and those about them looked. Lee was in his chair and he was crying now.
Maisie winced at the tightening grip. People closed in and now the band were playing ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas’. In goddamn September, Rosie thought, even as she moved closer to Maisie, pulling at Ollie’s arm, wanting them all to be safe again, as they had been just a moment ago.
‘I gave them to her,’ Rosie said. ‘I brought them back from America, don’t you remember?’
It was over then, over as though it had never been, and Jack took her back into the dance and the heat. The music was slow as Jack took her in his arms.
It was too hot but it didn’t matter, he was with her, touching her, and she almost felt safe again but she could still see Ollie’s anger and Maisie’s fear. She didn’t tell Jack that she had given Maisie Camels, not Lucky Strikes.
Jack was leading her out now, into the dark cool air, away from the music and the people, and they stood down at the gate again, feeling their carved initials with their fingers, seeing the wild hops winding round the hedge and the telegraph pole, seeing the lights from the farm, hearing the owl in the distance, the music from the oast-house. It was now that he kissed her, with soft, gentle lips, and it was as though she had known this feeling of warmth and safety all her life because his tongue did not intrude into her mouth, nor his hands move to her breast, and his skin had the smell of the boy she had grown up with.
She kissed him back, holding his head in her hands, wondering at the children they had once been, and the people they had become, and it seemed that their friendship had become something stronger. Something good. Yes, she was home at last, safe at last, and the cigarettes meant nothing.
CHAPTER 5
On their return Mrs Eaves had assigned them to different counters. Rosie didn’t mind. She stacked the notebooks, laid out the pencils, the few sharpeners clutched inside the tiny globes. She looked at America. So large. And at Britain. So small. And as Glenn Miller played ‘The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B’ she thought of Nancy and Frank, of Sandra and Joe, and it didn’t hurt so much, because she had spent September in the soft warm hills with Jack and was at her evening classes twice a week.
Norah minded though. She had been put on haberdashery and measured out quarter-inch baby ribbon, cord, and tape and added up on a pad, her face set, her voice sharp.
At home she sat nearest to the fire, her stockings rolled down round her ankles, her slippers trodden down beneath her heels, and would not talk of hop-picking, or the sun which had turned their skin brown, or the stream which had lapped at their legs, because if they hadn’t been there she would still be on jewellery.
Rosie and Grandpa talked though, long into the night, and his skin was tanned too, his eyes bright again. They talked of the bines which floated like seaweed in the evening breeze, of the gypsies who danced on that last night as though they were part of the earth and sky. They talked of Maisie and Ollie whom they often heard laughing in the yard now, of Lee who was tossed into the air, Ollie’s hands strong around his waist. They talked and they laughed but Grandpa did not discuss Jack, he just took her hand one night, and said, ‘I’m glad you’ve found your friend again. Sixteen is difficult, it’s half child, half adult. You need someone you can trust.’
Rosie told Jack as they walked to the Palais, Sam and Ted behind them, and Jack nodded. ‘Yes, that’s it. It’s the trust.’
Jack came dancing with them every night now, because Ollie wasn’t drinking and shouting and sleeping. He was working on the stall, selling nylons out of a suitcase, his finger to his nose if he was asked what else.
On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays the gang went dancing, slipping 1/6
d
on to the pay desk, making for a table at the edge of the floor. Sam and Ted looked at the girls who
Maisie winced at the tightening grip. People closed in and now the band were playing ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas’. In goddamn September, Rosie thought, even as she moved closer to Maisie, pulling at Ollie’s arm, wanting them all to be safe again, as they had been just a moment ago.
‘I gave them to her,’ Rosie said. ‘I brought them back from America, don’t you remember?’
It was over then, over as though it had never been, and Jack took her back into the dance and the heat. The music was slow as Jack took her in his arms.
It was too hot but it didn’t matter, he was with her, touching her, and she almost felt safe again but she could still see Ollie’s anger and Maisie’s fear. She didn’t tell Jack that she had given Maisie Camels, not Lucky Strikes.
Jack was leading her out now, into the dark cool air, away from the music and the people, and they stood down at the gate again, feeling their carved initials with their fingers, seeing the wild hops winding round the hedge and the telegraph pole, seeing the lights from the farm, hearing the owl in the distance, the music from the oast-house. It was now that he kissed her, with soft, gentle lips, and it was as though she had known this feeling of warmth and safety all her life because his tongue did not intrude into her mouth, nor his hands move to her breast, and his skin had the smell of the boy she had grown up with.
She kissed him back, holding his head in her hands, wondering at the children they had once been, and the people they had become, and it seemed that their friendship had become something stronger. Something good. Yes, she was home at last, safe at last, and the cigarettes meant nothing.
CHAPTER 5
On their return Mrs Eaves had assigned them to different counters. Rosie didn’t mind. She stacked the notebooks, laid out the pencils, the few sharpeners clutched inside the tiny globes. She looked at America. So large. And at Britain. So small. And as Glenn Miller played ‘The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B’ she thought of Nancy and Frank, of Sandra and Joe, and it didn’t hurt so much, because she had spent September in the soft warm hills with Jack and was at her evening classes twice a week.
Norah minded though. She had been put on haberdashery and measured out quarter-inch baby ribbon, cord, and tape and added up on a pad, her face set, her voice sharp.
At home she sat nearest to the fire, her stockings rolled down round her ankles, her slippers trodden down beneath her heels, and would not talk of hop-picking, or the sun which had turned their skin brown, or the stream which had lapped at their legs, because if they hadn’t been there she would still be on jewellery.
Rosie and Grandpa talked though, long into the night, and his skin was tanned too, his eyes bright again. They talked of the bines which floated like seaweed in the evening breeze, of the gypsies who danced on that last night as though they were part of the earth and sky. They talked of Maisie and Ollie whom they often heard laughing in the yard now, of Lee who was tossed into the air, Ollie’s hands strong around his waist. They talked and they laughed but Grandpa did not discuss Jack, he just took her hand one night, and said, ‘I’m glad you’ve found your friend again. Sixteen is difficult, it’s half child, half adult. You need someone you can trust.’
Rosie told Jack as they walked to the Palais, Sam and Ted behind them, and Jack nodded. ‘Yes, that’s it. It’s the trust.’
Jack came dancing with them every night now, because Ollie wasn’t drinking and shouting and sleeping. He was working on the stall, selling nylons out of a suitcase, his finger to his nose if he was asked what else.
On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays the gang went dancing, slipping 1/6
d
on to the pay desk, making for a table at the edge of the floor. Sam and Ted looked at the girls who
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