was Dolly Smitham, the naive young girl from Coventry who thought marrying her sweetheart and living forever in a farmhouse by a stream was the answer to her life’s desires; on the other was Dorothy Smitham, friend to the glamorous wealthy Vivien Jenkins, heir and companion to Lady Gwendolyn Caldicott—a grown woman who didn’t need to in-vent elaborate fantasy futures for herself because she knew exactly the tremendous adventures that lay ahead.
Which isn’t to say Dolly hadn’t felt sick walking out of the restaurant like that, all the waiters watching and wondering; she’d had a pressing sense though that if she stayed any longer she might have said yes, just to get him up off the floor. And where would that have left her? Sharing that little flat with Jimmy and Mr Metcalfe, and worrying all the time about where their next jug of milk would come from? Where would it have left her with Lady Gwendolyn? The old woman had shown Dolly such enormous kindness, she’d come to think of her practically as family; how would she have coped being deserted a second time? No, Dolly had done the right thing; Dr Rufus had agreed when she started crying about it over lunch; she was young, he’d said, she had her whole life ahead of her, there was no sense in tying herself down now.
Kitty (of course) had noticed something was askew and responded by parading her own RAF catch across the threshold of number 7 at every opportunity, flashing her mean little engagement ring and asking pointed questions about Jimmy’s whereabouts. Canteen duty was almost a relief by comparison. At least it would’ve been if Vivien ever showed up to lift her spirits. It had been so long Dolly had almost forgotten what she looked like. They’d glimpsed one another only once since the night Jimmy came in unannounced. Vivien had been delivering a box of donated clothing and Dolly could’ve sworn she’d smiled at her from across the room. Dolly had started making her way over to say hello when Mrs Waddingham ordered her back to the kitchen under pain of death. Witch. It was almost worth signing up at the Labour Exchange never to have to see the woman again. Fat chance of that, though. Dolly had received a letter from the Ministry of Labour, but when Lady Gwendolyn caught wind of it she promptly ensured that officials at the highest level understood Dolly was indispensable in her current position and couldn’t possibly be spared to make smoke- bombs.
Now, a pair of firemen with black soot all over their faces arrived at the counter and Dolly dialled up a smile, putting a dimple in each cheek as she ladled soup into two bowls. ‘Busy night, boys?’ she asked.
‘Bloody ice in the hoses,’ the shorter man replied. ‘You should see it out there. We’re fighting flames in one house, and there’s icicles hanging from the one next door where the water’s struck it.’
‘How dreadful,’ Dolly said, and the men agreed, before dragging themselves over to collapse at a trestle table, leaving her alone once more in the kitchen.
She leaned her elbow on the countertop and rested her chin in her hand. No doubt Vivien was busy these days with that doctor of hers. Dolly had felt a little disillusioned when Jimmy first told her—she’d have preferred to hear about the liaison directly from Vivien—but she understood the need for secrecy. Henry Jenkins wasn’t the type to appreciate his wife playing the field: you could tell that just by looking at him. If someone were to overhear Vivien’s confidence, or see something suspicious and report back to her husband, all hell would break loose. Little wonder she’d been so insistent that Jimmy not repeat to a soul what she’d told him.
‘Mrs Jenkins? Yoo-hoo, Mrs Jenkins.’
Dolly looked up smartly. Had Vivien arrived when she wasn’t watching?
‘Oh, Miss Smitham—’ the voice lost some of its sunniness—‘it’s only you.’
Neat-as-a-pin Maud Hoskins was standing at the counter, a cameo cinching her blouse together at the top, tight as a rec-tor’s collar. Vivien was nowhere to be seen and Dolly’s heart sank. ‘Only me, Mrs Hoskins.’ ‘Yes—’ the old woman sniffed—‘so it is.’ She glanced about her like a flustered hen, clacking her beak and saying, ‘Dear, dear me, I don’t suppose you’ve seen her—Mrs Jenkins, that is?’
‘Let me think.’ Dolly tapped her lips thoughtfully as she forced her feet back into her shoes beneath the counter. ‘No, no I don’t think I