She smiled at him. ‘Anyone ever tell you you’re kind of an old stuffed shirt, Ernie?’
‘Yeah, you,’ he said, smiling back. ‘Nothing wrong with being a little old-fashioned, is there?’
‘But women don’t exist only to be what their men want them to be. They might not be called on to fly fighters or sail ships orfire a gun, but they’ve got lives to lead all the same. We’re people, not an ideal.’
‘I think you girls should be looked after is all. You’re better than us – always have been. Some of us want to see you stay that way.’
‘Not me though.’
‘Oh, no, not you,’ he agreed solemnly. ‘You’re the absolute pits, Slacks.’
She laughed, feeling the awkwardness of that moment on the ice ebb away as he teased her. ‘So you think I should make a case for hardship?’
‘Sure I do, and fight for it. Your place is here, looking after your old man. Have a word with Topsy. There’s sure to be some pal of her father’s can get you out of it.’ They had reached the old packhorse bridge that led from the village to Moorside Farm, with the squat silhouette of Cow House Cottage visible ahead. ‘The parting of the ways. I guess this is goodbye.’
‘Not forever though,’ she said as she returned his greatcoat to him.
He put it over his shoulders. ‘Depends what the RCAF decides to do with me once I’m fighting fit again.’
‘You’ll at least be back for the wedding?’
‘For Topsy’s, as long as they let me out for it. Not for yours, so you can spare yourself the invite.’ He put out his hand to her. ‘Put it there then, Bobby Bancroft. I won’t forget you.’
Bobby smiled as she shook it. ‘I swear I’ll never understand you if we stay friends a hundred years. Are all Canadian men like you?’
‘Oh, no. Not nearly so good-looking.’ He bent towards her, and before she could object he’d planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘You’re a swell kid, for all your odd ideas. Hope to see you again.’
He strode off into the darkness, leaving her staring after him. In his own way, he was as much of a puzzle to her as Charlie.
She would miss him when he left Silverdale. Ernie King had brought something into her life, these last few months they’d been getting to know one another. Something exciting and fun and carefree. But as Bobby watched that tall, broad figure walk away and thought back to how he had looked at her, lying under her on the ice… perhaps she had imagined it, but still, she felt strangely relieved that he was going to be out of her life for a while.
Chapter 7
The next morning, Bobby prepared to make the journey to Bradford for her medical. Reg had given her the day off – he hadn’t had any choice, of course – with her lost wages and travel expenses to be reimbursed by the War Office.
Her medical wasn’t until four, but she wanted to leave early. She had told Reg this was to avoid being late if there were delays on the railway, as there so often were these days due to air-raid warnings, troop movements and bomb damage on the line. In reality, she was determined to see her sister as soon as she could.
Mary had instructed her to call in for breakfast before setting off, so once she was dressed, Bobby headed to the farmhouse.
She frowned when she entered the kitchen. Mary was alone – at least, alone apart from Hetty the hen, who was once again cough-clucking away at the fireside. Mary was at the hob boiling eggs for their breakfast, but her shoulders were shaking with soft sobs.
‘Mary! What on earth is wrong?’ Bobby went to embrace her.
Mary gave a damp laugh, taking out a lavender-scented hanky to dab her eyes. ‘I’m a silly old fool, that’s all that’s wrong. Now you mustn’t say a word to the bairns. Florrie’s so happy, I’d hate her to think I was miserable for my own selfish sake.’
‘What do you mean?’
They were interrupted by Florrie herself, who came bouncing into the kitchen in a somewhat dishevelled state. She had only one sock on, and her pinafore frock hung unbuttoned over one shoulder. Jessie followed more sedately and went quietly to the fire to sit by Hetty.
Florrie beamed when she saw Bobby and rocked gleefully on her heels.
‘I knew I heard you,’ she said. ‘Did Mary tell you our news, Bobby?’
Bobby cast a puzzled look at Mary, who had turned away while she composed herself.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said, bending to button the child’s dress for her. ‘What news should Mary have told me?’
‘It’s Dad! He’s to be… oh, I can’t remember the word. Dematerialised, that’s it. Mary got a letter this morning.’
