A Store at War. Joanna Toye

of such gripping interest?’

      Robert had arrived beside him now and Jim caught a waft of cologne. He was surprised and a little perturbed to be accosted like this. He didn’t know much about Robert Marlow except that he was, of course, heir to the business – and so to everything that Cedric Marlow had lovingly created Marlow’s to be.

      Jim and Robert were much the same age, Robert just a few years older, but there, quite apart from status, any likeness stopped, physically and, Jim suspected, on pretty much every other level. Jim was well aware of his physical shortcomings, with his hair which stuck up in a tuft at the back and specs he was always fiddling with, so which were always bent out of shape. His tie was most often adrift, however much he tried to straighten it, the seat of his suit trousers was shiny, and his shoes, though polished, had seen better days. Robert, on the other hand, had the buffed and glossy look of a man who’d known nothing but privilege since birth. He had thick well-cut fair hair, a rosy face that looked as if it had been scrubbed with a Brillo, and his clothes were always immaculate. His hands were pink and clean and his nails clipped. He was, in short, a perfect physical specimen. As for their interests – well, Jim could only guess, but he hazarded that Robert’s were cars, cricket, and pretty young women – definitely not the quieter pursuits Jim enjoyed. In the few months Jim had been at the store any conversation with Mr Marlow Junior that wasn’t about stock levels, a customer query or a complaint had been confined to pleasantries about the weather. But now a friendly-sounding Robert indicated the lime tree into whose canopy Jim had been peering. Jim explained.

      ‘It’s a nest. Blackbird. Listen.’

      In the stilled air – so few cars on the road had to bring some advantages – a demanding cheeping could be heard.

      ‘Must be a second brood. Mum and dad are off foraging for food, I suppose.’

      Robert’s eyebrows telegraphed surprise.

      ‘Birdwatcher, are you? Still, that goes with the territory where you come from, I suppose. The wilds of Worcestershire!’

      He grinned as Jim dipped his head.

      ‘There’s a bit more wildlife there than in town, yes, but it’s amazing what thrives here. Nature’s pretty hard to keep down. Which is encouraging, really. When everything else is limited or rationed or being pounded to bits.’

      Robert Marlow pulled a face.

      ‘Crikey! This is all getting a bit deep!’

      ‘Sorry. But when you see bombsites – buddleia and loosestrife starting to grow – don’t you think that’s incredible? That huge mess of rubble and dust but they always find a way into the light.’

      ‘What, there’s a message there somewhere?’ Robert pulled a face. ‘Like I said, all a bit deep. Come on, enough philosophy for one night. I’m taking you for a drink.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘No arguments. We’ll find a place with a beer garden. You can commune with nature with a pint in your hand!’

      They found a place with not so much a garden as a yard – this was Hinton after all. It did, however, have a free table, a sawn-off, upturned barrel partly in the sun with a couple of rickety chairs round it. It even had beer, which was never a certainty.

      ‘Cheers!’

      They knocked glasses and each took a cautious sip. Watery, as they expected, and their expressions showed it. Jim looked guardedly at Robert, who’d insisted on buying the drinks. This was unprecedented, and they both knew it.

      ‘Smoke?’

      Robert produced a gold cigarette case engraved with his initials, flicked it open and offered it to Jim.

      ‘I don’t, thanks.’

      ‘Of course not. Clean living. Very wise.’

      Robert extracted a cigarette, lit it with a lighter which matched the case, took a deep draw on it and sat back.

      ‘You’re probably wondering what this is all about. I don’t make a habit of waylaying people in the street. Forcing them into public houses. But, well, my father and I have been having a chat. He’s given me special responsibility for the junior staff. So when I saw you … I thought I might as well start somewhere!’

      ‘And this “responsibility” entails what exactly?’

      A group of drinkers nearby erupted in raucous laughter. Robert waited for the hilarity to die down before continuing.

      ‘It’s about staff morale, Jim. Now the war’s dragging on, and we don’t seem to be making much progress … shortages starting to bite, not so much stock to sell, customers getting tetchy, the store turned upside down and inside out, and now to cap it all we’re a storage depot for the RAF … Dad and I want to know how the staff are bearing up. Because as the old man’s fond of saying – happy staff make happy customers.’

      Jim could not in a million years imagine Cedric Marlow saying anything of the kind. Though he had heard a rumour that Marlow’s was changing its advertising agency from a small local firm to a bigger one from Birmingham. Perhaps they’d been coming up with slogans. They were probably the same outfit that had invented ‘Doctor Carrot’ and ‘Potato Pete’.

      ‘So come on, Jim – how are things? Tell me about life behind the scenes. The chat, the gossip. The stockroom and the staff canteen.’

      Jim considered. He wasn’t sure about this. Wasn’t Robert being a bit over-friendly all of a sudden? Was he being pumped for information, or was the interest sincere? But he had to say something, not that he really knew.

      ‘Things are fine – I think. As far as you can tell. There’s a bit of grumbling of course, but that’s inevitable, isn’t it? Everyone grumbles – about queuing, about the blackout, about rationing …’

      ‘But the shop itself? Any specific complaints there? A feeling that one department’s being favoured over another? Moans about being cramped for space? Hours of work? Conditions?’

      Jim suddenly realised what Robert was getting at.

      ‘You’re worried about a strike!’

      Strikes had been banned for over a year under Defence Regulations and arbitration was compulsory. But there was a lot of discontent, even in some of the industries most essential for the war effort, like engineering and mining, and the unions were starting to believe that you could strike in wartime and win. There was no union at Marlow’s – only bigger stores like the Co-op had one – but Jim felt the day had to come when all workers had some sort of protection from unscrupulous bosses. Not that Marlow’s were unscrupulous – they looked after their staff pretty well, considering. Though when, along with the rest of the staff, Jim had heard about Lily and the incident with Violet Tunnicliffe, he’d wondered what would have happened to her if things had turned out differently and she’d faced the sack. Would anyone have spoken up for her? Would he?

      Robert raised an eyebrow, waiting for Jim’s reply.

      ‘I certainly can’t say I’ve heard or seen anyone that disgruntled,’ Jim said. ‘Strike, what about? Why? What for? Have you heard something different?’

      Robert took a swig of his drink and pulled a face. Jim couldn’t help thinking wine or whisky would probably have been more to his taste, even if the beer had been full-bodied. But Robert had presumably felt obliged to go with this blokeish man-of-the-people act.

      ‘Not within Marlow’s, no. But there’s trouble brewing at Burrell’s. Or could be. Some of the women workers agitating for equal pay, can you believe!’

      This was the talk in pubs and homes up and down the country. Privately Jim couldn’t see anything wrong with it, provided women were doing the same jobs as men – as many were, now. But he could see the worry for shop and factory owners who employed so many women – their wage bill would rocket.

      Judging rightly