‘Come and see.’ Charlie put the box down.
Too curious not to comply, Bobby went to open the box. She drew out a hardback book with a colourful cover: one of several. The title wasLindy Langstaff, Pride of the WAAF, and the name underneath it was Roberta Atherton.
‘My author copies,’ she whispered. ‘Where did you get these? The publisher told me it would be at least a fortnight until they reached me.’
‘Pete Dixon were making a trip down to London yesterday for some shady business or other,’ her dad told her. ‘Slipped him a quid to pick these up and bring ’em back for you. We thought you’d get a thrill from having them today.’
Florrie came over to see what was going on, Ernie holding her hand and tripping over his feet in his hurry to reach his mother.
‘What is it, Bobby?’ Florrie asked.
‘It’s my story,’ Bobby said, showing her the book. ‘The serial I wrote forThe Girl’s Own. A publisher contacted my agent and told him they wanted to make it into a book.’
Florrie stared at it. ‘Gosh. You wrote a whole book?’
‘I did.’ Bobby took a copy from the box and handed it to Florrie. ‘Here, this one’s for you. You know, it was really you who gave me the idea.’
‘Was it?’
‘That’s right. Seeing the wonderful stories you wrote for Annie made me remember how much I’d loved writing them myself when I was your age. That was when I came up with Lindy.’
‘Gosh,’ Florrie said again. ‘Will you sign it for me, Bobby? Then everyone at school will have to believe me when I tell them I know you.’
Bobby swelled. She had never been asked to sign her work before. Signing her own book, with her name right on the cover, would make her really feel like an author.
‘If you like,’ she said. ‘I’ll come over to you when I’ve hunted down a pen.’
‘I hope I get my name on a book one day.’
Bobby smiled. ‘Keep writing as well as you do and I’m sure you will.’
Ernie was fussing to be picked up, turning red in the face as he stood on tiptoes and stretched up to his mother. Bobby lifted him into her arms.
‘Look, Ernie,’ she said, showing him the book she was holding. ‘Your mam wrote a book. What do you think to that, darling?’
‘Trifle,’ Ernie said in a matter-of-fact tone.
He had clearly picked up the word from the conversation earlier, and although Bobby was sure he had never seen a triflein his life, the reaction of the Parry girls had obviously conveyed the idea that it was something to be desired.
‘That’s rather rude,’ Bobby told him. ‘It certainly wasn’t a trifle. Actually it was quite difficult, with your lordship demanding all my attention.’
Charlie laughed. ‘Sorry, Bob. When you’re two, pudding is always going to come higher on the list of priorities than books even if your mam did write them. But I’m proud of you.’
‘We all are,’ Mary said. ‘Well done, Bobby.’
Her dad nodded. ‘Hear hear.’
‘Bobby, give Charlie the baby,’ Reg said. ‘I want a word.’
Bobby passed Ernie to his father. ‘Here. Try not to let him catch sight of any trifle before the tea, though, Charlie. I wouldn’t put it past him to scoff the whole thing by himself, even if it is as big as Blackpool Tower.’
‘All right, my lad, come with me,’ Charlie said. ‘At your age, it’s high time you learnt the proper way to make a paper aeroplane.’
‘What is it, Reg?’ Bobby asked when they were alone.
He rubbed his neck. ‘Well, happen this won’t mean much to you now you’ve got your books and that. But with the war over and the paper ration hopefully on its way out, this could be a new era for our little mag. I’ve got a list of potential subscribers a mile long, just waiting till I could get the paper to print enough magazines for them.’
‘I know, you could make it a good little business once they lift the restrictions.’
