‘Which king burned the cakes?’ Bert frowned at a batch of Victoria sponges that he’d just taken out of the oven. The tops were slightly overdone but Lizzie decided it was nothing a dusting of icing sugar wouldn’t hide.
‘Alfred the Great.’ She remembered the story that all school children learned: how the king was on the run from the Vikings and had taken refuge in the home of a peasant woman when he was asked to keep an eye on her cakes – which were actually small loaves of bread, to be precise – these details mattered if your family ran a bakery. Distracted by affairs of state, daft Alfred had ruined the cakes and earned the wrath of his protector. Great he might have been in matters of government, but the warrior king was no shakes as a baker.
Bert shook his head and sighed as he transferred the sponges to a cooling tray. ‘I don’t know what’s up with me – I can’t seem to get anything right these days.’
‘These things happen – don’t be too hard on yourself.’ Lizzie quickly changed the subject. ‘I was helping Bill with Annie May last night – dismantling the head gasket and checking the innards of the engine.’
‘In the dark?’ Bert queried over the sound of the shop bell tinkling out front and the arrival of the first customers of the day.
‘No – we stopped work once we lost the light, then came back to Kelthorpe and adjourned to the Anchor.’ Lizzie tapped the bottom of a couple of loaves that had come out of the oven five minutes earlier. The hollow sound told her that they were baked to perfection.
Out in the shop Connie served her cousin Arnold with a Hovis loaf and two teacakes.
‘And be quick about it – I haven’t got all day,’ he told her in his cheeky, chirpy way. At twelve, he was still a whippersnapper: skinny, fidgety and an undoubted show-off. Despite his youth, he and his pal Colin Strong intended to train as stretcher bearers for the ARP and in the meantime the two of them strutted the streets after blackout as if capable of defeating Hitler single-handedly.
‘Get on with you.’ Slipping a sly extra teacake into the bag, Connie slid Arnold’s purchases over the counter then took his money. ‘Tell your mum I’ll pop in later for a chat about the flowers for Lizzie’s wedding.’
He was out of the door before she’d finished her sentence.
‘One white tin and a cottage loaf, please, Connie,’ said her next customer – a middle-aged woman with work-worn hands and a brown felt hat that had seen better days – with a slight shake of her head at Arnold’s lack of manners. ‘Oh and I’ll have one of those Eccles cakes while you’re at it.’
Lizzie emerged from the back room with a tray of warm loaves. She carried them out to the van and was returning to the shop when Bill rode up on his motorbike. Glancing down at her flour-covered apron, she quickly patted her hair into place and prayed that she didn’t look as much of a sight as she feared.
Bill parked the bike and approached her, removing his gauntlets and unzipping his leather pilot’s jacket, recently acquired from the army surplus store on Gladstone Square. Its sheepskin collar was turned up, giving him a rakish air that sent thrills through Lizzie every time she saw him wearing it. ‘I’m glad I caught you,’ he told her as he leaned in to kiss her cheek before leading her a short way down the street. They stopped in the doorway of Cynthia’s hair salon, forced to raise their voices to compete with the ceaseless trundle of buses, cars and lorries and the occasional clip-clop of a horse-drawn cart.
Lizzie warned him that she couldn’t stop for long. ‘I’m about to set out on my delivery round.’
‘Yes, but I want you to be the first to know.’ Bill pushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead. ‘The RNPS has been in touch with me and Tom.’
‘And?’ Lizzie felt a flicker of anxiety in her stomach. Contact from the Patrol Service could mean only one thing – Tom and Bill had been called upon to carry out another important defence activity.
‘Don’t worry – they only want us to help maintain the blimps out in the estuary,’ he reassured her. ‘All we have to do is learn the drill then stand by for whenever we’re needed.’
‘They’re not thinking of sending you out on patrol again?’ Lizzie didn’t think her nerves would stand it if they did – the days and endless nights of knowing that Bill was sailing those dangerous waters, sweeping for German mines or else using sonar equipment to track U-boats, running the risk of another deadly torpedo attack. Her blood ran cold as she remembered the last patrol, which had ended in the disastrous sinking of Sea Knight.
‘Not so far as I know,’ he assured her. ‘We’re doing a training course to learn the drill – how to use the Scammell winches, and so on. Like I say, there’s no reason to worry.’
A frown remained on Lizzie’s usually smooth forehead. ‘Shall I let Connie know?’
‘No, better let Tom tell her. And can you pass on a message? He’s agreed at the last minute to swap shifts with Eddie Fraser.’
‘So Tom won’t be on duty tonight?’
‘That’s right – he plans to work with me on Annie May instead.’
‘Right you are.’ Lizzie gave Bill a brittle smile and they went their separate ways. She delivered the message then set off on her round with a heavy heart. True, maintaining the blimps didn’t put Bill and Tom in direct danger, but she feared it was the thin end of the wedge. The next thing they knew, the Patrol Service would be making further demands, as they had every right to do.
Since the sinking of their trawler, Bill and Tom were no longer classed as men in reserved occupations. If the Royal Navy didn’t conscript them then the army or the RAF were standing by, ready to sweep young and fit men like them off to regiments in Italy, North Africa, Singapore or – God forbid – to enlist them into Bomber Command. Take one day at a time, Lizzie told herself as she rounded the headland then dropped off her first delivery at the Harbourmaster’s. Try not to think too far ahead.
Back at the shop, Connie was run off her feet. Her regular customers came and went in quick succession – ‘One cottage loaf and three sultana scones, please, love.’ ‘Have you any of those small custard tarts?’ ‘A large white, two sausage rolls and one of those teacakes.’ Then in sauntered one of the new RAF erks, hands in pockets and whistling as he entered. Connie recognized Reggie at once and was on her guard, resting both hands on the glass counter while she awaited his order.
‘Well, look who it isn’t!’ Reggie perked up at the sight of Connie. ‘It’s the lindy hop lady in red.’
Connie returned a no-nonsense stare. ‘How can I help?’
‘You can give me a smile, for a start.’ He took out a cigarette then decided against lighting up. The cigarette dangled from his lips as he examined the display of cakes and pastries. ‘And I’ll have two of those round iced buns with the cherries on the top. They make a nice handful, eh?’ A suggestive wink accompanied his order.
Honestly! The bloke couldn’t help himself. Connie put the sticky buns into a bag and slid them across the counter minus the smile. ‘Anything else?’
‘It depends what you’re offering.’ Ignoring the sound of the shop bell and the entrance of two new customers, Reggie set about breaking down Connie’s defences. ‘Come on, I’m only kidding. By the way, I think I came across your other half – the lanky bloke you were with last Saturday. Tom Rose, if I remember rightly.’
Connie cocked her head to one side and frowned. ‘Whereabouts?’
‘On one of the river barges in the estuary. Harry Tate’s Navy called us in to teach a group of volunteers how to storm-bed the blimps.’
The common nickname for the Royal Navy Patrol Service was sometimes used disparagingly and Connie’s frown deepened. It carried a suggestion that RNPS vessels were old and dropping to bits and the men who sailed them were as decrepit as the boats.
‘No need to look like that,’ he cajoled. ‘I’m only having a bit of fun.’
The customer behind gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder. ‘Is that a Scouse accent by any chance? The skipper on my old man’s merchant ship comes from Liverpool – his convoy was hit off Malta.’
‘Scouser born and bred,’ Reggie confirmed, turning back to Connie with his broad smile and bristling moustache to ask how much he owed her.
‘That’ll be sixpence please.’
‘And cheap at half the price.’ Delving into his pocket, he handed over the small silver coin, pressing it firmly into her palm and winking as he did so. ‘That Tom of yours is sharp as a tack. He already knows all there is to know about wind directions and underwater currents around here. We got chatting – he told me about the trawler he and Bill have set about restoring.’
The unexpected change of tone eased Connie’s frown, though she couldn’t rid herself of the suspicion that Reggie might have an ulterior motive for complimenting Tom; namely to soften her up. ‘There’s a lot to do before she’s seaworthy,’ she conceded.
‘It’ll keep your boys out of mischief.’ Reggie lit the cigarette that had been dangling all this time. The match flared, the tobacco tip glowed red and he inhaled deeply. ‘I’ll get out of your hair then,’ he told Connie as he made for the door, the ping of the bell marking his exit.
‘Nice chap,’ the next customer remarked, her gaze following Reggie up the street. ‘And not bad-looking either, come to think of it.’
‘How can I help?’ Connie’s tone was thoughtful. Even from the back, Reggie’s swagger was unmistakable. Shoulders back, head up and breathing out plumes of blue smoke, he strode along College Road as if he owned it – calling hello to the owner of Benson’s music shop, pausing to flirt with Cynthia Leigh outside her hairdressing salon, then on again with his two iced buns stuffed into his jacket pocket and thoughts of how best to fill his spare time circling like hawks over his head.
Sally’s third day in the office saw the arrival of her brand-new typewriter. She and Pamela lifted the shiny Imperial out of its cardboard box, remarking on its small size and light weight before poring over the instructions. Pamela then inserted a ribbon and typed ‘the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog’.
‘Perfect!’ she declared.
Sally sat at her desk and experimented with the space bar and a series of capital letters. Peck-peck-peck with the keys; ‘SALLY HOPKINS’. She tried the numbers – ‘12345678910’.
‘Happy?’ Pamela hardly needed to ask – Sally’s smile was broad enough to split her freckled face in two.
‘I can’t wait to get cracking.’ Sally sorted through the pile of letters awaiting reply. ‘What do I say to this one?’ She showed Pamela the letter of complaint they’d received from Dixon’s yard. ‘It says we got their last order wrong.’
Pamela read the letter and took in the details. ‘This is one for main office to sort out. I’ll go while you get on with the rest.’
She left Sally perched on her plump new cushion, happily typing away, and hurried through to the office at the front of the building – a long, narrow room overlooking the yard, lined with shelves supporting thick ledgers and containing two large desks where her father and Fred spent their days checking columns of figures.
‘Look who it isn’t!’ Harold looked up at his daughter and smiled. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’
Fred glanced up briefly then carried on with his calculations.
‘Can you check Dixon’s last order for me please?’ Handing over the letter of complaint to her father, she sidled over to Fred’s desk and peered over his shoulder, willing him to break off from his work. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a wristwatch with a brown leather strap and strong forearms covered in fine, dark hairs.
He completed a column then looked up with a distracted frown. ‘What’s wrong with the order?’
‘Nothing, I expect. Arthur Dixon likes to try it on once in a while, to get out of paying what he owes us.’ Pamela held Fred’s gaze. ‘Will I see you in the canteen later?’
‘Probably.’ Fred shuffled papers around his desk.
Since skipping dinner on Monday, he had opted out of an arrangement to meet Pamela for a drink after work on the Tuesday, pleading a last-minute shift at the control centre. He’d been behaving differently somehow, as if an invisible barrier had come between them, though he’d denied that anything was wrong. Now, again, he seemed to be intent on keeping her at arm’s length. ‘Is everything all right?’ she murmured as her father left his desk to check a ledger at the far end of the room.
‘Yes.’ Fred made himself snap out of the gloom that had descended over him since the weekend. He fixed a smile on his face. ‘Everything’s fine. I’ll see you at dinner time.’
‘Good.’ She breathed a sigh of relief. And yet, and yet – the smile seemed forced. Fred put his head down and made it clear that he wanted to get on. The small signals couldn’t be ignored.
Harold returned with the ledger and an air of satisfaction. ‘Here’s the Dixon order dated March the tenth – just over a month ago. It was signed for on delivery. Everything in order, nothing about any missing items.’
Retrieving the letter, Pamela retreated to her own office where she found Sally typing furiously. Her slim fingers flew over the keys and she bent forward with an air of concentration until Pamela reminded her that it was time for elevenses.
They made tea together in a corner of their office. Sally moved quickly and deftly, setting out Hugh’s tray with cup and saucer, milk jug and a plate for biscuits.
Pamela boiled the new-fangled electric kettle and made the tea. ‘We make a good team,’ she commented.
‘I’m glad you think so.’ The nerves that Sally had experienced on day one had soon settled, and Pamela’s kindness had allowed her to quickly overcome her sense of inferiority. She’d left home that morning with a jaunty spring in her step, waving to little Rita who watched her from the doorstep while their father took a delivery of beer and spirits. Sally’s choice of outfit reflected her increasing confidence: an emerald-green dress with a wrap-over bodice and a skirt that swung as she walked. Her vibrant red hair was swept up to add height to her neat, small figure.
‘I do,’ Pamela insisted. ‘I couldn’t have hoped for a more willing and capable assistant.’
‘I can’t tell you how thrilled I was to get the job,’ Sally admitted as they waited for the tea to brew. ‘If only to prove the naysayers wrong.’
‘Which naysayers?’
‘My dad, for a start. He thinks my place is at home behind the bar. Then there was my fiancé …’ Sally’s voice trailed off and she took a sharp breath. ‘We got engaged while I was going to night classes.’
‘Engaged?’ Pamela prompted.
‘Yes, the wedding was set for November but it fell through at the last minute.’
Tact prevented Pamela from prying further. Instead, she put the teapot on the tray, ready for Sally to carry it through to Hugh.
‘He jilted me,’ Sally added as she picked up the tray with a rueful smile. ‘He changed his mind and that was that.’
‘But why?’ Pamela held the door open, unable to resist a follow-up question. ‘Did he give you any reason?’
Sally shook her head. ‘It came out of the blue. At the time I was heartbroken, I can tell you. But I got over it.’ She swallowed hard then proceeded along the corridor, tapping on Hugh’s door before entering with the tray.
A wave of sympathy swept over Pamela. What a rotten thing for this fiancé chap to have done. Yet Sally had remained determined to better herself – she’d picked up the pieces and carried on at night school. She’d applied for a job. That took courage and will-power. Admiration overrode her sympathy. All in all, Sally Hopkins was quite a girl.
‘What was his name?’ Connie asked when Pamela related Sally’s sad story later that evening. They were starting their shift at Gas Street, hoping as usual for a night without incident and glad of the cold yellow fog that had drifted up the estuary, hiding the usual targets from view. It had crept stealthily along the docks, twisting itself around tall cranes and between warehouses, deadening all sounds and blocking from view the air balloons securely anchored to their moorings on land and sea.
Pamela shrugged as she strapped on her helmet. ‘I don’t know – Sally didn’t mention it.’
‘Let me take a wild guess – it was Ron Butcher.’ Connie hadn’t plucked the name out of the ether. ‘Lizzie has been keeping her ears open – according to Sam Billington, Ron went off the rails late last year, round about the time he lost his job on the docks. Since then he’s been seen hanging around outside the Anchor. Anyhow, he looks the type to jilt a girl at the altar.’
‘That date would fit in with him breaking off the engagement to Sally.’
‘I’ll get Liz to find out from Sam if Ron was the culprit.’
‘Poor girl. I felt so sorry for her when she told me.’ The account had chimed with a fear that was germinating deep within Pamela that Fred was cooling in his affections for her. ‘Apparently there was no explanation for jilting her, but Sally picked herself up and got on with things. It seems that nothing knocks her off her perch for long.’
‘That’s the impression I get too.’ Connie had known of Sally Hopkins for a long time. All of Kelthorpe had admired the way she’d taken up the family reins and cared for her younger brothers and sisters. The little whirlwind was to be seen hanging out washing in the backyard of the Anchor or haggling over the price of fish in the market, running, never walking, serving pints with a cheerful smile. ‘I can’t say I know her well, though.’
‘She’s promised to lend a hand with my bridesmaid’s dress.’
‘Has she now?’ Was there no end to Sally’s energy? Connie picked up the telephone to tick off the first thing on her list. ‘Hello, operator – get me Kelthorpe 726, please.’
‘I didn’t have to ask her – she volunteered.’ Ready to depart for the Leisure Gardens, Pamela called these last words over her shoulder as she stepped out on to the street where, by chance, Reggie Nolan and Sid Donne had turned off Park Road and were coming towards her. Drat! Both were in civvies: smartly dressed in blazers and trilby hats.
When Reggie spotted her, he gave an admiring whistle. ‘Why, it’s the poster girl for the ARP!’ he called from the other side of the road. ‘And if she isn’t, she damn well ought to be!’
Determined to go about her ARP business, Pamela ignored his flattery. After a quick exchange, Sid carried on walking, while Reggie crossed the street to follow her. ‘What time do you finish your shift?’ he pestered. ‘Because I was thinking we might have time to squeeze in a quick drink.’
‘No, thank you.’ Pamela didn’t wish to be rude, but really Reggie was getting to be a proper nuisance.
‘Come on – just one little drink. Where’s the harm?’ Keep it casual, don’t scare the horses. ‘I’m new to town. I thought you could show me the sights.’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Connie would have known how to handle this. She would’ve given Reggie the brush-off and no mistake. Pamela’s face was flushed with embarrassment as she pressed on towards Park Road.
He persisted. ‘Tomorrow maybe?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘If you’re bothered about how it looks, we could invite Sid along to keep us company.’
We? Angered by Reggie’s cheeky presumption, Pamela stopped short of the entrance to the Leisure Gardens. ‘I’m not bothered about how it looks,’ she insisted, ‘I just don’t want to go out for a drink with you.’
‘Ouch!’ He raised his hands in surrender but there was mockery in his voice. ‘You can’t blame me for trying, though. That’s another compliment, by the way.’
‘Why is it?’ Frustration reached boiling point. Pamela ought to have walked away, not flung this challenge at him.
‘Because I’m saying you’re a hard girl for a bloke to resist, that’s why.’ Suddenly serious, he lowered his voice. ‘If you change your mind you know where to find me.’
‘I won’t,’ she said quietly. Out of habit she almost added a polite ‘thank you’ but she resisted and strode on.
‘Message received.’ Reggie resumed his mocking tone and gave her back view a sly salute. ‘Over and out.’