Sometimes she’d read out the addresses on the letters and make all sorts of suppositions—“Nether Wallop, Hampshire—can you imagine living in such a place? I bet they thought they were going to give Hitler a beating. Too bad for this chap it didn’t turn out that way. He should have lived in Greater Wallop.”
Lily would smile, and then feel guilty for doing so, even though it could be such a relief to have a bit of fun, even if it was at the expense of the poor soldiers whose letters they typed.
“They’re dead, Lily,” Iris had said when she’d expressed this once. “They don’t care.”
“I know, but…”
Iris had rolled her eyes and sniffed—again—and Lily fell silent. Perhaps it didn’t matter as much as she feared it did.
Although she didn’t particularly enjoy her work, she’d heard of some jobs her friends from school had been conscripted for—shining men’s boots, or scrubbing latrines, or sweeping streets—and she counted herself fortunate, thanks to a strong set of O Levels and a reference from her head teacher about how diligent she was. Having to put up with Iris’ constant sniff was probably the worst thing about it, really.
Yet sometimes, in the midst of the drudgery of typing letters, Lily felt a flicker of longing. It was never to do something exciting as Sophie seemed to wish to, but rather simply to be where people were alive and life happened. The few minutes of idle chat with Iris and Mabel, the new girl, was the only conversation she had all day, and it was far from sparkling. Sometimes, as she ate her sandwich made from the National Loaf, with the thinnest scraping of margarine and a teaspoonful of potted meat, listening to Iris sniff, she wished she could talk and listen to someone who was alive, hear their opinions, maybe even laugh a little.
One evening, a little over a week since the night at The Berkeley, she headed up Whitehall, night having fallen hours ago, the city swathed in an impenetrable darkness that was alleviated neither by stars nor moon, as thick cloud covered the sky.
They’d had three air raids in the last week, nights spent in the cold and cramped Anderson shelter in the back of the muddy garden while the world around them buzzed and screamed and crackled; they’d emerged each time blinking in the gloom of the night, the sky still reddened like a wound, the air full of the acrid smell of burning. No one on their street had been hurt, but a house the next street over had had a direct hit, and a mother and baby had been killed in their beds.
“You would think, after all this time, they would know to go to the shelter,” Carol had said with a shake of her head, and then made a Woolton pie and taken it over to the woman’s sister, who now had care of the two older children, along with her own three.
Lily hurried up the road, her head tucked low, weaving in and out of the other pedestrians who were just as eager as her to get home. The night at The Berkeley, with its champagne and dancing and laughter, felt like a lifetime ago, or a dream, so different from the days in the office, evenings at home with a cup of tea and the wireless, and then the raids. Sometimes she felt as if it hadn’t happened at all, or if it had, it had only happened to Sophie.
Her sister had resented Tom Reese’s silence, had been offended and purposefully indifferent in turns, her moods as lightning quick as ever. As for Matthew Lawson… his silence didn’t surprise Lily at all.
By the time she made it back to Holmside Road, after enduring a twenty-minute wait to be pressed into the train car like a sardine wedged into its tiny tin, it was after six o’clock, and she was weary and footsore—her shoes were giving out and they didn’t have the clothing coupons to buy another pair—and a light, icy rain had started falling, drenching her in drizzle.
“Lily.” Carol greeted her at the door, her expression so animated, Lily felt an odd lurch of uncertain hope—what could possibly make her mother look so bright? What good news might have happened that she hadn’t heard about? “Come, look what Sergeant Lawson has brought.”
“Sergeant Lawson…” Lily unwrapped her scarf as she stepped into the sitting room, staring in surprise at the sight of Matthew Lawson standing by the fire, smart and serious in his uniform, his cap in his hands.
“Good day, Miss Mather. Or I suppose I should say good evening.”
“Good evening.” Lily’s head felt as if it were full of cotton wool. It would be rude to ask him what he was doing here, but what was he doing here? There hadn’t been a peep from either Matthew or Tom since the night at The Berkeley, something which had put Sophie decidedly out of sorts.
Lily had been subjected every night to her sister’s chameleon-like ruminations about Tom’s silence—one evening he simply must be too busy, another he’d gone off Sophie, and yet another she didn’t care anyway because he was a bit dull—“corn-fed farm boy, really. He didn’t even know what Big Ben was. Can you imagine?”
Lily had simply assumed the evening was a one-off, two American soldiers amusing themselves in the city, before they were called to duty, or, more likely, to someone else more suitable who caught their fancy. Lily had no illusions about her own allure, or even, for that matter, Sophie’s. They were two rather simple, middle-class girls, brought up strictly, without the worldly experience a thousand other London girls might have, no matter how Sophie liked to pretend and put on airs.
Yet here was Sergeant Lawson, and Lily couldn’t think what to say. “What have you brought, Sergeant Lawson?” she asked, and Carol nodded towards the kitchen.
“Come see.”
So Lily did, with Matthew following behind, as silent as ever. The table was full of food—more food than Lily could remember ever seeing during wartime. There were tins of pears and peaches and Spam, a net bag of oranges, and several bars of Hershey’s chocolate. And even more than that, as her incredulous gaze scanned the table—a whole tinned ham, a slab of bacon, a pat of butter. Lily’s mouth watered at the sight of it all.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I assured him he didn’t, of course,” Carol said quickly. “But he wanted to say thank you, for Sunday dinner.”
“I should have brought it before. I’m ashamed to say neither Lieutenant Reese nor I thought of it at the time.”
“But you thought of it now,” Carol said firmly. “And we are very appreciative, I assure you. We shall share with all the neighbors.”
Immediately, Lily saw the food disappearing; of course her mother would insist they share. She wouldn’t have it otherwise, but she had the absurd urge to gobble it up right then and there—she’d just spied a pot of strawberry jam amidst all the bounty.
“I was just telling Sergeant Lawson he must stay for a cup of tea,” Carol said. “I’ll put the kettle on—why don’t you take him to the front room, Lily?”
Lily murmured her assent as she shed her coat and walked slowly into the front room, surprised when her mother shut the door to the kitchen, giving them at least a semblance of privacy. Neither her father nor Sophie were home yet, although they would be soon.
“That was so very kind of you,” Lily said, wishing she had more words. “Really very kind.”