Lily, My Lovely

by Lena Kennedy

Genres: Sagas; Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

War doesn't only bring suffering . . . Born in Canning Town, in the heart of London's teeming dockland, red-headed Lily is a true Cockney in her zest for life, her natural humour and her instinct for survival. With the outbreak of World War II, husband George goes off to fight for King and Country and into the close-knit East End community bursts Kasie, a Dutch seaman who quickly falls for Lily's bright curls and ready smile. His romantic ways make Lily go weak at the knees, and although she sticks by her husband, her heart belongs wholly to her flying Dutchman. Torn between his native homeland and his yearning for 'Lily, my lovely', Kasie sweeps in and out of her life throughout the post-war years and the swinging sixties, always on a tide of storms and passion. Only when that tide finally recedes does an older and wiser Lily settle down among her adored grandchildren to fondly remember her adventurous life. **************** What readers are saying about LILY, MY LOVELY 'Oh how I enjoyed this book' - 5 STARS 'A really compelling read' - 5 STARS 'I hated putting the book down' - 5 STARS 'Brilliant book from start to finish' - 5 STARS 'Absolutely fantastic story' - 5 STARS

Release date: May 9, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 442

Sample

1

Free French

Lily is a familiar character to those who know our London well. If you were to ask Lily what part of the town she lived in, her pretty face would break into a wide smile revealing even white teeth, and her dark blue eyes would light up with humour. ‘Cannin’ tawn,’ she would say with the deep intonation of the East End in her voice. Canning Town was a dreary dockland area, part of the East End which bordered the river Thames. There, long lanes of small tumbledown houses contained the population that drew a living from the thriving industry of the docks on the Thames.

Huge ships arrived from every country in the world, carrying their cargo into the London docks – the Victoria and Albert dock, East India dock, West India dock, the Surrey dock and various others that spread along the riverside for miles, making London seem the centre of the shipping world.

The eldest of six children, Lily in her youth would play down by the riverside with her brothers and sisters. They loved to watch the tramp steamers nosing their way into the docks, or the big liners filling up with passengers, emigrants leaving their homeland for better conditions in the colonies.

These great ships, along with the high cranes that dotted the skyline and the low hoots of the siren, made up Lily’s world. It was the only one she knew.

She grew up in one of those tumbledown houses in the same street that her grandparents lived. And when she was eighteen and married to George Brown, she moved into her own little home a few doors down. They would all meet at the local on Saturday nights, having all been shopping in the same market that day and if Mum and Dad went to the pictures, all the kids went too. It was a tight, close community, which provided a roaring, brawling way of life, with plenty to eat and plenty to drink.

Money was scarce but goods and food were easily come by; things fell off lorries as they left the docks and it was well known that the older dockies had hidden pockets in which to conceal their loot.

So Lily grew up happy and healthy, and contented with her way of life. Since she had left school at fourteen, she had worked in the Tate and Lyle sugar factory in Silver Town and would probably still be there but for a certain happening: in September 1939, England declared war on Germany.

On that historic Sunday morning Lily was at her Mum’s home with Mum, her four brothers and sister, and old Gran.

Gran’s lined face was wan and contrasted sharply with the black clothes she was wearing for Grandfather, who had died only the week before.

At sixty-five Grandfather had still been working when he could. Each day he had waited outside the docks and then fought his way through the crowd in the hope of getting some casual labour. But just last week, he had come home one night, sat down slowly in his little wooden armchair by the fire, and slept his last sleep.

Lily’s Dad was a seaman, a ship’s cook, who was more away from home than in it. But that day he was in Canning Town. He and Lily’s husband, George, were both down at the local enjoying their Sunday pint.

They all ate together on Sundays, and Lily was stringing the runner beans for lunch. Her long auburn hair hung over her eyes, and she puffed a cigarette while she topped and tailed the vegetables with her nimble fingers.

‘Well, that’s it,’ declared Gran, after the first siren went off. ‘Anuvver bloody war. Fought it would come.’

‘Oh, gor blimey, what’re we gonner do nah?’ cried Lily’s Mum.

Lily calmly sliced the beans and dropped them into the pot. ‘Dunno,’ she said. ‘What’re we supposed to do? Nobody’s told us so far.’

‘I ain’t waiting to be told,’ said Lily’s mother. ‘I’m orf tomorrer. I’ll go and live wiff me sister in Ireland.’

‘Well, I ain’t,’ said Lily, ‘I can’t leave George and what abaht poor old Gran?’

‘I’ll be all right,’ growled Gran, ‘been frough it af’re, I have.’

‘Well, it’s up to you, but I’m getting aht,’ announced Lily’s Mum. ‘Gahn, kids, gerrup and ger yer fings packed.’

And so, in the first few weeks of the war, the warm little community that Lily had been so happy in, split up. Mum and the kids left for Ireland and, despite her early bravado, the shock upset poor old Gran so much that she had a stroke and became bedridden for a while.

‘You’ll have to come and live wiff me naw, Gran,’ said Lily. ‘I expect George’ll soon be called up. And how abaht our Mum, then? It beats me how she’s got the bleedin’ gall to go orf and leave yer, but never mind, I’ll look after yer.’

‘Yer can put me in the old folks ’ome,’ snivelled Gran. ‘I don’t – care. Got nuffink to live fer now, I ain’t.’

But Lily was having none of that. ‘Now shut up snivelling,’ she cried. ‘I said I’d manage, and I will.’

So Gran moved into Lily’s house and was soon installed in Lily’s front room. Now Mum’s house and Gran’s house stood empty, looking like ghosts of the past with their lace curtains unkempt and doorsteps unwhitened.

‘Gives me the bleedin’ ’ump,’ Lily would remark to George, ‘seein’ them empty places. I’m used to dodgin’ in and aht of Gran’s and Mum’s houses.’

But George just munched his breakfast toast and sucked his teeth. He was quite unconcerned by the upheaval. Lily cast him a scornful look. After the honeymoon was over, her husband had got on her nerves with his dull outlook and noncommittal ways. All he ever uttered was ‘Yes, dear, no, dear,’ or ‘it’s all right wiff me, dear.’ At times she could hardly bear his company.

‘I shan’t be sorry when yer get called up,’ she said to him one day, ‘sittin’ abaht on yer arse all day. I’ve got meself a part-time job up at the munitions factory so you can give eye to Gran in the daytime.’

George glanced at the old lady dozing in her bathchair. ‘Aught ter be evacuated,’ he mumbled.

‘Mind yer own business, George Brown,’ cried Lily. ‘I said I’d manage and gor blimey, I will.’

So each morning Lily went off to the factory where she worked in the canteen. Several times a day she pushed a tea trolley down and around the long lines of presses and capstans, where young women in green overalls and caps slaved away on a busy bonus system which ensured that the much needed bullets and gun parts poured into the war effort.

At first Lily was quiet and didn’t talk much to the others, but with her rosy cheeks and ready smile, she soon became very popular with the girls. She became a familiar sight, with her hair piled on top of her head, handing out cups of tea or coffee, chatting cheerfully as she moved from person to person. There was one thing Lily was never short of, and that was chat. And it was she who soon spread gossip from one department to another. If a baby was born or someone got killed in the war, it was Lily who transmitted the news, laughing or weeping with genuine feeling. A love note would be passed on with just as much care and concern as the bad news of a husband killed in action. Not only did the hot tea and coffee provide a welcome break to those women who worked like Trojans but so did Lily. She loved her new job and everyone liked her and her habit of diving head first into whatever business was going on at the time. She made the factory buzz with news.

So those first few months of the war were not too bad except for the men who were being called up. One of these was George, but he went off to the army very cheerfully, rather pleased to be getting away from Lily and Gran who had been giving him a dog’s life, as he grumbled to his pals as they waited at the station before embarking on the journey of a lifetime into the unknown.

Soon after George had gone, an Anderson shelter was installed in the small yard at the back of Lily’s house where George used to keep his rabbit. Their shelter, a corrugated iron hut sunk half-way into the ground and covered with earth and sandbags, was to be their only means of protection from the bombing. Each night Gran was transferred down there accompanied by Mrs White from next door. With a couple of bottles of Guinness and a pack of cards the two old ladies were quite happy, and Lily felt free to put on her best regalia and go off to the pub with her workmates, regardless of any bombs and blackouts.

While they were on early-morning duty, Lily and her friends’ evenings were free, and with the heartiness of the East End Cockneys, they made the most of them. Lily lived nearest to the factory so it was her house that was usually used for the necessary preparations for going out. Their work-day clothes of slacks and head scarves were quickly discarded and replaced with smart suits, little hats with eye veils and plenty of make-up. Hair was brushed out and lacquered stiff, eyebrows were plucked to long, thin lines, cheeks were rouged, and lips painted bright red. They did not have to worry about wrinkles in their stockings because they wore none. Stockings had virtually all but vanished since war began. Instead, the women painted their legs with suntan lotion and drew lines down the backs with eyebrow pencils to represent the seams.

By the end of their careful primping, Lily and her pals looked amazingly smart as they emerged arm in arm from the house and disappeared into the blackout laughing and giggling. ‘Look out, boys,’ they would laugh. ‘Here we come!’

After such nights on the tiles, Lily would chatter about their adventures with her other workmates in the factory. The older, more respectable women were often quite shocked, but Lily’s straightforward approach to life and her spontaneous gaiety did much to make a dull day pleasant.

‘Don’t let your old man catch you, Lily,’ they would jest.

‘So what?’ said Lily cockily. ‘What the eye don’t see the heart don’t grieve for.’ And Lily would tell them more about the blokes they had met in the pub.

‘Be careful, Lily,’ someone would warn her. ‘Don’t get into trouble. Yer George’ll murder yer if he comes back to a readymade family.’

This kind of remark would instantly get Lily going. ‘Don’t think I’m that daft, do yer? Have ter be a bleedin’ fast worker to get round me.’

‘Mean to say yer meet all them blokes and they don’t get anything?’ The women stared at her in astonishment.

‘Of course they don’t!’ replied Lily scornfully.

Lily’s indignation was taken with a pinch of salt and no one believed her. But they all said it was wartime and life was short and sweet. They were tolerant because everybody liked Lily in spite of her randy ways (as they saw them).

Lily’s particular pals were Ivy, Mary, and Doreen. Together the girls went out on their sprees several nights a week and they would get the dockland alight long before Hitler managed to. They had a good choice of entertainment for, in spite of the blackout and the blitz, life went on inside the taverns and pubs. Beer was scarce and expensive but the boys on leave were there to live it up – after all, this might be the last leave they’d have.

There was Charlie Brown’s pub which was very popular and full of souvenirs brought back from all parts of the world by generations of homecoming sailors. Another favourite was the Bridge House at Canning Town which ran good entertainment every night and was always packed with sailors from the liberty ships, who had just one night ashore before they were off again on the briny.

Lily and her friends would arrive all dressed up at one of these pubs, sit down and buy themselves one drink. Then they ogled the servicemen who would then join them and buy plenty of drinks for them. Then it was off in a cab, if one could be found, to tour the pubs and make it a real night out.

Occasionally, Ivy, Mary or Doreen would feel emotionally attached to one of the men, and would then disappear for the evening with her special escort. When this happened, Lily would sniff and say scornfully, ‘Do as yer please. I can mind me own bleedin’ business. No one ain’t getting me round some dark corner.’

‘Oh, you are a hard nut, Lily,’ the other girls would say. ‘Sometimes a bloke can be very special, you know.’

‘Not to me,’ retorted Lily. ‘Never liked sex, not even with George.’

The first years of the war and the terrible nights when London was blitzed just passed over Lily, making little impression on her. She kept her job, looked after Gran and spent her money in improving her appearance in order to impress the young men whom she would then leave cold.

She and her friends had a lot of fun and a few close shaves, like the night when they went out on a spree in Whitechapel and picked up four Free French sailors who enticed them with promises of luxuries, which they had in their kit-bags, luxuries such as French wine and nylon stockings.

‘Come home to my house,’ suggested Lily. ‘We’ll have a party.’

Immediately they all agreed and, after a lot of kissing and cuddling on the trolley bus, they arrived at Lily’s house. It had been quiet for a few nights with no bombs, so Gran was still up, sitting in the parlour in her bathchair. ‘Fine bleedin’ goin’s on,’ she grumbled when she saw the girls with flushed faces and the excited, foreign-looking sailors.

‘We’re going to have a party, Gran,’ said Lily. ‘They’ve got brandy and wine. You can stay if you like.’

On went the gramophone and as the music filled the room, one of the sailors opened up his kit-bag to produce a box of chocolates which he gave to Gran with many fancy gallant gestures. Gran cackled at him like an old hen. The others opened their kit-bags, producing bottles of brandy and wine and a pair of highly valued nylon stockings for each of the girls. They were all set to have a lot of fun and Lily had just started to pour the drinks when a noisy fracas broke out. One of the sailors was arguing with Ivy in his own language and neither knew what the other was saying but, since he was pushing Ivy towards the stairs, the Frenchman’s intentions were pretty obvious. Without a moment’s hesitation, Lily waded in and punched him on the nose. ‘No bed,’ she said loudly. ‘We nice girls.’

There was a sudden silence in the room as the meaning of her words sank in. Then almost all at the same time, the outraged sailors grabbed back their gifts. Poor old Gran had just begun to tear the wrapper off the chocolate box with one horny finger when suddenly the box was snatched from her grasp and popped back into a kit-bag.

And with a few angry grunts, the frustrated sailors marched out of the house in a solemn line, taking their nylons with them.

‘Oh,’ cried Lily, ‘talk about Free Frenchmen!’

This made everyone laugh, and they all cheered when Lily produced from under the table a bottle of brandy which the sailors had missed. From then on it was ladies’ night as they drank the fiery liquid which had an exciting effect on them. They sang noisily and danced together around the room. When the siren went, with much hilarity Gran was bundled down into the shelter while she continued to complain bitterly about the chocolates that she never got the chance to eat.

Back in the house, the girls finished the bottle of brandy and then lay about so sloshed that they did not care that the windows rattled and the bombs descended around them, causing the whole of the docklands to go up in a blaze. They were too drunk to notice.

In fact, many lives were lost that night, as Lily learned the next morning when, pushing her tea trolley around the factory, she saw so many empty places at the benches. It was a sad day for all. Tears fell down her cheeks and Lily’s sorrow was so great that she even forgot about the terrific hang-over she had got from the Free French brandy.

 

Sometimes Lily tried to explain her relationship with her husband to her friends. ‘He ain’t no oil painting, my George,’ she would say as she poured out tea from the big enamel teapot. ‘Suppose you’d say he’s kind of homely. But, as I always says, he’s mine, and he don’t never look at any other bird, so that goes a long way to a happy marriage.’

But Lily’s pals protested. ‘Yer don’t like him in bed and yer keep saying he gets on yer nerves. What’s so loving about that?’ one of them said.

‘Well, that don’t bother me,’ replied Lily. ‘It’s all just a lot of pushing and shoving abaht noffink, that is.’

And off she went with her tea trolley, leaving behind her, as she always did, a chorus of laughter coming from the other girls who never quite knew whether to believe her or not.

When George was due for his first forty-eight hour leave, the girls at the factory all joshed Lily. ‘Better stop in tonight, Lily,’ they laughed. ‘Save a little bit up for poor old George.’

‘Oh, he’ll be well boozed,’ retorted Lily confidently. ‘He won’t be any trouble to me.’

On Saturday afternoon George arrived home heavily laden with all his kit. He stood grinning on the doorstep as Lily gave him a peck on the cheek. She looked him up and down and let out a shrill cry. ‘Yer ain’t bringin’ that bleedin’ gun in ’ere! Why, it’ll frighten the daylights out of old Gran.’

George sighed. ‘I’ll hide it in the cupboard under the stairs till I go back,’ he said apologetically.

Having got her way, Lily gave him a beaming smile. ‘Come on in, then, yer must be dead beat carryin’ all them fings abaht.’

George followed her into the small back kitchen and relaxed while Lily buzzed around getting a meal prepared for him. She chatted all the time, telling him about the blitz and the shortages of food and the troubles that old Gran was giving her.

George pulled off his heavy army boots – his beetle crushers, as they called them – and soon his grey woollen socks were steaming in the fire light. The atmosphere was warm and congenial, and he seemed glad to be there, back in his home, with its tiny kitchen and faded wallpaper. He ate the meal Lily put in front of him and in no time he was asleep.

While George slept at the fireside, his ruddy face and knobbly nose glowing in the light of the coals, Lily began to get ready to go out to the local. For this was Saturday night, and no one stayed in on Saturday nights – at least not down in Canning Town they didn’t.

As always, Lily’s preparations made up a long drawn-out performance, achieved with the help of a mirror propped against the teapot on the kitchen table, two layers of make-up, and plenty of perfume. Her hair was combed and curled and then lacquered until it stuck out like a birch broom.

The bright red lipstick was applied to her mouth and the suntan lotion to her legs. When this runny liquid was finally dry and well smoothed, Lily then had to get into some ridiculous positions in order to draw the seam lines down the backs of her legs with her eyebrow pencil. And it was while she was in an awkward position that George woke up. With a gleeful expression on his face, he reached over and touched her on the bottom.

Lily instantly exploded like a firework. Jumping back, she thumped poor old George about the head. ‘You behave yer bloody self!’ she yelled. ‘I don’t want none of yer army tricks ’ere.’

But George was not put out. He just cackled and pulled on his big army boots, lacing them up slowly and meticulously. ‘I’m orf to the pub,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Can’t wait for you. Could paint the bleedin’ ’ouse the time it takes for you to paint yer face.’

‘Oh, piss orf!’ said Lily ungraciously as she rearranged her hair.

And so Lily and George continued their way of life during George’s brief visits on leave as though nothing was different. George’s long absences had not changed Lily’s opinion of him one bit and George, as usual, was not bothered.

2

You and I and a Starlit Sky

One night in September 1942, three years after the war began, it was raining heavily in London. The deserted pavements were shining and wet. Since the sirens had gone off, the city’s population had been crouching underground waiting for the rain of bombs that was now a nightly occurrence. All the big air-raid shelters, like the tube stations, were overcrowded but since it was Saturday night there would still be some amateur entertainment laid on somewhere.

When the siren sounded, Lily struggled to get Gran down into the shelter. She was very worried, for Masie. White had recently got fed up with the blitz and was refusing to go into the shelter. This meant that Gran was left without a companion, a fact that concerned Lily.

‘I’ll be all right,’ snarled Gran. ‘Don’t yer worrit o’er me. Had me day, I ’ave. You get out on the booze if yer wants to.’

Lily bit her lip anxiously. It was not often that she felt so disturbed. ‘Shut up, yer silly old cow! I’ll stop in and that’s that.’

‘Oh, yes,’ grumbled Gran, ‘and ’ave the bleedin’ ’ump all night? Get me a little drop o’ whiskey and I’ll sleep like a top, bombs or no bombs.’

‘Oh all right,’ agreed Lily. ‘I’ll pop up the pub when it stops rainin’, and get you some whiskey. Don’t want to ruin me new ’at.’

‘Take the bleedin’ fing orf,’ said Gran. ‘Makes yer look like a tart anyhow.’

‘Now, shut up, Gran,’ Lily cried in exasperation, patting her new hat and rearranging her curls under it.

Lily was very proud of that red velvet hat; it had cost her a week’s wages. It was scarlet with an up-turned brim – the very latest in fashion. Her pals had all said, ‘Oh, Lily, not red, not with your hair colouring.’

But Lily had been determined to have that hat for some time. She had spotted it sitting all alone in the window of a West End shop; it was too expensive to sell quickly in those hard times. But she had decided then that she was going to have it, come hell or high water. And as soon as she had enough money, she went straight to the shop and emerged triumphant, the lovely red hat in a large paper bag tucked under her arm, a wide grin on her face.

‘Pity you ain’t got anything else to do with your money,’ complained Ivy. ‘I’ve got to send my money to help with my kids’ keep now they are evacuated.’

But Lily was so busy thinking how she would create a sensation when she entered the crowded bar wearing that hat, she couldn’t have cared less about Ivy’s troubles.

Lily didn’t regret her decision now. She knew she had been right first time, that the hat really suited her. Her hair lay in shining curls about her cheeks and the sweep of its brim showed up her fine straight features and creamy skin. Her wide eyes shone like stars. Yes, she decided with satisfaction, she did look good tonight. If only it would stop raining! For having got the hat in the right position she was not taking it off now. In the end she solved her problem by finding an old umbrella so that she could pop down the road to get Gran a couple of tots of whiskey.

Down in the shelter, Lily tucked Gran in and gave her half the whiskey. ‘Yer can drink the other half before yer drop orf,’ she said. ‘Goodnight. Sure yer will be all right?’ She still felt uneasy about leaving Gran all alone.

‘’Op it,’ replied Gran. ‘Don’t keep on fussin’.’

So at last Lily went out into the blitz. The rain had become a steady drizzle and there was a stillness in the air. The smell of acrid smoke was everywhere since a lone raider had flown over and dropped his string of bombs before heading for home again. Soon another wave of bombers would come, guided in by the light of the fires of the burning buildings started by the first plane.

None of this worried Lily. Having settled Gran she was now more concerned about not getting her new red velvet hat wet than anything else. She called for Ivy and they went together to meet Doreen and Mary in the Bridge House not far up the road.

When they entered the pub, the huge bar was full. The noise and the cigarette smoke were almost overpowering but to these girls out on the town it was a welcome haven. What went on outside did not matter as long as they clicked tonight and got some blokes to treat them.

‘We don’t like that bleedin’ ’at,’ said Doreen as they met up. Ivy and Mary shook their heads in unison.

But Lily tossed her curls disdainfully and ignored them. She felt smart tonight and no one was going to put her down.

In the bar there was a sprinkling of civilians but mostly the men there were servicemen. On one side there were twenty or thirty foreign sailors celebrating their few hours ashore. They were very noisy and sang songs in their own tongue.

‘Blimey! What are they?’ asked Lily.

The girls all laughed heartily at the memory of the Free French sailors in Lily’s house.

A youngish man was singing on the stage. He waved his arms and all his pals joined in the chorus, as he sang of the Transvaal. It was a South African song which had been made popular in wartime by Gracie Fields, but this man sang it in true Afrikaans. He had a sweet melodious voice and as Lily sat down at a table to listen, he broke off and said in perfect English over the microphone, ‘Oh my, what a nice hat.’

Everyone in the bar turned to look at her and Lily was furious. But her pals were even more so. ‘It’s embarrassing,’ Doreen said. ‘They are all looking at us. Told yer not to wear that bleedin’ ’at, Lily.’

‘Mind yer own business,’ returned Lily, casting paralysing looks at the singer who had continued with his song, ‘Sardi Mari’. He still sang in Afrikaans but every now and then he paused to ask, ‘Who is she, Sardi Mari? Where does she live, Sardi Mari?’ And each time he looked at Lily, which caused a lot of amusement as she actually blushed as red as her hat.

‘The cheeky silly sod!’ she exclaimed, looking away in embarrassment.

After an encore the young man came down from the stage and came towards Lily who sat up very stiffly as he came nearer. He was of small stature and slim, with brownish-blond curly hair. He wore a neat sailor’s uniform with a blue-and-white striped dickey front. Bowing low over her, he said, ‘Madame, I really like your hat. May I buy you a drink?’

Instantly Lily burst out laughing. ‘Well, if you want to, you can,’ she exclaimed, ‘but it will cost you four gins – one each for me pals.’

The drinks were ordered and as he sat beside her, Lily had a strange feeling inside her. In a peculiar way she felt as if this man was no stranger, as if she had met him before – but how and where she could not think.

Now he pressed her hand to his lips. ‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered, ‘the most beautiful woman I have seen since I left my country.’

Even Lily could not resist such flattery. ‘Oaw,’ she said, smiling. ‘Turn it up.’

He looked puzzled at her remark. His English was good but Lily’s Cockney jargon was unintelligible to him. He sat staring at her in silence.

Lily started to chat freely. ‘Where yer from?’ she demanded, and without waiting for a reply continued: ‘We seem to get a lot of foreigners in here now. Never used to, but can’t say I mind. Live and let live, that’s what I say. Me, I lives for every bleedin’ day. Not much good doin’ anyfing else wiff the bloody blitz on all the time.’ She paused for breath and finished up her gin.

The sailor ordered more drinks and took her hand with a smile. He had a kind of slow grin that made the corners of his mouth twitch. His serious brown eyes were lit up in humour.

The band struck up a popular tune and in his sweet soft voice, Lily’s admirer began to sing again, without taking his eyes off her. ‘Some day when I’m growing old/When our love grows cold/I’ll be thinking of you/Just the way you look tonight.’

‘Romantic, ain’t he?’ giggled Lily, showing off to her pals.

But the other three girls were getting fed up. ‘We’re going, Lily,’ they said. ‘Are you coming?’

Lily looked at the sailor, who clasped her hand tighter. She turned to her friends. ‘No, you go. I’ll see yer tomorrer.’

Ivy was astonished. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she protested. ‘You know we all stick together.’

‘Oh, I fancy a change,’ smiled Lily, moving closer to this blond suitor so that they got the message.

When the other girls had gone, the sailor plied Lily with more gin and put his arm around her. She felt warm and comfortable, and chatted on to him gaily. He told her that he was called Cornelius, but known as Kasie. He did not understand anything she said, but he continued to stare at her with a strange kind of fascination. He seemed to be entranced by the way two dimples appeared each side of her face as she chatted and smiled, by the lovely red hat perched on her auburn curls and by the carefree manner she had of waving her hands about as she talked, and batting mascaraed lashes over her shining dark-blue eyes.

It had got very late and the bar was almost empty. ‘You can’t come home with me,’ Lily explained. ‘I’m married.’

Kasie made no comment but, leaning forwards, he kissed her gently on the lips and took her hand. As if walking on air, and without another word, Lily went with him out into the night.

It had stopped raining at last and there was a clear sky full of twinkling stars. They walked slowly, saying nothing. Soon they came to an old derelict house. Ivy and honeysuckle climbed up the old walls that surrounded a large garden. Kasie drew Lily into the shadow and, feeling in a daze, she went willingly with him into the unkempt garden which smelled so sweetly of honeysuckle and wild roses. Leaning against a