in the parlour, which they used more these days since her mother had been ill. Lana had lit a fire but the room was still chilly even though the ugly blackout curtains were disguised by a second thick pair of richly flowered ones. Lana shivered. All the curtains did was give the impression the room was cosier than it felt.
Lana flipped through one of The Lady magazines her mother’s friend had left, then looked up. ‘No response yet for an assistant?’
‘Not yet. Everyone seems to have joined up.’ He looked suddenly contrite. ‘Sorry, love. That was a bit tactless of me.’
Lana gave a rueful smile. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’m all growed up now.’
Her father’s face broke into a grin. ‘You certainly are, Topsy. I’m hoping it won’t be long before we have some replies – then you’ll be free to continue your own life.’
It was her father’s old nickname for her when she was still a child. Impulsively, she sprang to her feet and kissed her father’s cheek. ‘You’re the best father in the world,’ she said, ‘but you’re encouraging me to be the most selfish daughter.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, giving her an affectionate kiss back. ‘You haven’t had an easy time with this war and—’
‘No different from thousands of others,’ Lana interrupted, her expression grim. ‘I so badly want to get back at the Germans for what they took away from me, Dad, but Mum thinks I’ll end up a bitter and twisted old maid.’
‘Did she actually say that?’ Her father looked at her in surprise. ‘Doesn’t sound like your mother.’
‘Not exactly those words but that’s what she meant,’ Lana grimaced. She went back to her chair and picked up the magazine again, but she couldn’t concentrate. She sat thinking while her father quietly read his paper, until he folded it and yawned.
‘I think I’ll turn in,’ he announced.
He’d been a handsome man, she thought, as she watched him struggle to his feet, but the strain of another war – the first one where he’d lost a brother, and now two sons away at sea – had begun to tell on his features. His mouth had lost some of its fullness and his cheeks were a little sunken, but his eyes still held their teasing sparkle. A lump came to her throat.
‘G’night, love.’
‘Night, Dad. Sleep tight.’
‘And don’t let the bed bugs bite,’ he finished, smiling.
It was how they’d always finished saying goodnight when she was a little girl.
She grinned back.
In bed, she opened the magazine and read a couple of articles, wrinkling her nose at the ‘Let’s Make Do & Mend’ article. If this war went on much longer she’d need to improve what little sewing skills she had. Idly, she turned to the ‘Situations Vacant’ pages and her eye roved down the columns. Her attention was caught by one, enclosed in a box.
Urgently seeking temporary headmistress for village school in Bingham, nr Liverpool. Must be an experienced teacher and willing to supervise small team while headmaster is abroad fighting. Pls reply to Mr G. Shepherd, Box 3032 at The Lady.
Lana’s heart turned over. Dickie’s home port had been Liverpool. She’d been there once to see him off and had been horrified at the devastation in the city. It had looked every bit as bad as London, having only just suffered its own blitz. Beautiful buildings turned into heaps of rubble and debris, people picking their way through it, children playing games amongst it, and what had been people’s pets looking dazed by the way their world had changed in an instant, ribs sticking through their unkempt coats, foraging for scraps.
Lana shuddered, remembering how every bombed building, every church destroyed, every ship struck, had all brought home to her the danger Dickie faced every day. She’d caught the train home on the same day, not only sad at parting from Dickie but also frightened on his behalf, and thoroughly depressed about the ruined areas of the city that he and his friends seemed almost to accept as part of war.
Safe in what had been her old bed at home, she pulled the blanket up further so she could tuck the ends around her shoulders. The room was so cold it was difficult to think straight, but she knew that was true for most of the nation. She wondered how far Bingham was from Liverpool and for the children’s sake she hoped this place was miles out in the sticks.
She shook herself. Why did it matter how far the village was from the city? She wouldn’t dream of applying. A headmistress was different altogether from a teacher. It would be far too big a leap and she wasn’t going to put herself through more humiliation by being rejected – this time for not being experienced enough. A pity, really. If they’d been advertising for a teacher she might well have been tempted to apply.
A few days later The Yorkshire Post forwarded two letters to her parents for the part-time assistant vacancy.
‘Trouble is, we can’t pay much,’ Lana’s father said as he came through the shop to the kitchen for lunch. ‘But I’d still have thought there’d be at least a half a dozen replies from married women who only want part-time.’ He held out the two opened letters for her.
‘I’ll have a look at these after supper tonight,’ she said, then hesitated. Should she say anything? She knew her father wouldn’t let it go further if she asked him not to. ‘Dad, in one of those magazines Mrs Randall-Smith left for Mum there was quite an interesting advert.’
‘Oh, what was that?’
She felt her father’s eyes studying her closely.
‘They want a headmistress for a school. Apparently, the headmaster has joined up and gone abroad. It’s obviously only for the duration of the war.’
‘Have you applied?’ her father asked casually as he picked up the tray with a bowl of lentil soup and bread and margarine, ready to take to his wife.
Lana shook her head.
‘What are you waiting for? It sounds right up your street.’
‘Because I don’t have any experience of being a headmistress.’
‘You could do it standing on your head.’
She grinned at him. ‘You’ve always had such faith in me, Dad. But it would be too terrifying.’
‘Nonsense. Can I see the advert?’
‘Let me take Mum’s tray.’ She took it from her father’s hands. ‘She’s probably got it.’
She was back in moments and handed her father the magazine.
‘Hmm.’ Her father looked up. ‘It only says an experienced teacher. It doesn’t mention anything about being an experienced headmistress.’
‘I know, but I wouldn’t feel confident organising the other teachers – telling them what they have to do.’
‘Darling, you’ve been in teaching long enough to know how it all works – the duties of the headmaster. And you’d be releasing a man to fight for his country.’
‘He’s
