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!’
Steve telephoned Miranda by dialling the number of the box on the corner at the agreed hour, for though the Mess was on the telephone the flat was not. Sometimes he was unlucky and someone at Miranda’s end who was already waiting for a call snatched the receiver off its hook, breathing some other caller’s name. This called for diplomacy to make sure that at the sound of an unfamiliar voice the girl, or feller, did not crossly slam the receiver down, thus cutting the connection before Miranda was able to intervene. Tonight, however, it was Miranda’s own small voice which came to him as soon as the operator said ‘You’re through’ and left them to get on with their conversation, having first reminded them sternly that it was wartime and many other people were waiting for a chance to use the instrument.
‘Steve? Oh, it is you! I’ve got so much to tell you, but since we’ll be together in a couple of days I won’t waste telephone time. Avril’s asked her supervisor to join us on Christmas Day itself, and since he’s providing the food for Boxing Day I suppose he’ll have to come along then too. I’ve never met him myself but Avril says we’ll get along, and I’m sure she’s right. Have they told you what time your train gets into Lime Street? And how’s your mam and the little ’uns?’
Mrs Mickleborough, Kenny and the baby had been evacuated way back in September when the war had started and were now comfortably ensconced in a farmhouse somewhere in Wales, which was why Steve would be having his whole forty-eight with Miranda. Naturally, Steve would have liked to see his mam, Kenny and the baby – his stepdad had joined the Navy – but he quite agreed with the government feeling that Liverpool, once the war really got going, would be a major target, and anyone living there ran a far greater risk than if they allowed themselves to be sent to the relative safety of the countryside.
Steve cleared his throat. ‘Mam’s doin’ fine, Kenny loves the local school and Flora has settled down well,’ he said. ‘I can’t say much about Dad, or the others – classified information, I guess – but I’ll spill the beans when we meet. As for train times, cross-country journeys are hell; I could have up to five changes, but I reckon I should be home before midnight.’
‘Oh dear, and you’ll have to leave on Boxing Day . . .’ Miranda was beginning when the operator’s voice cut in.
‘You’ve had your three minutes, caller. Others are waiting for the line. Please replace your receiver.’
Miranda and Steve began simultaneously to say their farewells, while the operator, infuriatingly, tried to shut them up. In fact she did so just as Steve bawled ‘Love you Miranda’ into his receiver, and he crashed it back on its rest before Miranda could remind him that they were supposed to be just good friends.
Miranda and Avril’s preparations for Christmas proceeded smoothly. Miranda was one of the few people still left in the typing pool at Mr Grimshaw’s office. There was an elderly lady, a Miss Burton, and another known as Miss Phyllis, who had been called out of retirement as the other typists either joined the forces or went to work in the factories which paid very much better than even the most generous of office jobs. Miranda had missed her friends at first but soon realised that Miss Burton and Miss Phyllis were well up to the work, and proved both faster and more efficient than the staff they had replaced. Miranda might have been lured by the high wages one could earn in, for instance, a munitions factory, save that she had it on good authority that applying to join one of the forces whilst employed in such a post might well be doomed to failure. As it was, she and her two elderly companions managed to share out the work to everyone’s satisfaction. They even bought each other tiny presents – Miranda gave each of her colleagues a very small bar of scented soap and they clubbed together to buy her rose geranium talcum, whilst Mr Grimshaw presented each woman with a ten shilling note.
‘It may not be much of a bonus, but it’s all the firm can afford at the moment,’ Mr Grimshaw had said as he handed over the money. ‘And we’re giving you a whole week’s holiday with pay, so I trust you don’t feel too hard done by.’
Delighted with even a small amount of extra money, Miranda scoured the shops for Steve’s favourite, chocolate ginger, and bought him the biggest box she could find. The rest of the money was spent on extras and a length of green ribbon with which she tied her hair back into a ponytail, getting Avril to knot the ribbon into a huge bow on the nape of her neck. ‘Making sure he’ll reckernise you?’ Avril asked derisively. ‘Better ring him up and tell him you’re the lass with the green ribbon in her hair, just in case he’s forgot your freckly old face.’ It was Christmas Eve and they were in the kitchen at the flat, Avril cutting sandwiches so that they would have something to give Steve if he was starving after his long and complicated journey, whilst Miranda donned her thick navy blue overcoat and crammed a large floppy beret on her head, for at ten o’clock it was already very cold, with frost or snow threatening.
Avril looked up from her work. ‘You off already?’ she enquired. ‘You’re daft you are; the train’s bound to be late, and you’ll be waiting in the cold for ages.’
Miranda pulled a rueful face. ‘I don’t mind waiting – better that than miss him. And once I’m on the platform there’s all sorts I can do – I could even go into the refreshment room and buy a cup of coffee.’
‘Oh, you!’ Avril said affectionately. ‘Why can’t you admit you’re mad about the bloke? Why d’you have to keep pretendin’ that you’re just good friends? He’s a nice feller is Steve; you want to grab hold of him while you can.’
Miranda opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air. ‘Think what you like,’ she said grandly, ‘but I repeat: Steve and I are just bezzies!’ And with that she stepped on to the top stair and slammed the door behind her before clattering down the flight and beginning to walk with care along the frosted pavement. Everyone was always complaining that trains were late, and Steve had told her that cross-country journeys in particular were fraught with difficulties and delays, so she should arrive at the station first.
She reached the main road and turned towards the city centre. Because of the blackout, crossing side roads was a dodgy business, but she had a little torch in her pocket and flashed it discreetly each time she came to a kerb, and presently arrived at the station. The concourse was crowded despite the lateness of the hour, and though she glanced wistfully towards the refreshment room the queue at the counter was a long one. Perhaps she might go in later and buy herself a coffee, but for now she would simply stroll around and wait.
Despite Steve’s hopes it was after midnight before his train drew in to Liverpool Lime Street, and though the platform was by no means deserted it was not crowded either. Hefting his kitbag from the string rack, he jumped down, then turned to help an elderly lady to alight. She had told him as the train chugged slowly towards Liverpool that she was going to spend Christmas with her daughter and three grandchildren, and was hoping to persuade them to return with her when she left at the end of the holiday. ‘My grandchildren were evacuated back in September – their mum works in munitions so she couldn’t get away – but since there’s been no bombings, nor no landings from over the Continong, she sent for them to come home,’ she had explained, as the two of them sat side by side in the crowded compartment. ‘I dunno if she were right, but the kids weren’t happy where they was billeted. Said the woman didn’t want ’em, made no secret of the fact. The eldest, Bessie, what’s nine, wrote to her mam and said they weren’t gettin’ enough food for a sparra. She said the ’vacuation lady didn’t like boys and picked on Herbie – he’s five – no matter who were really at fault. So Maud, that’s me daughter, decided to bring ’em home.’ She looked hopefully at Steve. ‘If the bombs start, like what some folk say they will, then they can come to me. I’d treat ’em right . . . only my cottage is right up agin an airfield.’
Steve had given all the right answers to reassure her and had confided that his mother, his little brother, and Flora, his baby sister who was four months old and a great favourite, had also been evacuated. ‘They’d have liked to come home for Christmas once they knew I’d got leave – me brothers and me dad are in the Navy so no tellin’ when they’ll be in port again – but our dad got real angry when she wrote suggestin’ it. So Mam give up the idea and I’m the only one of us Mickleboroughs who’ll be in dear old Liverpool for Christmas.’ He had grinned sheepishly at his companion. ‘I’m goin’ to stay with me girl,’ he said proudly. ‘She’s only young but she’s gorran important job as secretary to a firm of solicitors. Mind you, she’s goin’ to join the WAAF as soon as she’s old enough; wants to be in the same bunch as me, of course.’
The old lady had murmured that everyone must do their best because old ’uns like herself could still remember the horrors of the Great War. ‘I dunno how it come about that we ever let Germany get strong enough to take on the world again,’ she had said sadly. ‘Don’t us British never learn nothin’? It’s plain as the nose on your face that the Huns has been armin’ and gettin’ ready ever since the Spanish Civil War; why, I remember . . .’
The carriage had contained not only themselves but five soldiers, all of whom appeared to be asleep, and a woman whose nurse’s uniform could just be glimpsed beneath her heavy overcoat. As the old woman said the words Spanish Civil War, one of the soldiers, older than the rest, opened a lazy eye. ‘Careless talk costs lives,’ he said reprovingly. He opened his other eye and fixed Steve with an admonitory glare. ‘You should know better, young feller. Why, you all but give away where your mam and the kids have gone, and you mentioned where you’ll be spendin’ Christmas. Accordin’ to what I’ve heard, perishin’ Hitler’s got his spies everywhere, so don’t you forget it.’
The fat little woman who had been chattering so freely to Steve swelled with indignation and Steve could scarcely hide his amusement, for she reminded him of one of his mother’s plump little broody hens when disturbed on the nest. Even so, though, he knew that the soldier was in the right even if his elderly companion was scarcely spy material. So he addressed the soldier in his most apologetic tone. ‘Sorry, mate, you’re absolutely right,’ he said humbly. ‘But I didn’t lerron where me mam’s stayin’, nor what ship . . .’
‘Leave it,’ the soldier said easily, but there was a warning glint in his eye. He sat up straighter and pulled a pack of cards from the pocket in his battledress. ‘How about a game of brag?’ He lifted the blind a little to peer out into the pitch dark. ‘There’s no tellin’ when we’ll arrive at Lime Street, but I guess a game of cards will help the time to go faster.’
The little old lady gave the soldier the sort of glare he had given Steve, then settled back in her seat and folded her plump little hands over her shabby handbag. ‘You can count me out, young feller. I’s goin’ to have a nap,’ she said firmly, and spoke not another word until the train drew into the station. Then she had let everyone else get off the train before creaking to her feet and accepting Steve’s offered hand. Having descended to the platform she looked all around her, then lowered her voice. ‘Walls have ears, so they say,’ she muttered. ‘That perishin’ soldier! Does I look like a spy, young feller? If he hadn’t been so big I’d ha’ been tempted to clack him across the lug. But thanks for your company and I wishes you a very merry Christmas.’
Steve, who had put his kitbag down on the platform whilst he helped his fellow passenger to descend, wished her the same. ‘And I don’t think that brown job meant he suspected you of spying,’ he said, trying to conquer a quivering lip. ‘There were others in the carriage, you know, all listening. I think he meant one of them.’
The old woman sniffed. ‘Oh aye, I s’pose he were lookin’ at that nurse, thinkin’ she might be one of them paratroopers what they warned us about when the war first started,’ she said. ‘And her pretty as a picture! But there you are, I suppose; anything’s possible in wartime.’
Agreeing, Steve hefted his kitbag up on one shoulder and, suiting his pace to her leisurely one, with her small suitcase in his free hand, made his way towards the concourse. Glancing up at the clock when he drew level with it he saw that it was a quarter past midnight, and the faint hope that he might be met disappeared. He knew Miranda would have been working all day – no one got Christmas Eve off – and having seen his companion trot towards the taxi rank he was about to start walking towards Russell Street when he heard his name called and, turning in the direction of the voice, was just in time to slip his kitbag from his shoulder and hold out his arms so that Miranda might fly into them. Hugging her tightly he began to kiss her upturned face, but instead of returning his kisses she gave a breathless giggle, put a hand across his mouth and told him not to be so soppy. ‘I’ve been waiting since ten o’clock, you horrid person, so if you want cocoa and a bun before bed, we’d better get on the end of the taxi queue,’ she said. ‘Hey, Steve, there’s someone waving at you.’ She giggled again. ‘So you’ve got yourself a girlfriend already? That’s a nice state of affairs, I don’t think!’
Steve grinned and raised a hand in response to the frantic beckonings from his erstwhile travelling companion. ‘That old lady and meself were in the same compartment on the train,’ he explained. He stretched and yawned. ‘Lord, I’m that tired, and stiff as a board into the bargain. Shall we walk to Russell Street? It’s not far and that queue’s awful long, and I don’t feel like standing around getting colder and colder. If we walk, it’ll keep our circulation going, ’cos this is what we in the RAF call brass monkey weather.’
Miranda, clutching his arm, informed him crisply that it was not only the RAF who described the weather thus. Then she agreed that walking was by far the better option and the pair set off.
Steve slung an arm round her waist, pulling her close. ‘If we keep in step we’ll go faster, like in a three-legged race,’ he informed her. He slid his hand a little lower and patted her bottom. ‘My oh my, I do believe you’ve put on a bit of weight. About time if you ask me.’
He half expected Miranda to take offence, for she had always tried to keep him at arm’s length, but either because she was so pleased to see him, or because she was too tired to quibble, she just chuckled sleepily and snuggled against him. ‘Oh, you!’ she said drowsily. ‘Did I tell you you’d be sleeping on our sofa? I suppose if I were a real lady I’d offer you my bed, but since I’m nothing of the kind you’re condemned to the sofa, my boy. Oh, Steve, it’s so good to see you again and have a bit of a laugh together. You may only be my best friend, but I’m really fond of you, honest to God I am.’
Steve heaved a deep sigh and gave Miranda’s waist a squeeze. ‘Oh well, I guess it’s better than nothing,’ he said resignedly. ‘And now tell me all your news. Have you been back to Jamaica House at all? I remember someone saying that since Mr Grimshaw had the deeds somewhere in his office he would be entitled to claim it, though he wasn’t particularly interested in doing so, as I recall.’
‘I’ve been far too busy to traipse all the way round there,’ Miranda said rather indignantly. ‘I told you I was a fire watcher – not that there have been any fires to watch yet – and I’ve joined the WVS; I do all sorts, never have a moment to myself, and Avril’s the same. If you were home for longer we might go round and just check up that no one’s found the door in the wall. When you think about it, a spy could set up a whole wireless network inside the old house and no one the wiser. I say, Steve, I never thought of that! Do you think we ought to nip round in the morning and check up?’
Steve laughed, but shook his head. ‘No I do not! To tell you the truth, Mr Grimshaw said something of the sort when I got my posting and went round to Holmwood Lodge to say cheerio. He told me then that he would arrange for someone to keep an eye on the old place and would tell the authorities to check on it every so often once the boys left the area.’ He peered at the pale shape of Miranda’s face, turned enquiringly up to his. ‘Are the Grimshaw boys still around?’
‘Well, Gerald’s still at school, of course, and Julian changed his mind about going to Sandhurst. He went to Africa instead, where he’s flying Stringbags and happy as a sand boy. Before he went to Rhodesia he came over to see us, to say cheerio I s’pose, and I was working late and didn’t see him, but he took Avril to the flicks and then out for a meal. Nice of him, wasn’t it?’
‘Very,’ Steve said off-handedly. He squeezed her waist again. ‘Glad it wasn’t you. I’ve enough trouble keepin’ tabs on Gerald without havin’ to widen my scope to include Julian as well.’
Miranda pinched his hand. ‘Rubbish; you’re all my friends, all equal,’ she said grandly, and ignored Steve’s groan.
By the time Steve snuggled down on the sofa, he felt his cup of happiness was full. They had had a marvellous Christmas Day, starting with what he called a pre-war breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage and fried bread, to say nothing of toast and marmalade and large mugs of tea. They had opened their presents earlier and Steve had been the recipient of ten Woodbines from Avril, and an air force blue muffler and matching gloves from Miranda. He had bought both girls attractive headscarves which were much appreciated, though Miranda told him that, should she wear hers at night, the oranges and lemons emblazoned upon a navy blue background would be noticeable enough to draw enemy fire.
Soon after breakfast Gary Hamilton had arrived. Avril had forbidden him to buy presents since, as she told him with all her usual honesty, she and Miranda had been far too busy to search for something for him, not knowing his tastes. However, he had brought a large cauliflower which one of the stallholders on the Great Homer Street market had sold him cheap the previous day, and offered it to Avril, blushing to the roots of his hair. ‘You said no presents, but I thought you might make use of this,’ he said, thrusting it into her hands. ‘It’s not what you might call a present . . .’
Helping him out of his coat and scarf and sitting him down before the fire, for it was bitterly cold outside, Avril assured him that the cauliflower was much appreciated and would be served next day, and then introduced him to Steve. ‘He’s only here until lunchtime tomorrow,’ she explained, ‘so we’ve got to make the most of today.’
And make the most of it they did, Steve recalled happily. They spent the morning preparing the chicken dinner they were going to enjoy, and as they peeled vegetables, made gravy and boiled the pudding, they talked and laughed, getting to know one another. After dinner they listened to the King’s Christmas message and then played games before setting off, well wrapped, to make room for the tea which the girls had prepared in advance.
‘Let’s see if we can walk all the way to Prince’s Park, and see if the lake is iced over. It’s a pity it’s not snowing because we could have a grand snowball battle between the four of us.’ Miranda had sighed reminiscently. ‘When I was at the Rankin Academy I had a friend called Louise, and she had two brothers, twins they were. The four of us used to have no end of fun when it was snowy. We’d make snowmen, and then a sort of snow castle, which two of us would defend and two would attack. Usually I got the smaller of the twins, Trevor, and Louise had Philip. Then whichever couple won would have to treat the other pair to tea and scones at the little café down by the orangery.’ She sighed happily. ‘I suppose we’re too old now for snow battles, but I wouldn’t mind a slide on the lake, if the ice is bearing.’
When they set out on the long walk, well muffled up, they had flinched against the icy wind, but by the time they reached the park they were glowing with health and warmth. Despite Miranda’s hopes the lake was not completely iced over, and her fear that the café would be closed proved to be justified, but even so they thoroughly enjoyed the exercise. They did not indulge in races, because it would not have been fair on Gary, but they played guessing games, Chinese whispers and the like, and despite the enormous chicken dinner they had eaten were ravenous once more when they arrived back at the flat in time for tea. When the meal was over they played more games amidst great hilarity until Avril, saying she would accompany Gary part of the way back to his hostel, put on her outer clothing and wagged a finger at Miranda. ‘Don’t you take advantage of our being away to get up to any naughty tricks,’ she said teasingly. ‘I can see young Steve there is longing for a cuddling session.’ She struck her head with the back of her hand. ‘There, we never played postman’s knock; that’s a good game for a Christmas party.’
‘We don’t need games; we can have a cuddle for old times’ sake, can’t we, Miranda?’ Steve said as the door closed behind Avril and Gary. He sat down in one of the creaking wicker armchairs and pulled Miranda on to his lap. ‘Oh, you’re lovely and warm and cuddly,’ he said, pressing his cheek against hers. ‘Tell you what, if we get up early you and me can go round to Jamaica House and make sure all’s well there. I’d like to see the old place again; if it hadn’t been for Jamaica House you and I might never have got together.’
‘We’ve not got together now, not in the way you mean,’ Miranda objected. ‘I do like that Gary, don’t you? Avril pretends there’s nothing in it, but if you ask me, they’ll be a couple by the time the winter’s over. I’d better put the kettle on, because when Avril gets back the first thing she’ll want will be a nice hot cup of tea.’
‘The first thing I’ll want is more cuddling and perhaps a bit of kissing as well,’ Steve said plaintively. ‘I agree with you, though, that Gary and Avril look like becoming a couple.’ He pulled a funny face, cocking one eyebrow and speaking in a transatlantic accent. ‘How’s about youse an’ me follerin’ suit, Miss Gorgeous?’ he said hopefully. ‘I need a girlfriend to keep up my reputation as a great lover. Come on, Miranda, say you’ll be my girl.’
Miranda, pouring boiling water into the teapot, put the kettle back on the stove and gave Steve an indulgent smile. ‘Give you an inch and you’ll take a mile,’ she said, and then, when Steve pulled a disappointed face, she chuckled, crossed the room, pulled him to his feet and kissed the side of his mouth. Steve moved his head quickly and was fielding another kiss when, at this inauspicious moment, the door opened and Avril and a blast of cold wind entered the kitchen. He and Miranda sprang apart as though they had been doing something far more interesting than just kissing, but Avril was oblivious. She rushed over to the fire and stood as close to it as she could, teeth chattering.
‘I’m perishin’ perished,’ she announced, beginning to unbutton her coat, remove her headscarf and endeavour to fluff up her flattened hair. ‘Does that teapot still hold enough for one?’
‘It holds enough for three,’ Miranda said, getting three mugs down from the Welsh dresser. ‘Steve and I were just saying what a grand feller Gary is. You really like him, don’t you Avril?’
Steve turned his head so that he could look at the older girl, and saw her eyes begin to sparkle, and the pink in her cheeks to deepen. ‘Yes, he’s a grand chap,’ she said. ‘If you knew what he had to put up with when he was first in hospital . . . but no point in talking about that. He’s the bravest bloke I’ve ever met, I admire him tremendously and – and he’s invited me to go to the theatre with him when the pantomime starts in January. He says he doesn’t care if he’s the only feller in the audience over ten years old, and he says we’ll have fish and chips afterwards. Oh, Miranda, I do like him so much!’
So now Steve, clutching his pillow and wishing it was Miranda, thought that the four of them had had a perfect day. There had not been a single disagreement and everyone, he knew, had thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Next day he would have to leave the flat no later than noon, but the girls had decided to combine breakfast and lunch, and have a meal at around eleven o’ clock. Then they would all go to the station together and he would set out on the long cold journey back to his Norfolk airfield. As he contemplated the following day he found himself hoping that Avril and Gary would have enough tact to realise that he and Miranda would want to be alone – or as alone as anyone could be on a crowded railway platform – to say their goodbyes, which might have to last them for many months, since rumour had it that postings would be handed out as soon as everyone had returned from their Christmas holidays.
In fact, however, when they reached Lime Street the following day the train he meant to catch was drawing into the platform, and he almost hurled himself aboard, then let down the window and leaned out to grab as much of Miranda as he could hold. ‘Write to me every week – every day – and I’ll write back whenever I’ve gorra moment,’ he gabbled. He tried to give her a really ardent kiss but even as he pursed his lips for action the train began to move, porters began to shout and Miranda was quite literally torn from his arms. Steve leaned even further out of the carriage. ‘I love you, Miranda Lovage,’ he bawled, not caring who was listening or what they might think. ‘Take care of yourself until I come home to take care of you myself.’
He could see Miranda’s lips moving but could not hear what she was saying, and decided to assume it was words of love. Why should it not be, after all? He knew she was fond of Gerald but sincerely hoped that her feelings for the other boy stopped at liking. And in the meantime, whilst he remained in Norfolk a telephone call a couple of times a month and as many letters as she could pen would have to do.
Steve withdrew from the window as the train began to pick up speed. It was a corridor train, and he had slung his kitbag on to a corner seat to save himself a place, for the train was crowded. He straightened his fore and aft, checked in the window glass that his uniform was all correct and went back to his seat, reaching up to put his kitbag on the overhead rack, and then settling into his place with a contented sigh. It had been a fantastic Christmas, the best he could remember since he was a small boy, and it occurred to him now that it was the first time Miranda had not gone on and on about Arabella; this, he thought, was a good sign. When he had first joined the air force, her weekly letters had been full of her inability to believe that her mother was dead. She had wanted constant reassurance and he had done his best to give it, because Mr Grimshaw had said that she would begin to accept her loss as time went by. Now, it seemed that Mr Grimshaw was right, for Miranda had not once mentioned Arabella from the moment she had met him off the train to the moment when he had embarked on his return journey.
Steve looked around the compartment; two sailors, four airmen, including himself, and two brown jobs, one a sergeant, all settling themselves for sleep. Steve chuckled inwardly; one thing the forces did teach you was to snatch a nap whenever you got the chance, so you would be fresh and rested for whatever trials were to come. Steve closed his eyes and began to relive his lovely Christmas. Soon, he slept.
‘It’s a jolly good thing we had such a wizard Christmas, because this perishin’ weather looks like lasting for ever,’ Miranda said discontentedly. She and Avril had quite by chance boarded the same tram, and were now hanging on to a shared strap as the vehicle began to lurch along the main road. ‘Have you ever seen such conditions? Steve’s last letter was full of it, but in a way he thinks it’s a good thing. Norfolk is even worse than us, with the blizzards blowing the snow into huge mountains, blocking roads and breaking the branches off trees. I should think even the kids must be fed up with snowballs and snowmen when they’re accompanied by freezing feet and icicles forming on your nose whenever you forget to wipe it.’
‘True,’ Avril agreed. ‘But kids don’t seem to feel the cold. I remember being indifferent to it when it meant playing in the snow.’
Miranda chuckled. ‘I know what you mean. And Steve says we should be grateful, because apparently the weather’s just the same on the Continent and that means no planes can take off, not ours nor the Luftwaffe. They’re still calling this the phoney war, but if you ask me it’s a blessing from heaven for us. It’s giving us time to arm ourselves for what is to come. If the weather eases in February, which is only a few days off, then I bet there’ll be floods and all sorts. Still, Steve says the weather has given us a breathing space and I reckon he’s right.’
Both girls began to move towards the rear of the vehicle as the ting of the bell proclaimed their stop was approaching, and as they stepped from the comparative shelter into the teeth of the storm Miranda grabbed her friend’s arm and spoke directly into her ear. ‘You’re out at the same time as me for once – because of the weather, I imagine – so why don’t we do a flick? We might as well make the most of the opportunity because once it begins to warm up your shifts will return to normal. What do you say?’
‘Good idea,’ Avril said. ‘Gary’s taking me to the cinema at the weekend but he won’t want to see a romance. He’s more for action films – Errol Flynn, Douglas Fairbanks, that sort of thing.’
As she spoke they had turned into Russell Street and now they did their best to hurry along the frosted pavements, clattering up the metal stair at speed since they made a point of spreading salt on each step before they left for work in the morning.
Once in the kitchen Miranda unfolded the newspaper she had bought earlier, spread it out on the table and decided that they would enjoy seeing John Barrymore and Mary Astor in Midnight, because, as Avril remarked, it was bound to be a romance and she felt that they could both go for something really lovey-dovey. Avril had begun to take her coat off, then hesitated. ‘It’s not far to the cinema where Midnight is showing; we can walk there easily, so let’s go out straight away. We can buy ourselves some sweets to suck during the performance, and if we hurry we won’t miss more than a few minutes of the main feature.’
Miranda looked rather wistfully round the kitchen but agreed with her friend that the sooner they left the sooner they would be in the warmth of the cinema. Accordingly they clattered down the stairs once more and were shortly handing over their money and being shown to their seats by an elderly usherette. She was a friendly and garrulous woman and told them that they were bound to enjoy the film. She herself would be watching it tonight for about the tenth time, since it was the end of the week and tomorrow a new film would be showing. ‘It’s grand seeing all the stars for free,’ she confided, flashing her torch along the almost empty rows of seats. ‘Sit where you like, gairls, there ain’t no one goin’ to check tickets on such a night. Come far, have you?’
‘Not far,’ Miranda replied. She took off her damp coat and spread it out on the seat next to the one she had chosen. ‘Aha, it’s the newsreel, I see; we’re earlier than we thought.’
‘Thank goodness,’ Avril muttered as the usherette moved away. ‘I know Scousers are friendly but I were afraid she were goin’ to plonk down in the seat next to mine, and talk all the way through the newsreel.’
Miranda chuckled, wriggling back into her seat and suddenly conscious of how tired she was. On the screen, pictures came and went. Men making battleships in a large factory up in Scotland somewhere, a warehouse blaze in the London suburbs caused by a carelessly dropped match, a number of Boy Scouts on their bicycles riding through the city streets as the new age messengers who would take the place of the members of the forces who had previously done such work.
Miranda could feel her eyelids beginning to droop as the commentator talked on. ‘America may not have entered the war yet, but her citizens are working hard to show they are on our side; these women are making up food parcels for our troops . . .’ The picture on the screen showed women in turbans and overalls at long benches, packing biscuits, chocolate and other foodstuffs into small brown boxes. Others were in factories, making aeroplane parts, whilst their sisters joined concert parties to raise money for their cousins across the sea.
Miranda tried to fight the desire to fall asleep and was jerked suddenly awake by Avril’s voice. ‘Gee whizz, ain’t she just the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen?’ Avril said. ‘All that fantastic hair . . .’ Miranda’s eyes shot open. The screen was flickering, about to change, but she still managed to glimpse the woman to whom her friend had referred. Miranda rose in her seat like a rocket when you light the blue touch paper. She clutched Avril’s arm so hard that her friend gave a protesting squeak. ‘What’s up, chuck?’ she said.
But Miranda cut across her. ‘It’s my mother!’ she shouted. ‘Oh, won’t somebody stop the film, wind it back? I was almost asleep, I just caught the merest glimpse . . . oh, Avril, did it give names, addresses, anything like that?’
But the newsreel had come to an end, the curtains swished across and their erstwhile friend came waddling slowly down the stairs at the back of the circle with a tray of sweets and ice creams round her neck. A few customers left their seats and, producing their money, went across to the usherette.
Avril, meanwhile, positively gawped at her friend. ‘Wharron earth’s got into you, Miranda?’ she said plaintively. ‘What do you mean, it’s your mother? I thought you said she were dead . . . and anyway it couldn’t possibly be your mam, because the feller talkin’ was in America – well, I think he was – so what makes you think . . .’
Miranda gave a moan. ‘Oh, Avril, don’t you ever listen?’ she demanded. ‘Other people said my mother must be dead after it was discovered that the ship she had sailed on had been lost in a storm. But I never believed it, never, never, never! We were close, Arabella and I, so I was always sure that had she been drowned I would have known it in my bones and given up all hope. But I never did – give up hope, I mean – and now I’m certain sure that she’s alive. Oh, how can I bear to sit through the main feature and the B film before I can see the newsreel again?’ She had stood up when the newsreel was coming to a close but now she sat down with a thump and turned appealingly to Avril. ‘Will you come with me to the manager’s office to ask him to rerun the newsreel straight away? It’s most awfully important that I have proof of Arabella’s being alive, and of where she is at the moment. You say the women in the newsreel were Americans. Well, the authorities would have to let me go to America if I explained. America’s a neutral country, isn’t it? Oh, surely they’ll let me go on one of those ships that Steve told me about? They’re taking airmen who want to become pilots over to the States so that they can be trained in a no war zone. If I swore I’d work my passage in some way . . .’
Avril cut across what she clearly regarded as her friend’s ramblings. ‘For God’s sake, chuck, don’t talk such rubbish!’ she urged. ‘Even if it was your mother you saw on the newsreel – and I don’t think it was because I’d looked at you seconds earlier and you had your perishin’ eyes shut – the authorities ain’t likely to ship you halfway across the world on what would probably turn out to be a wild goose chase. And why do you want to go to her, anyway? If you’re right and the woman on the screen really is your mam, then why hasn’t she come home, or at least tried to get in touch? Look at you, straining at the leash to get to her, so why couldn’t she have done the same? Dropped you a line, or even bought a passage and come back to Liverpool before the war started? What I mean is, I can’t imagine any reason for her not contacting you and getting things straightened out. Can you?’
Miranda had tried not to think about the quarrel between herself and her mother for many months, but now it came into her mind as clearly as though it had happened yesterday. She felt her cheeks grow warm and tears rose to her eyes. ‘Well, we did have an awful row the evening before she disappeared,’ she admitted, and realised, with some surprise, that apart from Steve she had never mentioned the row to anyone. She had been too ashamed, because in her secret soul she had believed the quarrel might have been the cause of Arabella’s disappearance. In fact her rage and blame-laying on that last evening might have been the straw which had broken the camel’s back.
But Avril was shaking her head. ‘No, no; it would have taken more than that to send her flying off to America,’ she said. ‘All mothers and daughters have barneys from time to time, but they don’t go off without a word and never contact each other again. As for asking the manager to rewind the film, I wouldn’t try it if I were you ’cos you’d be settin’ yourself up for a dusty answer. I reckon if we just stay in our seats – hey up, the curtains are drawing back and the fire screen’s rolled up – then you can see the newsreel through again. But if you really didn’t see the bit about the American women giving concert parties to raise money for the war effort, then what makes you think one of them girls was your mam?’
Miranda hesitated. It sounded so daft to say that her mother’s wonderful mass of curling primrose-coloured hair had been unmistakable, but now that Avril mentioned it she realised she had scarcely had time to focus on the woman’s face before the picture was replaced with another. She knew that it would not do to admit this to her friend, however, and said briefly that she had recognised Arabella’s glorious hair.
But now the usherette had reached the end of their row and was eyeing them curiously. Plainly she had seen Miranda leaping to her feet, probably heard the shouts as well. Miranda, blushing, opened her little purse and produced some coins. ‘Two wafers, please,’ she said humbly, ‘and a packet of peanuts.’
It was snowing steadily by the time they left the cinema and both girls pulled their mufflers up over their mouths and linked arms as they hurried along the snow-covered pavements. It was impossible to exchange conversation under such conditions, but as soon as they were back in the flat with the kettle on the primus stove, Avril turned to her friend. ‘Well? Are you satisfied now? I suppose you’re still sure it was your mother and not just an extremely pretty blonde? Only if I’m honest, Miranda, that woman only looked about twenty, or thirty at the most.’ She giggled. ‘Unless gettin’ away from you took twenty years off her age!’
Miranda sniffed. ‘I shall ignore that remark,’ she said loftily. ‘My mother married at sixteen and had me at seventeen, or so she always claimed. But remember, the commentator said she was with a concert party, so she would have been wearing stage make-up. It can take years off you, can that.’
Avril shrugged. ‘Have it your way, queen. Your mam is alive and well and living in America and I’m tellin’ you straight that there’s no way you’re going to get there until the war’s over. Even if America do decide to join in the war they won’t let young women go to and fro across the Atlantic like they did in peacetime. Why don’t you write? Only I’m not sure to whom.’
‘That’s why I want to go over myself,’ Miranda said impatiently. ‘As for why my mother hasn’t written to me, I have a theory . . .’
Avril sighed. ‘You can tell me all about it whilst I make the tea and cut some bread and butter. And you can get out them jam tarts I made yesterday. It was just our luck that they’d closed the café because of there bein’ almost no customers, but we’ll make the best of what we’ve got. Go on then, what’s your theory?’
Miranda wondered how best to explain to Avril the sequence of events which had led her to believe that her mother must have lost her memory. Now that she came to think about it she realised that she had never told it from beginning to end, as though it was just a story. She knew she must have let fall bits and pieces to her flatmate, but had never told her the events in sequence. Now she really must do so if she was to gain Avril’s belief. ‘Well, I told you that she’d disappeared during the night,’ she began. ‘Next day everyone was very concerned – the scuffers as well – and at first they tried to find Arabella, tried very hard. There were advertisements in the press and notices down by the docks asking if anyone had seen her. But we got absolutely nowhere, and of course I couldn’t stay in our beautiful house in Sycamore Avenue – I had no money for the rent for a start – so I was forced to move in with Aunt Vi and my cousin Beth. As the weeks passed I suppose folk forgot; then one night I was woken by somebody shaking my shoulder . . .’
Miranda told the whole story of her sleepwalking, and presently she finished off with Missie’s revelation that she had seen a woman in a long white gown being dragged down towards the docks by two members of the crew of the ship which was later wrecked with the loss of all hands. When she finished she looked enquiringly at Avril, who whistled softly beneath her breath. ‘Cor, that’s a story and a half,’ her friend said appreciatively. ‘And do you mean that sleepwalkin’ can be inherited, like blue eyes or freckles?’ She gave a snort of amusement. ‘Pity you inherited sleepwalking and not long golden curls!’
‘Shut up, you horrible girl,’ Miranda said, unable to prevent herself from smiling. ‘So you see, if I’m right and Arabella really was sleepwalking and was kidnapped by Captain Hogg and his merry men, then I should think it’s quite possible that she has lost her memory. If she knew who she was, she’d know about me, and I’m sure she’d be desperate to get in touch. As you said, mothers and daughters may fight and disagree, but underneath there’s a huge well of love. So I’m sure if Arabella could have written or even telephoned she would have done so. But if she’s forgotten everything since the ship went down . . .’
‘How dreadful it must have been, having to swim to the nearest land when she must have known there are sharks in tropical waters,’ Avril said with feeling. ‘She’s a real heroine; no wonder you want to find her and claim her as your mother. But I’m tellin’ you, queen, you won’t do it until the war’s over. Oh, you can write, probably put advertisements in American papers asking Arabella Lovage to get in touch, but if she’s lost her memory . . .’
‘If she’s lost her memory the name Arabella Lovage will mean nothing to her, and I should add that she can’t swim,’ Miranda said gloomily. ‘But I’ve got to try; what else can I do?’
‘Tell me, queen, why did your mother insist on you calling her Arabella?’ Avril asked.
‘I don’t know what that’s got to do with it . . .’ Miranda began, and then, meeting Avril’s eyes, she capitulated. ‘She didn’t want people to know she had a daughter in her teens because when she auditioned for a part she would always tell them she was in her mid-twenties.’ She saw the beginnings of a smirk on her friend’s face and hastened to disabuse her. ‘All right, all right, but as you’ve already said she doesn’t look her age, and when you’re auditioning for a part it’s your looks they go on rather than the number of your years. Oh, Avril, I’ve tried and tried to put my mother’s plight out of my mind, not to keep harping on about it, but I believe I’m getting somewhere at last!’
Avril agreed that knowing that Arabella was alive and living in America was a tremendous step forward. ‘But you’ve been patient for so long that by now being patient must be second nature to you, so don’t try to rush things, but let life take its course,’ she added. ‘Have you finished your bread and butter? If so, we’ll start on the jam tarts.’
Miranda took a tart, but did not bite into it. Suddenly she knew that she wanted desperately to speak to Steve, to tell him all about the newsreel and how she was certain, now, that her mother was still alive. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, which read ten o’clock; would Steve be in bed? Would there be anybody still awake to answer the telephone in the Mess? She was telling herself that she would simply have to wait until the following day to call Steve when her hand, seemingly of its own accord, replaced the jam tart on her plate even as she got to her feet. She went across the kitchen, took her thick coat, headscarf and muffler down from their hook and began to put them on. From behind her she heard Avril’s chair squeak as her friend pushed it back, but she did not even look round.
Avril’s voice sounded almost frightened when she spoke. ‘Miranda? Wharron earth are you doin’? Don’t you go out like your mam did and get kidnapped by a beastly Nazi. It’s bedtime – oh, damn it, if you must walk I suppose I’ll have to go with you.’
Miranda, already at the door, turned and smiled at her friend. ‘Don’t be so daft. I’m just goin’ down to the box on the corner to give Steve a ring, tell him about the newsreel. Once I’ve told him I’ll come straight back, so I shan’t be more than ten or fifteen minutes at the most. And you aren’t to even think about coming with me, Avril, because I’m not a child and I’m not sleepwalking either. Just stay there and watch the clock.’ As she spoke she was opening the kitchen door, then glanced over her shoulder at the other girl. ‘It’s all right, the snow’s stopped. I’ve got my torch, though I shan’t need it. See you later.’ With that she closed the door upon Avril’s half-hearted objections, clattered down the stair and ran all the way to the telephone box. Putting her money into the slot when the operator demanded it, she thought ruefully that she was being daft. Steve would have been in bed ages ago and she could not possibly ask for him to be told of her call because that would mean disturbing everyone else in his hut. Yet she had a strong feeling – you could call it a conviction almost – that he had not yet gone to bed, that in some mysterious way they were on the same wavelength, despite the distance which sep-arated them, and when it was he who picked up the receiver she was not even surprised, particularly when she did not even have to give her name, because Steve said at once: ‘Miranda? What’s happened? I knew it must be you, ringin’ at this ungodly hour, so what’s new?’
‘Oh, Steve, you are wonderful, and I’m sorry to ring so late,’ Miranda gabbled. ‘Only I had to tell you, because I knew you’d understand. Avril and I went to the cinema this evening . . .’
At the end of the recital there was the shortest of pauses and then Steve’s voice, warm and reassuring, came over the wire. ‘Don’t worry about disturbing me; the chaps and I have been talking and we are all still up. It’s fantastic news that Arabella is still alive, and I’m sure you’ll manage to get in touch with her somehow. And you can stop feeling guilty, queen, now that you know she’s all right.’
Miranda hissed in a breath; how had he known that it had been guilt over their quarrel which had made her so desperately eager to prove that Arabella was still alive? She had never admitted to a soul that the quarrel, even if it had only driven her mother to take that solitary walk, might have been Arabella’s downfall. And now, having told Steve and received his understanding, she was aware that she felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Avril had doubted her, but Steve had accepted every word of her story. Blissfully, Miranda realised that though she still meant to try to contact her mother it was no longer as essential to her happiness as it had once been. In the very nature of things she and Arabella would, by now, have begun to take their separate paths. Of course she meant to do everything she could to trace Arabella, but even if she failed she would know at least that Arabella lived, and, what’s more, lived happily. But now Steve’s voice spoke urgently in her ear. ‘Miranda? I was going to send you a telegram asking you to ring me, but I might have known you’d sense my urge to talk and ring me anyway. I’ve got some news of my own which, as it happens, will affect you. In a week’s time I’m being shipped along with a great many other fellers to America, where I’ll be trained as aircrew; if I’m good enough, as a fighter pilot.’
For a moment, Miranda could not even speak. She felt as if all the air had been drained out of the telephone booth, leaving her gasping like a landed fish. But Steve’s voice in her ear, sharp with anxiety, brought her back to life. ‘Miranda, where have you gone? Have you cut the connection? I was just telling you . . .’
Miranda and the operator spoke almost simultaneously. ‘Caller, your time is up.’
And Miranda’s voice, small with shock and dismay: ‘Oh, but Steve, you can’t go. I can’t lose everyone I care about . . .’
Steve’s voice echoed in her ear, sounding strangely unlike himself. ‘Can’t change what’s already happened . . .’ he was beginning when there was a decisive click and the operator said crisply: ‘Replace your receiver please, caller. Others are waiting for this line.’
Very, very slowly, Miranda put her receiver back on its rest, automatically pressed button B although she knew she had used all the money the operator had required, then stumbled out of the box, apologising to the young man in naval uniform who had obviously been waiting for her to finish her call. He moved to pass her, then must have noticed her pallor because he caught her arm. ‘You awright, miss?’ he asked. ‘Not bad news, I hope. You’ve gone that white . . .’
Miranda conjured up what she guessed must be a rather wan smile. ‘No, not bad news. But my boyfriend is being sent to America,’ she said, and was about to add the information that he was going to learn how to fly when she remembered the government posters and gave the young naval officer a watery smile. ‘I’m fine, honest to God I am. It was just the shock. But thanks for your concern.’
‘’Sawright, gairl,’ the young man said easily. ‘Mind how you go.’
Miranda heard the door of the box click and stood for a moment, replacing her muffler, pulling on her gloves and doing up the top button of her coat, whilst the young man consulted a small notebook, spoke into the receiver and began to put pennies in the slot with a great clatter. Then she moved away when she saw his mouth move and knew he was in contact with the operator. No use hanging about whilst he got his call. Steve would probably be on his way to bed by now, and if the operator recognised her voice she might well refuse to put another call through; some operators were like that, thought themselves in charge of the whole telephone system.
Miranda was at the foot of the metal stair when the door above opened and Avril looked anxiously out, though the anxiety disappeared as Miranda began to climb. ‘Did you get through, queen?’ she asked. ‘Poor old Steve, was he tucked up in his nice little bunk? I bet he cursed you, especially if whoever answered the phone had to wake the whole hut.’
Miranda trudged up the remainder of the stairs and was glad to enter the warmth of the kitchen and shut the door behind her. ‘He wasn’t even in bed, but he had some news of his own,’ she said wearily. She took off her outdoor clothing and turned to Avril, trying to manufacture a cheerful smile and knowing that she failed. ‘In fact, he was going to send me a telegram because next week he’s being sent to America with a batch of other men, who’ll all learn to fly fighter planes.’ She turned to Avril and felt the first tears rise in her eyes to the accompaniment of a violent sob. ‘Oh, Avril, it’s true what I said when he first joined the air force; sooner or later, everyone leaves me. And now Steve’s going so far away that there won’t even be telephone calls, and letters which get sent from abroad are chopped to bits by the censor, if they arrive at all, which a lot of them don’t. Oh, and convoys get attacked all the time; he could be drowned, or bombed . . . I can’t bear it!’
Avril tutted. ‘These things happen in wartime, to everyone, not just you, so stop feelin’ so perishin’ sorry for yourself,’ she said crossly. ‘When Steve was at your beck and call you kept denying that he was your boyfriend, but now he’s going away you talk as if he were your only love. Be consistent, for Gawd’s sake, you silly little Lovage. Pull yourself together!’
Miranda fished a handkerchief out from her sleeve, blew her nose resoundingly and then wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. She gave another enormous sniff and a watery giggle, then turned a calm face towards her friend. ‘First I find my mother isn’t dead and am over the moon, then I find my best friend – and he’s still my best friend and nothing more – is being sent half a world away. Next thing I know you’ll be snatched up and sent off on a mysterious mission to Antarctica or somewhere and I’ll lose you as well.’
Avril sniffed. ‘And of course they’ll choose me since I speak Antarctic like a native,’ she said sarcastically. She handed Miranda her filled hot water bottle, which her friend immediately cuddled gratefully. ‘And now shall we go to bed before I drop in my tracks? If I’m tired – and I am – you must be absolutely jiggered.’
‘True,’ Miranda admitted. ‘But I wonder why Steve isn’t getting embarkation leave, like Julian? I remember that Julian came round and took you out for a meal before he took ship for Rhodesia. So why not Steve?’
‘Can’t you guess? Whilst the awful weather continues all flights are grounded, and even the ships are mainly in port, here and on the other side of the Channel. That means your precious Steve should have a safer crossing than if he waited for a few weeks. Be grateful, girl.’
‘I am,’ Miranda said. ‘Grateful, I mean. And you’re a real pal, Avril, to take the worry off my mind.’
Later, snuggling down in bed, with her hot water bottle strategically positioned to de-ice her freezing toes, she began to think about her day and realised that, though she knew she would miss Steve horribly, the warm glow which she had felt ever since seeing her mother on the silver screen had not dissipated. In fact with every moment that passed it felt stronger, and she realised that her chief feeling was a very odd one indeed. Because her mother was alive she, Miranda, would be able one day to apologise to her for all the horrid things she’d said during the course of that long ago quarrel. And of course the fact that Steve might be quite near Arabella merely made the feeling even better. If I have to wait until the war is over I shan’t mind so much now, she told herself, pulling the blankets up until only her eyes were clear of them. I’ll be able to give Steve money from my savings to pay for advertising in American newspapers – and he saw Betty Prince’s picture, which was quite a good likeness. Yes, I’m sure Steve will run her to earth if anyone can.