bad? Breath bated, she waited for the gate, the latch, the back door, bracing herself for what she might be about to hear.
She thought afterwards that she should have braced herself a bit more firmly, because the door was flung back on its hinges, and suddenly Jim was there, shouting ‘Lily!’ and almost cannoning into her.
Lily leapt back.
‘What is it?’
Jim was grinning from ear to ear.
‘Those shark eyes of Mr Simmonds? Turns out they see more than you or I could ever suspect! But I think you’ll like it!’
Pilchards had never been an especial favourite of Lily’s, but that night they could have been – what was it that posh people ate? – oysters? lobster? – well, whatever it was, they didn’t taste like pilchards usually did. Though that might have been thanks to the bottle of ginger beer that Jim had nipped to the outdoor to get.
‘Something to celebrate, eh?’ he said as they chinked glasses.
‘Definitely,’ Lily replied.
The crisis was over. Jim wouldn’t be leaving after all.
‘I hate to say “I told you so”, Jim,’ chortled Lily.
‘But you’re going to anyway. As if you haven’t already, about a million times.’
‘Well, it’s true—’
Jim sat back and folded his arms.
‘D’you know something? Next time I see a pub called “The Nag’s Head”, I’m going to pinch the sign and hang it outside your bedroom door!’
‘Now, now, children!’ Sid reprimanded them. ‘Behave, or you won’t get any pudding!’
It was the following week and Sid was back on his promised twenty-four-hour pass. As it was Wednesday and half-day closing, he’d arranged to meet Lily and Jim straight from work and treat them to lunch.
The reunion had been as ecstatic as Lily could have wished for. Jim had hung back, smiling, as Sid, grinning from ear to ear, had whirled her in the air so fast she’d almost lost a shoe, and the other Marlow’s staff setting off for their half-days had shaken their heads and smiled too.
On the way to the British Restaurant in the Mission Hall, Lily had rattled away non-stop.
‘No pudding’ was an empty threat, though, because they already had their puddings on their trays, all-in for a very reasonable 9d, so Lily graciously, with a mock bow, conceded. To be fair, it was Jim’s story.
‘So,’ Sid went on over the clatter at the trestle tables around them, ‘this Simmonds character, Jim, that you thought was going to give you the boot, practically begged you to stay?’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that—’
‘Of course he did!’ Jim’s story or not, Lily jumped in. ‘Never mind shark-eyes, Jim’s Mr Simmonds’s blue-eyed boy!’
(Funny, Lily thought, that after being turned down by the Army on account of his eyesight, eyes were featuring so much in Jim’s future career.)
Sid silenced her with a look.
‘And he and Mr Marlow just wanted some new ideas? What are you thinking of, then, Jimbo?’ Sid was off again, messing with people’s names. ‘Live mannequins in the windows? Roof garden with a Palm Court orchestra? How about slashing prices – I’d go for that!’
Lily was dying to supply the details – she was that proud of Jim – but managed with great restraint to contain herself. In preparation for her promotion, Miss Frobisher had given her the sales staff manual. It was very explicit on politeness, tact, and quiet dignity, none of which came naturally to Lily. Here was a chance to practise, and to let Jim have the limelight.
‘Honestly, Sid,’ Jim said now, ‘they’re nothing very special.’
Typical, thought Lily, annoyingly modest! He had tact and quiet dignity off to a ‘T’ …
‘Jim, that’s not true! Tell him!’
‘Oh come on, the first thing is just obvious.’
‘So obvious that no one else had thought of it!’
‘Lily, who’s telling this tale?’ asked Sid patiently.
Lily sat back. Keeping to the sales staff dictums was going to be a serious challenge, she could see.
Jim resumed. ‘Cedric Marlow’s done some amazing things. From one tiny draper’s shop, he’s made Marlow’s what it is today. When the war started, and the bombings, he was right on the button – air-raid shelter in the basement, fire-watching and plane spotters on the roof, bells and whistles – literally – to warn staff and customers about air raids almost before the sirens had started.’
‘He made space for a Red Cross stall,’ put in Lily. She just couldn’t help herself. ‘An interpreter’s desk, too, when the refugees started arriving from France and Belgium.’
‘That’s right,’ said Jim. ‘But he’s not daft. He’s nearer seventy than sixty now and he must realise he’s not quite up to the mark. So he’s asked me and Peter Simmonds to—’
‘Get that, Sid! Peter, if you please! And after all Jim said about him!’
Jim ignored her and carried on. ‘—to come up with suggestions. On three fronts. First, how can the store do more for the war effort, and keep the staff happy at the same time. And then he wants some ideas to bring in more custom.’
‘So this “obvious” thing is what? Don’t tell me – you’re going to suggest a Suggestions Box!’
They’d finished their main courses now and Sid reached for a cigarette: he’d swapped to Player’s Navy Cut from his pre-war brand the minute he’d joined up. He was very proud of being in the Senior Service – and never let Reg, still on Woodbines, forget it.
‘No. A Fowl Club,’ said Jim.
Sid paused with his cigarette halfway to his lips.
‘Hang on. Pig Clubs, yes, I’ve heard of them—’
‘Not very practical,’ said Jim, ‘on the roof of the store.’
‘You’re going to keep chickens on the roof of Marlow’s?’
‘It’s wasted space apart from the fire-watchers’ hut. And it’s only what we’re doing already at Lily’s but on a bigger scale,’ reasoned Jim. ‘Any of the staff that are interested will give up their egg coupons and get coupons for grain instead.’
‘Which will feed the hens, with some of the canteen waste from the store, instead of it all going in the pig bin,’ added Lily.
‘The store carpenters can knock us up some housing. And I’ll get the chickens a few at a time.’
‘Jim
