‘Oh, don’t say that. Wouldn’t it be just my luck?’ Lilian said with a groan. ‘The doctor seems to think it’s just the one, at any rate. He’s going to be a strapper.’
Bobby smiled. ‘You look good though. Glowing and all that. How do you feel?’
Lilian winced as she put a hand in the small of her back. ‘Sore. I’m glad we’re here finally. The Wicked Mother-in-law’s been looking daggers at me ever since I got too big to help much around the house.’
‘Oi. That’s my mam you’re talking about,’ Tony said as he came back in. He slipped an arm round his wife and gave her a kiss. ‘It’ll be nice to have you all to myself though.’
Bobby smiled. They seemed happy enough, in spite of a shaky start to married life. That was something.
‘Did you see the cot?’ she asked. ‘A gift from Reg and Mary.’
‘Aye, very smart,’ Tony said.
‘It belonged to their little girl. I was surprised they wanted to part with it, but Mary said she’d love to see it used for another little one.’
‘That’s kind of them,’ Lilian said. ‘We’ll thank them later. Is Dad at work?’
‘Yes, but he could be back any time now.’ Bobby took a piece of paper and a key from her pocket. ‘Now, I’ve written out my daily itinerary – everything I do in the morning before Dad gets up and in the evening before he gets home. I know you won’t be able to manage much of it, but Mary’s going to help, and I’ve arranged to pay Ida Wilcox a shilling a day to come and char for you. I’ve tried to repair as much of the roof as I can, but Tony, you and Dad will need to pitch in as well. And…’ She held the key out. ‘This is yours now.’
Lilian reached for it, but Bobby’s hand instinctively closed around it.
Lilian frowned. ‘Bobby?’
‘Ugh. Sorry, I don’t know why I did that.’ She dropped the key into Lilian’s palm. ‘It just suddenly occurred to me that I was really going.’ Bobby glanced around the cottage. ‘I’ll miss this place,’ she said softly. ‘I hadn’t realised until now quite how much.’
That night, Bobby slept better than she had for some time. She was tired after her walk, and the smell of Charlie in the box room, which had caused her such mental turmoil the last time she had slept there, felt strangely comforting after so many days of not hearing from him. She enjoyed a dreamless, restful sleep,feeling as though he was there at her side – although there was an emptiness when she woke and found that he wasn’t.
She awoke the next morning – the morning of Topsy’s wedding – some time before her alarm clock, and after washing and dressing, went downstairs to the parlour to type up an account of her walk. Reg hobbled in on her an hour later.
‘You again?’ he said, taking a seat at his desk. ‘I thought you’d resigned to go to war.’
‘I wanted to get this walk typed,’ Bobby murmured, not looking up.
‘That’ll keep while tomorrow. Go get your breakfast, lass. You work too hard.’
Bobby glanced up to smile. ‘That’s rich coming from you.’
‘Aye, well, I’m an old man. Nowt else to do with missen at my age.’ He nodded to her typewriter. ‘Taking it with you when you go?’
Bobby looked at the old Remington as if seeing it for the first time. It had been a gift from her parents when she had graduated from Pitman’s College many years ago, second-hand even then, but old though it was, it had served her well. For the past fifteen months it had sat here, on her desk in the Athertons’ parlour. The idea of it not being here… for some reason, that felt even more final than when she had handed over the cow house key.
She was going. She wouldn’t be here any more. Tony would sit at this desk, doing her job. It was Tony and Lil who would sleep in her bed at the cow house, and take care of her father. And Bobby would be… who knew what she would be doing?
‘I don’t know,’ she said in a slightly choked voice. ‘I suppose I’ll leave it at the cow house. Tony’s got his own machine and I won’t need it where I’m going, will I? I’m sure the WAAF have got plenty of typewriters.’
‘Nay, take it with thee. Never know when you might have a bit of time to do some writing. Don’t want to let those skills stagnate, eh?’
‘I suppose not,’ Bobby said vaguely.
‘Oh. While I’ve got you here.’ Reg took a fat envelope from a drawer. He limped to her desk to hand it to her.
‘What is it?’ Bobby asked.
‘Leaving present.’
Bobby slid her hand into the envelope and drew out a book. It was a hardback edition of the memoir of her hero, Dorothy Lawrence: a woman reporter who had disguised herself as a man in the last war and served at the front.
‘For me?’ she said, running her hand wonderingly over the dust jacket.
