from the dressing table. Spitting on the dwindling brown block inside, she worked it into a mud with the little brush. Then, determined not to miss anything, she repositioned herself by the window with her compact mirror, and began a hasty application to her lashes.
Whilst she was doing this, a figure entered her peripheral vision. In the hope that it was one of the new neighbours, and thus distracted, Nell poked herself in the eye. ‘Ooh, sod and blast!’ She was forced to cease everything, with a handkerchief pressed to her eye until the stinging receded.
And to cap it all, the figure had been no one important, only Geoff from next door, about whom she knew everything, for they had grown up together, though he was three years her junior. Fifteen: it seemed so long ago. She recalled herself at Geoff’s age in her final year at school, the trip to the hairdresser to lop off her plaits and reduce her dark-brown hair to jaw length, in preparation of starting work. But surely she had never been so childish as this boy? Certainly she had grown up very quickly in these last three weeks. A secret smile twitched her lips.
Still waiting for her right eye to stop smarting, tweaked by thoughts of other things, she continued to watch Geoff with her left. In his Boy Scout uniform, he was practising lobbing grenades, ripping out the pin with his teeth, and generally playing the big warrior. Except that the grenade was a potato. Stifling laughter, Nell leaned again on the windowsill to maintain her one-eyed surveillance, as, time and again, Geoff cantered with manly strides up the path, like a spin bowler hurtling for the wicket, his mouth emitting an explosion upon hitting the target.
Then his mother came upon the scene. ‘Geoffrey, what have I told you about wasting food?’ And, much to Nell’s further amusement, she cuffed him sharply round the head, ignoring his protests that he was only following orders.
Biting her lip in sympathy for poor Geoff’s plight, though still tickled, Nell finally managed to adorn her lashes with mascara, and added a quick smear of rouge to her lips and cheeks. At her mother’s further shout of impatience, she snatched a last look in the mirror, heaved in dissatisfaction for the tall and well-built figure reflected there, with its heavy breasts and thighs – such a big girl – then she prinked a dark-brown wave, smoothed the white sleeveless blouse and blue skirt, and tripped to the stairs.
But before she was halfway down, her mother witnessed a crime. ‘You are not leaving this house with bare legs!’
‘All my stockings are laddered!’ With no need to impress relatives, Nell had been hoping to save her one decent pair.
‘Then you can wear ankle socks!’
She turned back with a grumble. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll go and have another look …’
‘And close your window whilst you’re there!’
Nell’s white sandals stopped in mid-track. ‘It’ll be stifling!’
‘Why do you have to argue with every single request I make?’ It was Thelma Spottiswood’s turn to sound weary now. ‘Close it! It’ll be after blackout when we return, and I’ve no intention of leaving an open invitation to every crook in York. Anyone who’d stoop to pinching the lightbulb out of a public lavatory would have a field day in here.’
Nell wanted to complain that, if previous so-called family parties were anything to go by, they would be home well before nine thirty. Nevertheless, she went back to her room to don stockings and to pull down the sash – which was criss-crossed with brown tape as a safeguard against being shattered by bombs, even though York had been virtually free of those after almost a year of war – for it didn’t do to upset Mother. Be prepared, that was Thelma Spottiswood’s motto, as testified in her stock cupboards, her first-aid box, the stirrup pump forever at hand, and the thermos flask close to the kettle ready to fill with hot water in case of an air raid. So, being a considerate girl at heart, Nell did as she was told, finally arriving downstairs to present herself with a smile.
But her heart was to sink, as her father ordered dispassionately, ‘You can get that muck off your face for a start.’ Making ready for his stint as a member of the Home Guard, and changed from his shirt and tie into its newly issued khaki, Wilfred Spottiswood bent to put on his bicycle clips. But just because he would not be attending the party did not mean he would allow his daughter free rein. ‘You look like a trollop.’
With no expectation that Mother would spring to her defence, a dutiful but inwardly hurt Nell rubbed at her lips with a handkerchief, hoping not to blot away too much of the colour. That was one of the drawbacks of having elderly guardians – no, positively ancient, thought Nell, who still found it astonishing that they had been children at the time of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee – how could one expect them to understand a modern girl’s outlook? Father would quite gladly spend all weekend in his garden, or painting the house, and keeping both immaculate – but woe betide if his daughter should attempt to embellish her looks. Checking the pockets of his battledress for his identity card and his manual, and slinging a rifle over one shoulder and a gas mask over the other, he finally deigned to spare her another, rather resentful, glance. The fact that he made no comment informed Nell that she was classified as fit to leave the house.
Father, though, was the first of them to depart, saying, ‘Have a good time at your party, but don’t be too late home.’
‘That’s if we ever get there,’ sniped his wife, with an accusing glance at their daughter.
Good time indeed! A grouchy Nell knew where she would rather be. Waiting now for her mother to don hat and gloves, she wandered to the window and watched her father push his bicycle to the footpath, where he paused to run a critical eye over his newly clipped privet. What could possibly be out of place? Why, it looked as if he had used a blasted spirit level on it! Then he cycled off, a grey, reserved and unhealthy figure, who spared not a wink of curiosity for the folk who were moving in. This was no surprise to Nell, for, outside work, the only human being to whom he paid lip service was her mother. Mother was a marvel at everything, possessing the ability to whip up a delicious meal despite this rationing, and would have it on the table the moment Father came in, and treated him as lord and master. As for their daughter, they seemed to think it sufficient that they were donating every material comfort that Father’s good position at the insurance firm could endow: a room of her own in a well-furnished house; a family car – even though it might be stuck in the garage most of the time due to wartime restrictions on petrol; elocution lessons to oust any trace of Yorkshire accent that they themselves retained; a grammar-school education, and a decent job to follow it. Yes, Nell was grateful for their sacrifices, and it was perhaps understandable when they had endured twelve childless years before adopting her that they wanted to be constantly involved. But did they have to be such old miseries?
‘What are you sighing at now?’ came the testy demand.
Made aware that she had been thinking out loud, Nell turned to see that her mother was ready: solid, large-bosomed and respectable-looking in her navy spotted dress, navy shoes, white gloves and white straw hat, she cut a shapely figure – but shapely in the manner of a cooling tower, thought Nell, everything rigidly confined and uninviting. She donned a smile, and explained, ‘Oh, nothing, I was just envying those new people across the road their lovely French table.’
‘So that’s what kept you so long upstairs!’ Beads of perspiration had begun to seep from the menopausal brow. ‘I don’t know what there is to envy, they can’t be so well off if they’re having to do the removals themselves. Sunday night and still they’re at it!’
Nell’s focus had by now turned back to the street. ‘Ooh, look, there’s the lady of the house again! At least I think it is, but she looks far too young to have children – maybe they’re not hers, maybe they’re
