fighting overseas.’ She looked pensive. ‘But we mustn’t become complacent; there is talk that Hitler could start bombing again but probably only when he’s finished attacking Russia when winter sets in over there.’
‘You’re right,’ said Drew. ‘No attacking army has been victorious against the Russian winter – as Napoleon Bonaparte learned to his cost.’
‘You are so clever to know that,’ Tilly said, adoration in her eyes.
‘I know, I can’t help it,’ Drew laughed. ‘But come on, we’d better make tracks.’
He was talking about anything he could think of to try to prevent him feeling like the heel he most certainly was, afraid that if there was a moment’s silence between them then he would blurt out the very thing he had been keeping from Tilly all day.
He knew she deserved to be told that he was leaving as soon as he dropped her off home. It was her right to know. But he wasn’t the courageous hero Tilly thought he was. In fact he felt like a spineless rat and not the desert kind like Rick either. Drew was too damned scared to tell the woman he loved that he was going away. And had no idea when he was coming back.
‘Oh, hello, Dulcie, you’re home late,’ Olive said as Dulcie popped her head around the front-room door. ‘I’m glad you’re back safe and sound though, did you manage to get to a shelter?’
Dulcie nodded, unable to say much, and kept the door half-closed, covering herself so as not to alert Olive to her dishevelled clothing and hoping her humiliation didn’t show on her face. She had a splitting headache and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and forget tonight had ever happened, and she certainly didn’t want to go into the front room where questions might be asked.
‘I was hoping to be able to take a bath, is there any hot water?’
‘Enough for five inches I would say,’ Olive answered, her brows meeting in a troubled frown. ‘Is everything all right, Dulcie?’
‘Fine. Just a bit of a headache,’ Dulcie lied with uncharacteristic calmness. She had a lot to think about and she needed privacy to do it. Thankfully, Olive had the company of Mrs Black from next door and Tilly, who had just come in from fire-watching.
‘I’ll make you a hot cocoa and see if we have something for your headache,’ Olive said, rising from the chair.
‘Maybe later,’ Dulcie said, not wanting any fuss. ‘The bath might do the trick. I won’t be long,’ she managed to add as she closed the door, tears just a blink away as Olive’s kindness touched her heart and made her feel tawdry, whilst Nancy Black’s strident opinion echoed after her.
‘I don’t know as I like that common voice on the wireless,’ Nancy said, sitting on Olive’s settee, wrinkling her flared nostrils like there was a bad smell floating about the room, much to Olive’s chagrin.
‘It’s Wilfred Pickles!’ Olive exclaimed, retrieving the newspaper, which Nancy had borrowed and brought back two days late. This was becoming a regular occurrence, and even though Olive didn’t mind lending her the newspaper, she did object to not getting it back when the news was still fresh, instead of being fit for nothing except tomorrow’s chip wrapper; especially when Nancy took half of it to polish her windows and Olive had to remind her who it actually belonged to.
‘It comes to something when the news has to be read in a Yorkshire accent,’ Nancy continued. ‘Have all the true Englishmen gone to fight? That’s what I want to know.’
‘I quite like a Yorkshire accent, myself,’ Olive replied, ‘and of course he is a true Englishman.’ She folded the paper to give her hands something to do to stave off the nervous energy Nancy always seemed to encourage in her and, then, putting the paper on the arm of the chair she continued, ‘I told you, he’s a very fine actor, is Wilfred Pickles. I think he’s got a lovely soothing voice and he’s very handsome.’ She gave an emphatic nod of her
‘You’re right,’ said Drew. ‘No attacking army has been victorious against the Russian winter – as Napoleon Bonaparte learned to his cost.’
‘You are so clever to know that,’ Tilly said, adoration in her eyes.
‘I know, I can’t help it,’ Drew laughed. ‘But come on, we’d better make tracks.’
He was talking about anything he could think of to try to prevent him feeling like the heel he most certainly was, afraid that if there was a moment’s silence between them then he would blurt out the very thing he had been keeping from Tilly all day.
He knew she deserved to be told that he was leaving as soon as he dropped her off home. It was her right to know. But he wasn’t the courageous hero Tilly thought he was. In fact he felt like a spineless rat and not the desert kind like Rick either. Drew was too damned scared to tell the woman he loved that he was going away. And had no idea when he was coming back.
‘Oh, hello, Dulcie, you’re home late,’ Olive said as Dulcie popped her head around the front-room door. ‘I’m glad you’re back safe and sound though, did you manage to get to a shelter?’
Dulcie nodded, unable to say much, and kept the door half-closed, covering herself so as not to alert Olive to her dishevelled clothing and hoping her humiliation didn’t show on her face. She had a splitting headache and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and forget tonight had ever happened, and she certainly didn’t want to go into the front room where questions might be asked.
‘I was hoping to be able to take a bath, is there any hot water?’
‘Enough for five inches I would say,’ Olive answered, her brows meeting in a troubled frown. ‘Is everything all right, Dulcie?’
‘Fine. Just a bit of a headache,’ Dulcie lied with uncharacteristic calmness. She had a lot to think about and she needed privacy to do it. Thankfully, Olive had the company of Mrs Black from next door and Tilly, who had just come in from fire-watching.
‘I’ll make you a hot cocoa and see if we have something for your headache,’ Olive said, rising from the chair.
‘Maybe later,’ Dulcie said, not wanting any fuss. ‘The bath might do the trick. I won’t be long,’ she managed to add as she closed the door, tears just a blink away as Olive’s kindness touched her heart and made her feel tawdry, whilst Nancy Black’s strident opinion echoed after her.
‘I don’t know as I like that common voice on the wireless,’ Nancy said, sitting on Olive’s settee, wrinkling her flared nostrils like there was a bad smell floating about the room, much to Olive’s chagrin.
‘It’s Wilfred Pickles!’ Olive exclaimed, retrieving the newspaper, which Nancy had borrowed and brought back two days late. This was becoming a regular occurrence, and even though Olive didn’t mind lending her the newspaper, she did object to not getting it back when the news was still fresh, instead of being fit for nothing except tomorrow’s chip wrapper; especially when Nancy took half of it to polish her windows and Olive had to remind her who it actually belonged to.
‘It comes to something when the news has to be read in a Yorkshire accent,’ Nancy continued. ‘Have all the true Englishmen gone to fight? That’s what I want to know.’
‘I quite like a Yorkshire accent, myself,’ Olive replied, ‘and of course he is a true Englishman.’ She folded the paper to give her hands something to do to stave off the nervous energy Nancy always seemed to encourage in her and, then, putting the paper on the arm of the chair she continued, ‘I told you, he’s a very fine actor, is Wilfred Pickles. I think he’s got a lovely soothing voice and he’s very handsome.’ She gave an emphatic nod of her
Similar Books
