curls dance. She didn’t fancy playing gooseberry with Dorothy and her Canadian soldier. ‘I’ve got other plans,’ she replied, knowing there was a twinkle in her eyes.
Dorothy raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s like that, is it?’
Anne could feel the blush rise up her neck and into her face. ‘We’ve only known each other a few weeks,’ she protested. ‘Give us a chance.’
‘Martin Black is a bit of a catch, though, you have to admit,’ said Dorothy. ‘He’s handsome, single and an RAF pilot – what more could you want?’
‘I’ll have to wait and see,’ murmured Anne, as Dorothy collected her bicycle from the shed and they walked to the gate. ‘Martin got his orders last night. He’ll be moving to a permanent base within the next two weeks. He can’t tell me where it is, of course, but it could be miles away, and we might not get the chance of seeing each other quite so much.’
Dorothy’s smile was knowing. ‘Oh,’ she said, with all the wisdom of a twenty-three year old who’d had a string of admirers, ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way.’ She settled her briefcase in the bicycle basket and pedalled off, wobbling slightly as she turned her head and waved goodbye.
Anne pulled on her gloves and tightened her scarf as the bitterly cold wind buffeted her. The gulls were wheeling overhead, filling the air with their angry cries. The fishermen must just have returned on the high tide with their daily catch.
It was a fairly short walk home, past the local shops and pubs before turning north and up the hill away from the seafront. But, as she hurried out of the school gates, her mind wasn’t really on gulls, fishermen or classrooms. Her thoughts were full of Martin, and the worrying possibility that their fledgling romance would simply peter out once he was posted. She had no illusions, for she’d seen it happen to some of her friends – but life was uncertain for everyone, and she was determined to remain optimistic.
* * *
Sally trailed behind them across the concourse. Mrs Reilly was a small, wiry woman whose every step spoke of a boundless energy, but Sally was a little disconcerted by the way she had taken charge of Ernie, and of how willingly he’d taken his walking stick and gone along with her. She seemed nice enough, and she’d clearly put that awful woman in charge in her place. And yet Mrs Reilly was a smartly dressed stranger who talked posh, was clearly used to being obeyed, and wore dead animals round her neck. Sally decided to reserve judgement until she got to know her better.
As they emerged from the station, which was at the top of a long, steep hill, she was immediately struck by how cold it was, the air smelling cleanly of salt – instead of soot from a thousand chimneys, like back home. She looked up at the large white wheeling birds that shrieked and squabbled over the rooftops, and then gazed down the hill, past the large shops, banks and hotels with their stacks of sandbags and taped windows to where she caught a glimpse of blue glittering between the big houses. ‘Is this the seaside?’ she breathed.
‘Indeed it is,’ said Peggy with a beaming smile. ‘Welcome to Cliffehaven. I know you must be finding it hard to take it all in, but I hope you’ll be happy here.’
‘I ain’t never seen the sea before,’ she said, awestruck.
‘Cor,’ shouted Ernie, who was far more interested in Peggy’s car. ‘Are we goin’ in that?’ His eyes were wide and shining as he fingered the Ford’s running board, the huge headlamps and the shining chrome.
‘As long as it starts,’ said Peggy, as she opened the door and helped him clamber on to the back seat. ‘Otherwise it’s the trolleybus.’
‘Careful, Ernie. That’s real leather, that is, and Mrs Reilly don’t want you scratching it with yer calliper.’ Sally’s stern look was wasted, for Ernie was too busy leaning over the front seat to examine the dials and switches on the dashboard.
‘I shouldn’t worry too much,’ laughed Peggy. ‘This old car has withstood four children and more besides. Let him have his fun.’
Sally gave Ernie another furious look as she put the suitcase on the seat beside him and closed the door before warily joining Mrs Reilly on the front seat. The car smelled lovely, and it reminded her of the market stall in Petticoat Lane where Alf Green sold the gloves and handbags