LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

the van. They made a bit of a night of it at the Legion, an Armistice night lock-in. Beats me how they get the booze, with all the rationing, but parading is thirsty work. You know how it is when the lads get together. Well, no, you wouldn’t, Lily. Walter never made it to the Forces, did he?’

      Why did the woman always have to rub in the fact that her fiancé, Walter, failed his medical?

      ‘He’ll need a stomach liner for his breakfast, then,’ Esme added.

      Bang went all their bacon rashers for the week again. Levi’s nights out at the Legion were getting to be a habit, leaving his sister to open up and set the stall in order. Not that she minded back when the war was on. She was proud to be holding the fort while the men were away, but now he was back he was happy to play at being the manager while she did all the work. It wasn’t fair.

      Esme had seen the pout, the flash of steel in Lily’s grey eyes. ‘Now don’t begrudge your brother a bit of extra, Lily. We’re lucky to have our boys in one piece when there are so many families still in mourning. Being a prisoner of war took it out of him. He was nothing but skin and bone when he came home. You had it easy, my girl.’

      But that was two years ago. It was Freddie who was still out in the Middle East doing his duty. There’d not been a letter this week. Perhaps that meant he was being shipped home for Christmas, as they’d promised. She couldn’t wait to see him again.

      Levi had milked his hero’s return for all it was worth, though his limp and scraggy bones were long gone. Time to make a fuss of her little brother, who had been on active service since 1940.

      Freddie wouldn’t recognise his big brother. He was not the lad who marched away all those years ago; the ace outside half who once had a trial for Grimbleton’s professional football club, the lynx who could shin up and down an apple tree faster than any of the boys in the street, who used to have a spring in his step when he swung the girls around the Palais de Danse in a quick step. Levi had gone to seed.

      If it wasn’t for the Winstanley wavy hair and grey eyes, Levi wouldn’t pass for a Winstanley. Now those eyes were dull like damp slate, and he stooped and had grown a paunch, the only one in the family to grow fat on austerity rations. He never looked them in the eye when he was talking and was always turning up late.

      Marriage to Ivy Southall had done him no favours. Of all the girls in Grimbleton he could have had his pick-the cream of the grammar school prefects, the tennis club and Zion Chapel-but he’d landed himself with a painted doll who whined like an air-raid siren and put on an accent so thick you could spread it on toast. She’d spun a sticky web of false glamour around herself and he’d flown into her trap, wedded and bedded within a year.

      That was mean, Lily thought, as she was biting her toast and Marmite on the run. You’re just jealous because after all these years you and Walt have not got round to naming the day.

      It was only right that Levi, who was the eldest, was married first. He’d been to war and back. He deserved to be settled down with his family in the upstairs best bedroom, but she’d done her bit too. It just wasn’t the same as wearing a uniform and doing proper war work, though. Someone had to keep the family business-Winstanley Health and Herbs-in the pink, help Mother with the stall and keep the Home Front loose, limber and productive. No one worked fast when they were constipated.

      All those dreams of leaving Grimbleton to join the WAAF or the WRNS and travelling abroad were sacrificed. It was only fair to hold the fort. Freddie had been all over the world: the Far East, the Mediterranean serving with the Military Police, and Levi served in the army on the Continent, in France and Belgium, until he was captured. The furthest Lily had been was the Lake District and Rhyl. There was no time to gallivant when there was a war on.

      Stop this. It was too bright a morning to be nitpicking. Time to gather her sandwiches and flask and run for the next bus into town.

      It was a new day, a new week. ‘Every dawn is a new beginning,’ said the Reverend Atkinson from his pulpit in Zion Chapel. She was lucky to have a life to live. The poor names etched on the war memorial had nothing. ‘For your tomorrow, we gave our today.’ How could she forget that?

      With a bit of luck Levi would show up at lunchtime and she could nip to the library and to the fent shop to look for some off-cuts for the Brownies’ costumes. The Christmas review would be upon them before long, rehearsals and costume-sewing bees, choir practice. No wonder there weren’t enough hours in the week for all her jobs. No wonder Walter complained he never got to see her alone. Bless him. With a bit of luck he’d be on duty at his uncle’s stall and they could have a sip of Bovril together and plan their wedding day.

      Lily stood at the bus stop looking up at the bright blue sky. It looked set fair for the day. There was still a tinge of bonfire smoke in the air. The leaves had turned crisp and golden. The world was lighting up again after years of darkness. There was hope in the air. The parson was right: a new day was a new beginning. No more moaning.

      The Winstanleys had survived the worst Hitler could throw at them. They were all in good enough health and in little Neville there was a new generation to follow on. God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world, she thought, smiling, and jumped on the bus.

      It took a native to admire the finer points of her home town, Lily mused, peering out at the rows of terraced houses that grew smaller and smaller as they drew closer to the edge of Grimbleton town centre, rows and rows of neat red-brick terraces, with whitened doorsteps and cotton net valances at the windows.

      The mill workers had long gone to their shift, and the schoolchildren had yet to throng the pavements, but the bus was full of familiar faces all muffled up against the frost and chill. A bus full of grey gabardines and brown coats, sombre hats and gloves holding wicker baskets, printed headscarves hiding iron curlers and pin curls. Not a glamour puss amongst them in pompadour kiss curls and high heels; a drab world of duns and greys, a tired world, weary after so much turmoil and uncertainty, trying to get back on its feet.

      But this is my home town, Lily sighed, all I’ve ever known.

      The route into town got darker as they passed Magellan’s Foundry, with its chimney belching smoke, the sparks flickering from the half-open door of the engineering works, the smell of tannery where piles of cow hides lay in the sun, and the bomb sites still gaping with half-built walls and rubble that grew purple with rosebay willowherb in the summertime.

      Then came Horton’s garage, which had taken a direct hit. No one had survived. It still saddened her to pass that spot. Wherever she looked there were the telltale signs of black-sooted buildings, empty half-boarded-up houses in need of repair. It would take years to freshen up the town.

      Yet only half a mile into its heart were majestic civic offices, the town hall, with its Palladian portico, a bustle of shops and streets, and down the side street the magnificent entrance to the Market Hall.

      It still gave her a thrill to walk through the doors, to see the huge iron-vaulted glass roof high above her head, the smell of brewing tea, meat paste and fresh baking mingled with cardboard boxes, cheese rind, starched linen and newly mopped tiles.

      The market was quiet on a Monday morning. Everyone was spent up after the weekend. Only the usual customers wanting a tonic or to use the weighing scales would grace the stall before noon. Plenty of time for Lily to dust over the stock, sort out the warehouse order, and chat over the football results with passers-by.

      She drew back the canvas curtains and sniffed the familiar smells of dandelion and burdock, liquorice roots, cough linctus, linseed, herbal smells mingled with embrocation oils: a heady brew that filled her with nostalgia.

      Winstanley Health and Herbs was more than just an alternative chemist’s shop, it was a piece of Grimbleton history. Lily’s grandfather, Travis Winstanley, was one of the first stallholders, a founder member of the Market Traders’ Association. No one could accuse him of being a quack selling remedies from the back of a wagon. He had studied the science, kept himself up to date and advertised his cures far and wide in the district. He had patented his own ‘Fog and Smog Syrup’ to clear chests of soot and grime. In summer the family

Скачать книгу