The girls’ father, they learned over the course of their first fortnight in the farmhouse, was Captain George Parry: a soldier who had been with the British Expeditionary Force at Dunkirk. His children were inordinately proud of him, as well they might be.
A letter to his daughters’ hosts thanking them for their hospitality revealed a little more about the family and the change in their fortunes hinted at by Florence. In civilian life, George Parry had been a master tailor and at one time the keeper of a successful gentlemen’s outfitters. The family had led a comfortable existence until a crisis some seven years previously had forced him to sell his establishment. The money earned from the sale had quickly disappeared, and the family had never quite recovered from the loss. Although Captain Parry didn’t say in his letter what the crisis had been, Mary had surmised that it must have been connected to his wife’s decline in health and ultimate death following Jessie’s birth. On reading Captain Parry’s letter, she had immediately given each girl a hug and ninepence each for some ‘spice’ from the village shop, earning grumbles from Reg about them becoming quite spoiled in their temporary home.
The surly editor – set in his ways and disliking changes to his routine – had been a tougher nut to crack than the rest of the household. Of course, the way to his heart had proved, as always, to be through his magazine.
Bobby was at her desk in the parlour one afternoon, typing up the Bowside walk she’d done with Charlie, when Reg approached to see how she was getting on.
‘Nearly done, are you?’ he asked, looking over her shoulder.
‘Almost. Another ten minutes and it’ll be ready for you to sub.’
‘Happen you made it to the hut that afternoon then?’
Bobby fought back a smile. ‘Did you doubt I would?’
‘I knew my no-good brother would do his best to lead you astray. I wouldn’t try to defend him if I were you. I know what he’s like all too well.’
‘He might have suggested cutting the walk short. There was a storm brewing, so I don’t think you ought to be too hard on him for that. Anyhow, I stood my ground and insisted we keep going until we reached the hut.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ There was the faintest flicker of a smile. ‘Since you managed to pass my little test, I might be persuaded to let you cover Kiltford Show with me after all.’
She looked up at him. ‘Oh gosh, would you really?’
‘Well. I know you’ve had your heart set on it, for some reason. If we’re separated, just be sure to watch yourself round the beer tent. The farmers around here are a respectable lot 364 days of the year, but when the ale flows on show day then young ladies need to watch themselves.’
‘Thanks, Reg. You won’t be sorry.’
‘See that I’m not.’
She smiled. ‘You know, sometimes I think you might be almost glad you let Mary talk you into employing me.’
‘Let’s not get carried away,’ he said with a rare smile. ‘Still, you’re not bad for a lass – I doubt I could’ve done better. Good brain, fair turn of phrase and not afraid of hard work. I don’t know why you want to be hanging about with a bone-idle ne’er-do-well like our Charlie.’
It was unusual for Reg to give her praise worded any more strongly than ‘aye, that’ll do’. Bobby looked up at him, sensing an opportunity to build bridges between the two Atherton brothers while he was in a communicative mood.
‘Do you really think that?’ she asked. ‘Surely you can’t believe all the bad things you say about your brother.’
He shrugged. ‘Sometimes I do. Then again, sometimes I don’t. Depends what he’s been up to.’
‘I would have thought you’d be proud. He didn’t have to join up but he did. He’s conscientious in his job, even if he does like a good time outside of work. Everyone in the village likes him.’
‘Aye. A bit too much, if we’re talking about some of the lasses.’
‘And he’s been a wonder helping Florrie and Jessie settle in,’ Bobby went on, ignoring that remark. ‘They think the world of him.’
‘That’s the thing, isn’t it?’ Reg said, looking away. ‘Charlie’s got a lot to him, scapegrace that he is. Strong brain. Good heart when he stops thinking about himself for five minutes. He’s got courage too, and a conscience of sorts, but he’s lazy and juvenile. Doesn’t care enough about what people think of him – takes after his mother in that respect. Charlie’s too fond of enjoying himself when he ought to be improving himself, and he drags others down with him.’
‘If it’s me you mean, you needn’t worry. I feel like we balance each other out, Charlie and I. I’m too much inclined to overwork, him to overplay. I suppose that’s what makes us… friends.’ She met his eyes. ‘He never says so, but it hurts him that he thinks he doesn’t have your approval. He looks up to you as a father, Reg.’
‘What do you know of it?’
‘More than you might think. I’m a reporter, aren’t I? I notice things. It’d mean the world if you told him just once how much he’s done to make you proud.’
‘Huh. I go hard on him because I want to see him get on in life,’ Reg muttered. ‘I hate to see him wasting his talents while he’s out chasing women or knocking back pints at the pub, having everyone in the village whispering about what a rum lad he is. They might like him but they don’t respect him. Why should they? He’s done nowt to earn their respect.’
‘He’s been better lately.’
‘Happen,’ Reg said noncommittally. ‘Still. If I don’t tell him he can do better, who else is there to make him try? Mary spoils the boy, and like you say, I’m the closest he’s got to a father.’
