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tight-lipped about their past. All Mrs P knew about them was that they had lost both their parents five years ago, although she had no idea how they had died, and whenever she asked any questions about them, Lucy closed up like a clam. Mrs P supposed it was too painful for the girl to talk about. But there was no doubt she was as good as gold to her little sister, like a little mother, and she kept their tiny terraced house as neat as a new pin. Mrs P still felt that it was an awful responsibility for such a young woman, even more so since her brother had been called up. Now Joel was a nice lad an’ all. Good husband material for some lucky girl, although he’d not have much chance for romance now till this damn war was over.
    The big woman sighed as she thought of her own son, who had also gone to fight for his country. With her two youngest sent off to the country too, she and her husband Fred were rattling around like peas in a pod and sometimes she felt that her life had no purpose any more. Were it not for little Mary, she was sure she would have gone stark staring mad. She had been used to the small house teeming with kids and noise, and laughter bouncing off the walls, but now the quietness often threatened to choke her. And she was painfully aware that things could get much worse. All the young men, including her oldest son, Freddy, had already been called up, but if the war didn’t end soon then there was a faint chance that her husband might be called too, even if he was working in a munitions factory and was a bit long in the tooth. It just didn’t bear thinking about.
    She put Mary down and struggled out of the easy chair at the side of the fireplace. A fire was licking up the chimney and despite the fact that the furniture had seen better days, the room was cosy and welcoming.
    ‘I’ll make us a nice cuppa,’ she declared as she headed for the kettle, then on a more serious note she confided, ‘I’ve half a mind to get the kids back from the country. I mean, there ain’t nothin’ happened here as yet, is there? An’ so they might as well be at home, the way I see it.’
    ‘That doesn’t mean that nothing will happen though, Mrs P,’ Lucy pointed out. ‘And at least you know they’re safer there.’
    ‘Yes – but what if they ain’t bein’ properly looked after?’ the woman fretted as she rinsed the heavy brown teapot and carefully spooned tea leaves into it.
    ‘I’m sure they are.’ Lucy’s heart went out to her. Mrs P adored her family and she could well imagine how hard being separated from them all must be for her.
    In no time at all, she and Mrs P were sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a cup of Typhoo as Mary played with a pile of brightly painted wooden bricks on the hearthrug. She’d had a beaker of milk and a Royal Scot biscuit from Mrs P’s polkadot biscuit barrel.
    ‘Now then,’ Mrs P took a noisy slurp of her tea before asking, ‘What are you to wear for work then? Do you have to wear a uniform?’
    ‘Not a uniform exactly but a white blouse, a black skirt and sensible black shoes.’ Lucy hadn’t given it much thought up until now, but she suddenly realised that she didn’t possess such a thing as a white blouse, and with funds being as tight as they were, how was she going to afford one?
    ‘I’ve got the shoes and a suitable skirt, but I don’t know what I’m going to do about a blouse,’ she said worriedly.
    Mrs P chuckled. ‘Well, you’ve no need to worry on that score. I just happen to have two good white linen pillowcases that would make a lovely blouse, and thank Gawd I’m a dab hand wi’ a needle an’ thread. I’ve had to be, wi’ my tribe over the years. I’ll get me old Singer sewin’ machine out from under the stairs an’ I’ll run you one up in no time.’
    ‘But I couldn’t let you do that,’ Lucy objected. ‘You do more than enough for me already.’
    ‘Rubbish!’ Mrs P topped their cups up and stirred in another spoon of sugar