A Store at War. Joanna Toye

that her parents had run a small corner shop and she’d always helped out there.

      ‘What happens if there’s an air raid here?’ asked Lily. ‘I mean, there must be over a hundred staff, more maybe, and with customers too …’

      ‘I’ll show you when we’ve finished.’ Gladys forked up a final shred of cabbage and a chunk of watery potato. ‘There’s an air-raid shelter down here, big enough for all the staff and as many customers as Mr Marlow thinks could be in the store at any one time.’

      Lily couldn’t help but be impressed again by Cedric Marlow’s foresight.

      ‘And he’s had a door cut through that leads into Burrell’s basement too.’

      ‘Burrell’s! But that’s way down Market Street!’

      Burrell’s was another big store and, Lily would have assumed, a rival.

      ‘Their basement and ours meet in the middle. Weird, isn’t it? So if there was a raid and we got hit, we could get out through their shop, and the other way round.’

      ‘What are you two gassing about now?’

      Beryl plonked her tray down on the table and plumped down beside them – naturally assuming there’d be no objection. Lily noted that, however much she appeared to despise them, she didn’t seem to have anyone else to sit with.

      ‘Air-raid precautions.’ Lily sipped her water.

      ‘Hah! I suppose Little Miss Muffet’s been telling you how they say it’s all about “protection not profit”. Has she told you how long we have to wait till we can go down the shelter?’

      Lily shook her head. Beryl sprinkled salt and pepper vigorously over her rissole and pushed her cabbage disgustedly to one side.

      ‘It used to be that we all went down the minute we heard the siren. But now they’ve got plane spotters on the roof – with flags.’

      ‘So have Burrell’s. And Marks and Spencer. And Boots. And—’ added Gladys.

      ‘Yes, thank you, we don’t need the entire Trade Directory.’ Beryl didn’t appreciate being interrupted. ‘White for the alert, shop to shop, then red once they actually see a plane,’ she continued matter-of-factly. ‘Then it’s all bells and whistles on the sales floor and everyone scuttling down as fast as they can. Well, you have to make way for customers, of course.’

      She didn’t sound too impressed with that, either.

      ‘But sometimes the air-raid warnings can last all night,’ objected Lily. ‘What then?’

      ‘You’re stuck, ducky.’

      ‘It’s never actually happened,’ said Gladys consolingly. ‘And we’ve never actually been seriously bombed, have we, in Hinton. There’s only a couple of factories, and nothing big like Birmingham or West Bromwich or …’

      She obviously couldn’t bring herself to say ‘Coventry’.

      ‘No, but … well, they can always get things wrong,’ said Lily. ‘Burrell’s got hit last winter.’

      ‘That,’ said Beryl dismissively. ‘A couple of incendiaries the Jerries couldn’t be bothered to lug back with them.’

      ‘I suppose.’

      Lily was glad she’d be able to tell her mum about the precautions at Marlow’s. She knew it had been bothering her. Dora would be relieved Lily had had a hot lunch too. It wasn’t just Lily’s wage which was going to be a help to their household budget.

      ‘Why does Beryl have to be so snide all the time?’ she asked Gladys as they made their way back to the sales floor. ‘I notice she still had to sit with us. Obviously nobody likes her. And fancy asking the boss’s son what was going on!’

      ‘I know,’ Gladys sounded resigned. ‘But that’s Beryl. She seems to get away with it. “If you don’t ask, you don’t get” is what she says.’

      ‘Yes,’ replied Lily. ‘And one day you might get more than you’re asking for, like the sack!’

      Gladys shook her head.

      ‘Not Beryl. Mr Bunting, the buyer on Toys, you’ve seen him—’

      Lily had. Short, plump, with a frill of white hair round a bald crown, he looked like the old toymaker in the fairy story. It had come as no surprise to Lily to learn that he doubled as Santa at the staff Christmas party.

      ‘He’s been here years. He’s a soft touch – that’s what I heard Miss Frobisher call him.’ Gladys hesitated. ‘Beryl calls him something quite different, of course.’

      Beryl would, thought Lily.

      Lily was on her hands and knees, trying to brush up the nap of the carpet where a set of glass-fronted drawers had stood, when she was aware of a little cough behind her.

      ‘Excuse me …’ It was the first time a male voice had spoken to her since she’d stepped through the staff entrance and the first time that day that anyone who might be senior had given her, however nicely phrased, anything but an order or an instruction.

      Without looking round – surely it wasn’t Mr Marlow Junior, the floor supervisor? What had she done? What hadn’t she done? – Lily scrambled to her feet. Her hair, tamed by her mum that morning, had gone its own way with the effort of her scrubbing, and she pushed it out of her eyes with the back of her hand. With the other she smoothed down the skirt of her dress, horribly aware of the dust and fluff it had attracted. And she’d been congratulating herself on being put on a carpeted department instead of having to stand on a hard parquet floor all day!

      ‘Will you be much longer? Only I rather fancy the dining set that we’ve got on promotion in that little area. Sideboard in carved oak, Tudor – well, Tudor style – to the right, draw-leaf table central, a couple of chairs … Think I’ll have room?’

      ‘Erm, probably, as long as you’re not planning on Henry VIII sitting there with a goblet and throwing a chicken bone over his shoulder as well,’ offered Lily.

      ‘Hah! Hadn’t thought of that!’ said the young man. ‘But now you mention it …’

      ‘I was only joking!’ said Lily quickly.

      ‘I realise that. But I could set the table to make it look more tempting. Sorry, I should introduce myself. James Goodridge. Jim. Third sales, Furniture and Household.’

      ‘Lily. Lily Collins.’

      Lily found herself looking up into deep-brown eyes behind wire-framed glasses. And looking a long way up. Sid was tall, but this lad – Jim – must be well over six foot, and skinny with it – a right bean-pole, her mum would have said.

      ‘I’m sorry if I’m holding you up. It’s my first day,’ she added.

      ‘I thought I hadn’t seen you before. Well, seems we’re going to be neighbours.’

      ‘Looks like it.’

      She couldn’t place his accent. Not Midlands, definitely, but not posh, like old Mr Marlow, and not put on, either, like she could tell Beryl was trying to do. It was sort of natural, gentle, like the hills on the calendar her mum kept in the kitchen, the one that had come as a pull-out with Woman’s Weekly at the turn of the year. And then she heard herself saying – a bit forward, perhaps, but he seemed so normal and friendly …

      ‘Perhaps once you’ve set the table I can come for tea.’

      ‘You’re on! So what do we need? I’ll half-inch some stuff from Small Household – tray, tray cloth, crockery, teapot …’

      ‘Cake stand,’ suggested Lily. ‘No cake, we’ll have to pretend that …’

      ‘Cake stand! Of course! You’re going to be good at this sales lark, Lily.’

      ‘Well