Free A Kiss and a Promise by Katie Flynn Page B

as about Stella herself. The baby had finished and Stella put her across her shoulder, stood up, and went and gave her mother a hug. ‘I’m sorry, Mam,’ she said gently. ‘It’s been a hard time for the whole family; you’ve lost one son, and a son-in-law, but you’ve managed to keep pretty cheerful on the whole. I am worried about Michael, who wouldn’t be, but I’ll still try to keep smiling for your sake. And now I’d best get down to the Admiralty office.’
    And presently, with baby Virginia tucked warmly into the old perambulator, Stella made her way down Duke Street to Canning Place and the Admiralty office. She was a familiar figure in there by now and usually greeted by the elderly clerk with a smile. But this morning, he looked up quickly, nodded, and then began to arrange the papers on his desk with meticulous care, eyes downcast. Stella’s heart sank into her boots but she spoke as cheerfully as she could.
    ‘Good morning, Mr Fry! Any news of the Thunderbolt ?’
    ‘Aye. HMS Bideford signalled that the Thunderbolt had been torpedoed but other ships in the convoy picked up a good few survivors.’ He looked up at her fleetingly then, his rather small eyes behind his steel-rimmed spectacles full of sympathy. ‘We’ve had no names as yet, but you mustn’t despair, miss. Just you pray your young feller’s one of them lucky ones what got fished out of the ‘oggin.’
    Stella turned away. She felt quite cold. She remembered the strong feeling she had had when they had parted the previous July, that she would never see Michael again. Oh, God, and the nightmares! The flames, the scorching heat, the cries … and then the darkness of the water, the waves crashing down, the fear … but she remembered her promise to her mother and, at the door, turned resolutely back to give Mr Fry the benefit of her brightest – and most artificial – smile. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Mr Fry, and when the lists of names come through, his will be amongst them,’ she said, with only the slightest tremor in her voice. ‘But I’ll pray very hard, just in case.’
    Victory Day dawned, but there had been no word at the shipping office, no list of survivors. ‘Since shipping will be making its way back to port, that may not mean much,’ Mr Fry had said wisely the previous day, when she had gone down to the docks in the vain hope of some good news. ‘You go off and enjoy the victory celebrations tomorrow, my dear; it’s been a terrible time for you, a terrible time, but I’m sure we’ll have some news soon.’
    There were to be fireworks, street parties, no end of jollity. Some of the troops had already come home; Stella had seen them in the streets, pale and hollow-eyed, their skin grey and unhealthy-looking, their eyes dull. She remembered the last time she had seen Michael, how well he looked, how bronzed and strong. If he came home, she supposed he would look very different now, because the ordeal of being shipwrecked would surely put its mark upon him as plainly as soldiers were marked by their experiences in France. But then she had dragged her mind away from such thoughts and, pushing the big perambulator before her, returned to Victoria Court, where she had admitted to her mother that there was still no news.
    ‘Mr Fry says to enjoy the celebrations, but I don’t think I want to,’ she said, picking the baby out of the pram and holding the child’s still sleeping body in her arms. ‘To tell you the truth, Mam, I’m not feelin’ so good. I think I’ve mebbe gorra head cold comin’ on, so it’ll be best to stay indoors, in the warm.’
    Mrs Bennett looked at her doubtfully. ‘I’m sorry there weren’t no good news for youse, queen, but I think you ought to wait until the mornin’ before you decide to stay cooped up in the house. A victory don’t happen every day o’ the week, you know, and in the years to come that littl’un …’ she pointed to the child in her daughter’s arms, ‘… will