for she thought Mrs Mickleborough far too sensible to object to her son's joining up; his elder brother was in the Royal Navy, after all. But as he had said, she did like Steve's mum, so the two of them set out together for Jamaica Close, the best of friends once more, their differences forgotten.

MIRANDA GOT INTO
bed on the night of 3 September, aware with an uneasy chill that what everyone had talked and conjectured about was now a fact: they were at war with Germany. According to the popular press Hitler would start by overrunning France and the Low Countries, and would, within a matter of weeks, have an invasion force ready to cross the Channel and occupy Great Britain, whilst the skies above would be full of paratroopers disguised as nuns, carrying the war into even the remotest parts of the country.

Cuddling down, she allowed herself a little smile at the thought of a burly paratrooper landing on one of the Liver Birds, or having to disentangle his skirts from the tower of St Nicholas's Church, for she found it impossible to believe that even Hitler, clearly a madman, would be fool enough to send a force of men disguised as women across the Channel.

Soon her mind drifted to other things; to Steve, who was being trained as a mechanic, and to the fact that she meant to go and meet him at the village nearest his airfield as soon as it could be arranged. He was in Norfolk, rapturous about some sort of lake or river called the Broads, insisting that she should come over when he could get a forty-eight. Together, they could explore the countryside, prowl round the old city of Norwich,
reputed to have a pub for every day of the year, and spend time on the beach, for though the government intended to sow all the shores with landmines they had not yet done so.

Dreamily her thoughts moved on; to the moment when she would be old enough to join the WAAF and meet Steve on his own ground, so to speak. She imagined herself in the blue cap, tunic and skirt, her legs in grey stockings, her feet in neat black lace-ups. How amazed Steve would be the first time he saw her in uniform! But of course if Hitler really did send paratroopers and an invasion fleet the war might be over before she was old enough to join up. She had heard a stallholder on the Great Homer Street market saying that he remembered how folk had thought the Great War would be over by Christmas. ‘And now I hear fools sayin' the same about this little lot,' he had said bitterly. ‘But that war, the last 'un, went on for four perishin' years and I reckon Hitler and his Panzers and his Lootwharrever – his air force, I mean – are a deal tougher than the Huns, so I reckon we're in for a hard slog before we've kicked 'em back over the Channel where they belongs.'

Miranda burrowed her head into her pillow. So mebbe I'll get a chance to show myself off in uniform to Steve and his pals before we've kicked 'em back over the Channel, she told herself now. I don't want a war, I'm sure nobody does, but we've got no choice; war has arrived and we've all got to do our bit towards winning it, because judging from the newsreels living under the Nazi jackboot would be a terrible thing; we'd be better off dead.

But by now excitement and tiredness had caught up
with Miranda and she sank into slumber with the words
better off dead, dead, dead
ringing in her ears.

Miranda was preparing a meal in the flat's small kitchen when she heard someone running up the metal stairs and grinned to herself. She guessed that it would be Avril, whose shift had ended half an hour ago, eager to gobble her supper so that the two of them could go Christmas shopping at Paddy's Market, for the holiday was rapidly approaching and they had not yet managed to get all their presents bought.

Despite the dire warnings in the press and on the wireless, nothing much had happened since the start of the war three months earlier. No paratroopers had descended from the sky, no invasion fleet had begun to cross the Channel, and no bombs had rained down on them from the Luftwaffe. Steve, now a fully trained mechanic on Wellingtons, would be coming home for a forty-eight over Christmas, and she and Avril were looking forward to hearing what he thought was about to happen. Folk were already referring to the first three months of the so-called ‘conflict' as the phoney war, but Steve had warned Miranda in his letters that this was unlikely to last. Hitler and his generals must have some reason for delaying their onslaught upon Great Britain and the Commonwealth and Steve, who was in daily contact with the men who flew the big bombers over France, the Low Countries and Germany, had heard them say that the delay was due, not to a lack of preparation, but to Hitler's declared wish to join forces with the British against the rest of the world. Whilst he still hoped, Steve had written, whether Hitler knew it or not he was giving
Britain time to arm, train and begin to work on their defences, which at the moment were almost non-existent.

Trust us to do nothing to build up our own war machine despite knowing that Hitler's forces were already infinitely superior, both in strength and experience, to our own
, he had written.
But it's always the way, so the chaps tell me. The British Bulldog lies quiet and watches until it's ready to pounce.

Miranda had thought this downright comical since Mr Jones up the road owned a bulldog, a lazy animal, bow-legged and obese, who waddled slowly up and down the road at its master's heels, its stertorous breathing audible half a mile away. The thought of its pouncing on anyone or anything was so ludicrous that Miranda had to smile, but just at that moment the stair-climber rattled the door, then opened it, and Avril entered the kitchen, laden with paper carriers. She grinned widely at her friend, dumped her carriers on the kitchen table and sniffed the air. ‘I smell Lancashire hotpot with a load of spuds and the rest of that jar of pickled cabbage,' she said dreamily. ‘You're home early. I came up Great Homer and since I didn't think you'd be back yet I bought a couple of them pasties for us teas. Still, we can take one each to work tomorrow, save us makin' sarnies. Any word from Steve? Wish I had a boyfriend in the air force what could give us news of what's goin' on.'

Miranda, who had been laying the table, stared at her friend, wide-eyed. ‘Avril Donovan, you've got half the crew of that corvette – the
Speedwell
– writing to you; what more could you want? And yes, I had a letter from Steve this morning. He has to be careful not to give any classified information, of course, but he did say that it's mostly leaflets which get dropped at present and not
bombs.' She peered inquisitively at the nearest paper carrier. ‘Looks like you've been buying up everything you could lay hands on. Heard any rumours? All I know is rationing will start in earnest once Christmas is over. And even before that no one's allowed to buy icing sugar. Fortunately, however, we had a bag left over from your birthday cake last summer so if we just ice the top and not the sides of the cake I made last week, it'll do very well for Christmas.'

‘Clever old you; and I got some made up marzipan from my pal what works in Sample's,' Avril said happily. ‘And being as it's only a couple of days till Christmas the boss paid us all a bit of a bonus so I spent it on goodies from Great Homer . . . look!'

As she spoke Avril had seized the largest of the paper carriers and tipped its contents on to the table, making Miranda give a protesting yelp as various items rolled and bounced across the cutlery and crockery already set out. But then she gave a squeak of excitement, for Avril had bought a packet of balloons, another of tinsel and some candy walking sticks to decorate the tiny tree which stood in their living room. ‘Oh, Avril, you are clever! I particularly wanted it to be really Christmassy because Steve seems certain that the phoney war will soon become a real one, and future Christmases will be pretty thin on treats,' she said as her friend drew from another carrier a bottle of some sort of spirit, three large oranges and a bunch of bananas. When Miranda put out a hand to the next bag, however, Avril pushed her away, shaking her head.

‘No, no, you mustn't look in that one, it's me Christmas presents,' she said proudly. ‘I couldn't get anything much,
but I don't mind tellin' you Steve's gettin' ten Woodbines, only you ain't to tell him, understand?'

‘As if I would,' Miranda said indignantly. She peeped into the remaining paper carrier. ‘Oh, you bad girl. The government have told us not to hoard goods against rationing starting and I spy sugar and butter – oh, and that looks like quite a lot of bacon – gosh, Steve will think he's died and gone to heaven because meals in the cookhouse are pretty basic, he says. They get dried egg but not the sort of eggs you can fry – I think they call them shell eggs – and great chunks of fried bread to make up a decent plateful. Oh, and I didn't tell you, did I? He'll be home late on Christmas Eve and has to leave again by lunchtime on Boxing Day. It's not long, but apparently they're giving the chaps with wives and young families longer.' She turned to her companion, knowing she was grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘Oh, Avril, telephone calls are all very well – and letters, of course – but it'll be grand to see Steve face to face again. He tells me he's talked to one or two Waafs and they say that provided you aren't already doing war work a girl can sign on before she's even seventeen. It's not as if girls will be actually engaged in conflict, though if you ask me the jobs they do will take them into just as much danger as the men. Now, let's get on with this meal because Steve will be back in two days' time and I want to have everything ready for him.'

Avril began to shovel her purchases back into their paper carriers and looked across at her companion, her expression a touch guilty. ‘I've a confession to make, chuck. The young feller what works as a supervisor at my factory, the one who was in that dreadful accident
where he lost his leg and the use of one eye, won't be goin' home for Christmas. Well, as you know, he's not got a home to go to no more. So I – I axed him back to our place, knowin' you wouldn't mind. He's okay is Gary; you'll like him. He says he'll bring some of the holly he cut for the girls in the factory, and a piece of ham which he meant to have for his own Christmas dinner. Since he'll be sharin' our chicken now, he says we can have the ham for Boxing Day with a tin of peas and a baked potato.' She gazed anxiously at Miranda. ‘You don't mind, do you, chuck? It 'ud be downright mean to condemn him to a lonely Christmas after all he's gone through.'

‘Of course I don't mind,' Miranda said at once. She knew Gary's story, knew that he had been working in a timber yard when something had gone wrong with the mechanism of the machine he was using and he had been dragged into the works. He had been in hospital for months, and had been fitted with a wooden leg, but according to Avril never referred to it and was always cheerful and optimistic. He had tried to join the Services – all of them – but had been turned down, so had gone to Avril's factory and started work on the bench, speedily rising to his present position as supervisor. So now she grinned encouragingly at her friend. ‘Tell him he's as welcome as the flowers in May, and you can tell him as well that he won't be playin' gooseberry 'cos Steve and I are just bezzies, so there!'