Chapter 18
Bobby supposed she ought to feel relieved after her conversation with her sister.
It had contained two pieces of good news – that Lilian was no longer taking tonic wine, and that her relations with George Parry were no more than they ought to be.
And yet Lil had sounded so unhappy, in her life and in her marriage.
Perhaps spending more time with Tony would help, but Bobby sensed the problem went deeper than something that could be fixed by a trip to the pictures.
Preoccupied as she was with her sister’s worries, Bobby didn’t forget to stop in at the Hart on the way home and purchase a jug of beer for Charlie.
There was nothing left now of the BBC’s ten shillings.
She felt very extravagant at having spent so much in one day, but if it made Charlie smile it would be worth it.
She wondered how he was feeling after his emotional deathbed visit. Bobby was sure he must be craving a pair of warm arms and the soft, soothing murmurs of a wife who loved him. She wished they were together.
Tomorrow was Saturday, her half day. Bobby had an appointment with Dr Minchin in the early afternoon, but that left plenty of time to prepare Charlie’s homecoming tea. If he was lucky enough to avoid too many of the delays that were a hallmark of wartime travel, he could be home by early evening.
The last thing Bobby felt like after her sober conversation with Lilian was trying to be funny, but she hadn’t forgotten her plan to write a dozen good jokes before she retired.
She couldn’t afford to waste any free time she was granted before the baby came – a visit to her sister was enough to remind her how precious a mother’s leisure hours were.
Like Lilian, Bobby felt it would be an extravagance to light a fire only for herself.
Instead, after a frugal supper of bread and dripping, she carried her hot water bottle and the wireless set into the bedroom.
There she put on several layers and some gloves, found her notebook and the fountain pen Don had given her when she left the Courier and tuned in to the Forces Programme.
There was a new episode of ITMA on at half past eight.
Bobby hoped listening to it would set her creative juices flowing.
‘Oh!’ she said, quarter of an hour into the broadcast.
It had been so fast she might have missed it.
It was during one of Tommy Handley’s conversations with another character: Mrs Mopp, the eccentric, gravel-voiced charlady.
And it was her joke! Thrown in among the other one-liners had been one of the gags the programme had paid her five shillings for.
Even with the BBC letter, Bobby hadn’t quite believed her words could be on the air, heard by thousands of listeners.
Even the king would have heard it! Everyone said he never missed an episode of ITMA. Had he laughed at her joke? And had Charlie heard it, wherever he was?
Bobby remained in a starstruck daze, still unable to quite believe that her words, her actual words, had been broadcast across the country. But once it sank in, it did more than anything else to bolster her confidence. As soon as the programme was over, she took up her pen and started to write.
When Bobby awoke, she was still in her gloves and three warm jumpers, her notepad under her cheek. She had stayed up writing far later than she’d intended, eventually falling asleep with her uncapped pen still in her hand.
Woozily she reached for Charlie, then opened her eyes when she encountered a wet patch.
‘Oh hell!’
She jumped out of bed and yanked on the light pull, assuming her hot water bottle must have leaked, but it was her fountain pen that was to blame.
There was ink everywhere. When Bobby looked in the mirror, she saw that the impression of a joke was emblazoned like a bad tattoo on her right cheek where she had slept on her notepad.
What had she written anyhow? She snatched up the notepad and skimmed the smudged but thankfully still readable writing.
There were nine jokes there. Perhaps five of them were all right.
One was sheer nonsense. Bobby must have scribbled it down when she was all but asleep.
The other three needed work, but she might make something of them.
She would take the pad to work and type up the good ones.
If they still managed to produce a smile after she had slept on them – rather less literally this time – she could send them off by tomorrow’s post.
Bobby looked at the bed and grimaced. Ugh, why had she let herself fall asleep holding the pen? God knew how she was going to get that ink out. She’d have to miss her breakfast cup of tea and get the bed stripped down so the mattress could dry off before bedtime.
What time was it anyway? Bobby glanced at the clock and her eyes widened.
Half past eight! She was supposed to unlock the office in fifteen minutes!
The clock couldn’t be right. Marmaduke always woke her at half past six, without fail. He was so reliable, she didn’t even bother to set the alarm now. The thing must have stopped.
Bobby went to peep behind the blackouts, and blinked at the thin light.
That meant the clock had to be right. Oh Lord, she was going to be so late!
She couldn’t possibly get to the office in less than three-quarters of an hour, even if she missed breakfast and hid her hair under a scarf.
Tony would never let her live it down, after all the times she’d told him off for turning up a few minutes after nine.
And there was the bed to strip down, and jokes all over her ruddy face, and no Charlie to help her get everything in order.
‘Why did you have to choose today of all days to start sleeping in?’ she wailed to Marmaduke.
Bobby was nearly an hour late for work, running all the way. She found the office unlocked, with Tony at his desk looking exceptionally smug.
‘How did you get in?’ she panted.
‘Parry had a spare key. Good thing too or I’d still be outside, freezing my bits off.’ He gave her a stern look. ‘Well, young lady, what time do you call this?’
Bobby shook her head. ‘You’ve really been looking forward to this, haven’t you?’
‘What do you think?’ he said with a grin. ‘So, are you going to confess to Reg or do I need to tell tales?’
‘Really? After all the times I’ve covered for you?’
‘Aye, and never let me forget it.’ Tony leaned back and lit a cigarette. It was no wonder Lilian struggled on the housekeeping, given the amount he must spend on fags. ‘Tell you what, I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll say nowt to the old man in exchange for… the next ten tea rounds.’
‘I’d rather come clean and make the time up.’ Bobby sat down without removing her coat. ‘I don’t suppose the captain will mind if I stay an extra hour.’
‘How come you’re late anyway?’
‘Oh, Charlie’s away visiting an RAF pal in hospital. He usually reminds me to set the alarm before bed,’ Bobby said vaguely. ‘I dropped off listening to the wireless and overslept.’
‘You all right then?’ Tony asked, peering at her. ‘Thought you might be ill. You don’t look too good.’
‘Ta very much.’
‘Honestly, you’re dead pale. Not sickening for summat, are you? Because Lil was counting on you to mind the baby tomorrow night.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘She’s got it into her head for us to go dancing.’
Bobby smiled. ‘Has she? Good.’
‘Your doing, was it? I’d be happier with the pub, if we must go out.’
‘I’m sure you would, but Lil wouldn’t.’ Bobby met his eyes.
‘Just do me a favour and take her out on the town. It’s good for you to spend time together away from Annie.
’ She held up her hand as he opened his mouth.
‘Somewhere that isn’t the ruddy pub. You spend half the time there chatting to your mates while she sits on her own.
If you care about her as much as you say, do something she wants to do for once. ’
‘Course I care about her. Married her, didn’t I?’
‘Mmm. You seem to be forgetting that I remember exactly why you married her. It didn’t have much to do with romance, I recall.’
‘Well, I didn’t have to. Plenty of blokes wouldn’t have bothered.’
Bobby shook her head. ‘Honestly, why do people keep mentioning that like it’s some great magnanimous act?
Yes, you married her, and so you bloody should have when you were the one—’ She took a deep breath.
‘Look, never mind. It’s in the past. Just take her out and show her you appreciate her once in a while, will you? ’
‘Aye, all right. I was going to anyhow, so you’d no need to stick your oar in,’ Tony said, truculent at being lectured to. ‘You going to be able to mind the baby? You look sick as a dog.’ He narrowed one eye. ‘You weren’t out on a spree last night while your other half was away, were you?’
‘No I was not. I’m not you. And yes, I can mind the baby.’
‘Get the kettle on, then.’
Bobby put a hand to her head. ‘In a bit. I’m not getting ill but I do feel dizzy. I suppose it’s from running all the way here.’
As the morning wore on, however, Bobby started to worry there was more to the way she was feeling than her rushed start.
The feeling of dizziness persisted, and although she’d had no breakfast, she couldn’t stomach the thought of drinking tea.
There was an unsettled queasiness in her belly that extinguished appetite entirely.
But what worried her most was the lack of movement there. Whenever Tony was engrossed in something, Bobby slipped one hand under her coat so she could run it across her stomach, desperate for some little twitch that would set her mind at rest.