‘Book review.’
‘What’s the book please?’
‘Historical novel. Load of rubbish.’ He looked up. ‘Nowt to interest a bairn.’
‘Am I a bairn?’
‘Aye, that you are. A naughty one as doesn’t do what she’s told first time.’
Bobby smiled to herself as she carried on with her work. Reg was doing his best to keep up his irascible tone, but she could tell he was amused. Ever since Florence had told him on the day she arrived that she’d gladly take on the entire German army single-handedly, Bobby had noticed a certain affection for the girl – although, of course, Reg always did his best not to show it.
Florence scuffed her shoe against the carpet. Reg waited, but she didn’t speak.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘Am I to be left in peace today or not, Florence Parry?’
‘It’s a good magazine, your magazine,’ the little girl said.
Reg laughed. ‘Read it, have you?’
‘Some. I’m good at reading for my age, Miss Reed says.’ Miss Reed was Florence’s teacher at the village school, where the two girls had been enrolled along with their fellow evacuees.
Reg looked amused now. ‘What parts do you read then, Little Miss Good-at-Reading?’
‘I like the bits about what animals do and the comics. I like the stories too. Even the scary ones, like the one about the ghost dog, if I don’t read them before bedtime. But I don’t understand the bits where all the spelling goes funny.’
‘That’s our dialect here – dialect means the way that folk speak. When you’ve been in Yorkshire long enough, you’ll be able to understand it. You need to listen to how we talk, that’s all.’ He went back to his work.
‘Reg?’ Florence said, somewhat hesitantly.
He looked up. ‘Are you still here?’
‘I wrote a story. For your magazine.’ She puffed herself up. ‘It’s about an owl called Owly and her sister who get sent to live in Yorkshire because of the bombs.’
‘Sounds familiar.’
‘Uncle Charlie read it and he said that if you put it in then it’d be one of the best stories he’d ever read inThe Tyke.’
‘Huh. Did he indeed?’
‘Will you read it and see if it’s good?’ She scuffed her foot again. ‘It probably ain’t good enough for your magazine. But I want you to read it anyhow. I wrote it for you to read.’
Bobby looked up from her work. ‘You know, Reg, that isn’t a bad idea. I’ve thought before that we ought to have a page or two for children. Puzzles and comics and so forth. They could write to us with their jokes and stories too. Why not?’
‘Why not? Because there’s a war on, lass, that’s why not. I had to cut four pages last month thanks to the paper ration. We’ve no room for the scribblings of bairns.’ He looked at Florence’s hopeful face and sighed. ‘All right, let’s see this story then.’
The little girl clapped her hands and ran up to the attic to get it for him.
She came back with a sheet of scrap paper filled with small, painstakingly neat writing, as if the story had been drafted roughly and then copied into best for Reg’s benefit. She handed it to him shyly.
‘I’ll go see if our tea’s ready yet,’ Bobby said, judging it wise to leave them together for a few moments.
Mary was kneading bread in the kitchen with Jessie. The child was arranging a couple of mugs, a milk jug and sugar bowl on a tray with the pompous air of a new housewife proud of a job well done.
‘What’s to do then?’ Mary asked, looking up in surprise when she entered. Bobby rarely left the parlour during the working day, except at midday, when she went home to make herself and her father their dinner.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Bobby smiled. ‘Florence wrote a story for the magazine. I left her and Reg alone while he read it. He’ll be less embarrassed saying kind things about it without me there.’
‘That was good thinking.’
