Chapter 8
Bobby was rather relieved, as she sat on the train from Skipton to Bradford, that there was indeed a delay due to problems on the line – although it was the weather rather than the war that held them up.
It made her feel better about the fib she had told Reg so she could get away early and see her sister.
Even with the delay, she should still have an hour or two before she was due at the recruiting centre.
When she stepped off the train, she reflected on how different winter looked in the city than the countryside.
Never had the sooty, smog-filled streets of Bradford looked as dreary as they did that January morning, with puddles of dirty yellow slush filling every pothole.
Still, something about being back in her home town cheered Bobby in spite of that.
This wasn’t the Bradford she remembered, however. As she proceeded towards Southampton Street, she took in her surroundings.
The whole town seemed to have been repainted in khaki, blue and green.
It felt like every other person she passed was in some sort of uniform: soldiers, ATS girls, Home Guard, ARP wardens, the firemen and women of the NFS.
There was nothing gay or bright to be seen – the people felt as if they matched the soot-blackened buildings in their sombre attire.
The uniformed folk made her think of Charlie.
He was leaving today for his new post. Did he tremble as he travelled, poor frightened boy, as he had in Bobby’s arms last night?
Did his heart beat like something wild trapped in his chest?
And oh, when would he be in the air? Bobby hated to think of him flying ops, never knowing if the next telegram she received would be the one every wife and sweetheart dreaded.
But in some ways that strange, blank look she had seen in his eyes frightened her even more, because it felt like there was something at work inside him that was changing him as a man.
She wanted to comfort him so badly, and feared she no longer knew how.
Bobby walked in the road to avoid the harried Bradford housewives jostling each other in queues the length of streets, hoping they would be lucky enough to get whatever off-the-ration treat might be at the end before it ran out.
There seemed to be little of the camaraderie she remembered, with women joking and laughing as they waited.
Now everyone had a hungry look, and they eyed one another in silent suspicion.
It wasn’t on her way, but for some reason Bobby found herself wandering towards Hustlergate, where the offices of the Bradford Courier were located. She stopped outside the familiar black door with its brass plaque.
The scrim tape that criss-crossed the windows of her old workplace, designed to stop the glass shattering in the event of an explosion, was yellowed and peeling from neglect: a reminder of the bombs that had been expected to fall on Bradford but – with the exception of one terrible night in the summer of 1940 – had never come.
Bobby could only imagine the horror of living in Birmingham, Liverpool or London: wheezing and cowering in cold, damp shelters every night while explosions rang out around you.
Nostalgia flooded her brain as she looked at the old building.
She had been happy here. Not in her work particularly, which had been unchallenging other than the few pieces of copy Tony had given her to write, but she had loved being part of a team.
The way Don had mentored her as a writer.
Tony’s jokes, and his endless battles with Don over what programme to tune the wireless to.
Young Jem, the seventeen-year-old cub, and his deep blushes whenever Tony teased him about girls.
The weekly darts match against the Home Guard men at the pub, and Bobby’s acceptance as one of the lads.
She could understand what Charlie meant when he talked about wanting his home to stay just as it had been when he left – something reassuring to cling to in a world that was going mad. In many ways, Bobby had felt the same about the Courier.
Home had never really felt like a haven to her – at least, not since her mam had died.
Her dad had been too troubled after that for it to be anything other than a place of hardship and care.
But even after moving to the Dales, Bobby had liked to think of the boys at the Courier sitting at their desks the same as always.
She could still conjure up the smell of the office – Don’s Tom Long tobacco mingling with the smell of over-brewed tea and the ancient parchment of the archives, with perhaps the vinegary tang of some chips and scraps Tony had managed to cadge from the local chip hole.
It was telling, she supposed, that the first thing she had thought to do after the harrowing night she had climbed Great Bowside to rescue the injured airmen was to telephone Don and ask to see him at work.
It seemed impossible that his reassuring, big-brotherly presence wouldn’t be behind his desk waiting to welcome her whenever she chose to drop in.
She smiled as she thought back to the day she had left for her new job in the Dales: Don, Tony and Jem surprising her on the railway platform with a sign they had made bearing the message ‘We’ll Meet Again’, and the farewell gift of an onion that had cost a whole guinea between them in a charity auction.
Yet now they were all gone. Poor Jem, only barely a man, Bobby never had met again.
He had been called up shortly after and killed in action the previous spring.
Tony, unable to be conscripted on account of his asthma, had been out of work ever since Don had let him go from the paper.
And now even Don himself, the one person who had always made the Courier feel like the Courier, was gone, preparing to leave for the Army.
Their old boss Pete Clarke was back at the helm, Don had told Bobby in his last letter, coming out of retirement to keep things running until the war was over and men could be found to fill the jobs.
Bobby stared at the door a while longer before she carried on.
She would drop in on Don later. Time had been too short to write and let him know she was coming, and Lord knew she couldn’t afford to be sending telegrams all over the place at ninepence a time, but she did want to say goodbye.
She wondered how he was feeling about being called up.
At thirty-nine, Don had been almost at the maximum call-up age and probably hoped he’d get away with it – until the age had been extended to fifty over Christmas.
It would be a wrench to leave his wife Joan and daughter Sal at home with a new baby.
Their little lad Robert, Bobby’s namesake and godson, was barely six weeks old.
Of course, Bobby reflected as she turned on to Southampton Street, as much as she valued Don as a friend and mentor, in some ways it would have been better if she had never gone to work for the Courier.
She couldn’t help feeling guilty that it was through her that Lilian had first become acquainted with Tony Scott.
And like a fool, she hadn’t bothered to warn her sister away, thinking the man essentially harmless even if he did enjoy a flirt.
But it wasn’t her fault, was it? It was Tony’s fault, and it was for damn sure she wouldn’t be leaving Bradford without giving him a piece of her mind.
Bobby didn’t have long to wait. She found Tony at Clara’s lodging house, sitting beside her sister in the public lounge.
It was a strange scene. Tony had his arm around Lilian, but he didn’t look much like a lover.
It lay limply over her shoulders, like an understuffed draught excluder.
The pair sat in silence while Tony smoked one of the pungent Egyptian cigarettes he’d favoured since Capstans had become scarce.
He appeared wan and worried, and Lil, too, was pale.
But she smiled when she saw Bobby, and stood to embrace her.
‘Oh, Lil, I’m so glad to see you,’ Bobby whispered, squeezing her sister tight. ‘Is it done?’
‘Not yet. It’s to be Monday.’ Lilian held her back. ‘It’s all right, Bobby, I promise. You really had no need to come.’
The expression in her eyes was resigned and somewhat wistful, but not unhappy.
She sounded like the same old Lil, even if the bright note in her voice was rather forced.
But there were other people in the room, and Bobby couldn’t speak freely to ask her sister how she was really feeling.
She did, however, turn a glare on Tony, who looked a million miles away as he smoked his cigarette.
‘So,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘It’s you, is it?’
‘Heyup, Bob.’ He made an effort to summon the old Tony grin, although it looked ill at ease on his tired, drawn face. ‘Here for the wedding? You’re early.’
‘I’m here to—’ She stopped, glancing around at the handful of people reading their newspapers or listening to the wireless. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’
‘Spending some time with my future wife. That’s allowed, I suppose?’
‘You’d be better off getting down the Labour Exchange and trying to find a job.’
Lilian put a hand on her arm. ‘Bobby, it’s fine. It’s our business. Anyhow, Tony was just leaving. We can go up to my room and talk.’
Tony stood up. ‘Actually, Bobby, could I have a word in private? Want to ask a favour.’
‘A favour? You’ll be bloody lucky,’ Bobby muttered, still looking daggers at her old friend. ‘But I’ll talk to you in private. I’ve got a few things to say that I don’t want to turn the air in here blue with.’
Lilian looked worried. ‘What is it, Tony?’
‘Nothing to do with… nothing that need worry you,’ he said. ‘Something Bobby can help me with, that’s all. If it works out, I’ll tell you.’
‘Tell me now. If you think I’m going to be one of those wives who let themselves be kept in the dark about what their husbands are up to, you’re very wrong.’