Reg looked up, frowning, as if this was the first time it had occurred to him that he was losing not only Bobby herself but his top – indeed, his only – staff reporter.
‘You told me you were going to take on a junior reporter instead of relying on freelancers,’ she reminded him. ‘You said…’ She flushed slightly. ‘…you said there’d be a deputy editor role for me once they started work.’
‘Aye, well, that’ll need another think if I’m having to train someone from scratch. Still, I’ll have to advertise for a lad. Can’tdo it all on my tod.’ He paused. ‘Or a lass. I reckon you’ve taught me that, at least – I’m not the stuffy old fuddy-duddy I was before you and the girls showed up to turn my life topsy-turvy.’
‘But after the war. What then?’
‘Never mind what then. It’s what now you ought to be worrying about.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘You just be thinking about how you can win round these hardship people. Then it’s academic.’
‘But if I can’t, and I have to go. You’d have me back, wouldn’t you?’
Bobby could hear the note of pleading in her voice. She couldn’t help it. After her concerns about what would happen to her father and sister if she had to go, the permanent loss of her job was her biggest worry. If her place on the magazine was filled by someone else, would that mean the end of all her hopes for her career?
‘You’ll always have a home at Moorside,’ Reg said, turning back to his work.
He didn’t meet her eye. Bobby knew what he was saying. As a close friend of the family, his brother’s future wife, she would always be welcome at the farmhouse. As for her job, he couldn’t or wouldn’t guarantee it would be waiting for her when England dumped her unceremoniously back on Civvy Street.
‘Right,’ she said, her shoulders slumping. ‘Thank you.’
Moorside Farm had proper plumbing, with indoor taps and an outhouse with a flush lavatory that they shared with the folk at Cow House Cottage. The ancient barn Bobby lived in with her dad, however, only had its old pump. When she visited it that afternoon to fill her bucket, she found it was frozen solid and hadto make a trip back to the farmhouse to beg some water from Mary’s kitchen taps.
When she got home, she put the kettle on and set about building the fire in the parlour.
It was ‘fair nithering’ in the draughty stone barn, as if there were ice crystals hovering in the air itself. Bobby’s fingers, numb and purple, fumbled as she stacked the last of their supply of coke in the grate. She found tears falling and dashed them away with sooty fingers, but they soon fell so thick and fast that it was useless to try to keep them at bay.
She did so much for her father – she was sure he had no idea how much. Men never did realise how many things the women in their lives did to ensure their comfort. How every day she made her arm ache filling the bucket at the stiff, freezing pump to make his tea; lit the fire; turned, aired and made his bed; washed his clothes; drew and heated the water for his weekly bath; bought his food; cooked his meals; cleaned his home, and still managed to fit in a full-time job and her shifts at the ARP shelter.
And the one thing no stranger could do: soothing him after one of the all-too-frequent nightmares about his time in the trenches, and carefully controlling his access to the spirits he used to chase them away – and which he was apt to abuse if left to himself. When the low moods came, when he felt burdensome and useless, that was where the danger lay. Then the drinks became more frequent, the periods of depression deeper and longer, the memories harder to escape from. Until eventually, when life seemed too painful to be borne…
Another tear fell, putting out the wax taper Bobby was using to light the fire, and she struck a match to light it again.
She didn’t feel she could talk to Mary about what her dad had tried to do, or even to Reg, although he had seen horrors enough of his own in the last war. Suicide was viewed as such ashameful thing. A sinful thing. Her father would be hurt beyond belief if he knew Bobby had been discussing it with others. Only Charlie, her good friend Don Sykes and her sister Lilian knew what had happened that night. How Bobby wished she could talk to Charlie, or any of them, if only for a moment! Her mind was so full she didn’t know what to make of it all.
But her nearest and dearest weren’t here to give her counsel, and besides, they had worries of their own. Don had written just after Christmas to say he’d had an important letter himself demanding his urgent presence in khaki at an army barracks very soon, and so he was preparing to leave his wife, young daughter and newborn child. Charlie would be moving on from his training post ten miles away any day now, and could soon be in the air over Europe. And Lilian… Bobby sighed. God knew what state her twin’s mind was in, with no husband and a baby on the way.
That reminded her: the other letter, which she had stuffed forgotten into her pocket after opening that all-important summons from King and Country. She thought it had been addressed in her sister’s familiar cramped, neat hand. Bobby took it out to read while she waited for the fire to start giving out some warmth.
She frowned as she examined the envelope. It was her sister’s handwriting, but there was no military censor’s stamp; no service number on the back.
Had something happened? The last time she had spoken to Lilian had been three days after Christmas, as Lil prepared to return to her post in Greenwich. Bobby had said goodbye at the bus stop by the Black Bull pub, Lilian in her navy-blue Wren’s uniform – perhaps very slightly snugger around the waist than it had been months earlier, but with little evidence otherwise of the predicament she was in. Lil had written to Tony Scott, the baby’s father, the day after Boxing Day and told Bobby shewould wait to hear from him before she made any decisions about the future.
‘You’ll come home though, won’t you?’ Bobby had said as she’d hugged her sister tight. ‘After you leave the Wrens, I mean. Here, to me and Dad.’
Lilian had smiled sadly. ‘If I’m still welcome once Dad finds out what I’ve done.’
‘He’ll come round.’
Lilian sighed. ‘I don’t know, Bob. He’ll be so disappointed in me.’
‘At first, perhaps, but he loves you, Lil.’
‘Well, I’m not going to rush to resign my place – not until I’ve heard from Tony. There’s still a couple of weeks before I’ll really start to show. More, if I keep my corsets laced tight. I’m going to need all the money I can get.’
That had been less than a week ago. Yet the letter Bobby was holding looked like a civilian letter, and the postmark on it was Leeds. Was Lil not still at her billet in Greenwich?
Bobby tore it open, hoping she wouldn’t find yet more worrying news inside. What she read there… she didn’t know whether to call it good news or not. But it was certainly news.
Dear Bobby,
