Free Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase by Louise Walters

liked the joyful-joyless sound of the American woman’s voice. And, for an evening, they forgot about the war. There was none of their usual talk: In a year it could all be over, in six months it could all be over, six weeks even, and Hitler will be here, and we’ll have no freedoms, and Churchill will be strung up, and …
    ‘Dance, Nina!’ cried Aggie, pulling the heftier girl to her feet, and spinning her around, laughing, red-faced.
    Dorothy sewed and watched. She smiled. It was an inspired idea of the squadron leader’s, she thought. Of course, young women like to dance. They like music. Why wouldn’t they?
    ‘There’s more,’ said Dorothy, remembering the invitation. ‘We are invited to the dance next Saturday night. Special guests of the squadron leader.’
    ‘Oh, we know all about that,’ said Nina, throwing herself down on to the settee, still red-faced, her mousy hair clinging to her face. ‘Already invited, we are. All the Land Girls are going.’
    ‘What are you going to wear, though?’ said Aggie. ‘I’ve got my blue frock.’
    ‘I don’t know. Don’t much care either. Might just wear my uniform. All that lovely food up there too! They put on such a spread last time, Dot. You should’ve seen it. Cakes. Jellies. All sorts of sandwiches. Lovely, it was.’
    ‘Yes, but that’s why your dress won’t fit you any more!’ said Aggie, moving rhythmically around the room, arms held out as though dancing with a partner, her blonde curls flying behind her.
    ‘It’s all right for you. Just I’ve got a healthy appetite, haven’t I, Dot?’
    ‘Indeed you have. Why don’t you bring me your dress, and we’ll see if I can let it out for you?’ said Dorothy.
    The dress was a pale green lawn, with a matching fabric belt. Rather old, and in need of a darn or two, as well as letting out. Dorothy examined the seams, which were mercifully generous. After suggesting Nina try it on, she unpicked and pinned it, and managed to let it out to the required size. Nina looked well in it. Green suited her nondescript, pale brown hair, her country-tanned face and arms. Not exactly pretty – and, frankly, fat – but Dorothy still felt something akin to a mother’s pride looking at the smiling girl wearing her newly altered frock.
    The day before the dance, Dorothy examined her own wardrobe and pondered what to wear. She had three ‘special occasion’ frocks. The first was red, woollen, with long sleeves, more of a winter frock. It was a little close-fitting, but not too tight. She had never regained the weight she’d lost in the weeks after giving birth to Sidney. The red dress was of a pleasing length, just below the knee, and would show off her calves to advantage if she were to wear her black court shoes. She still had reasonable-looking calves. This she allowed.
    She also had a green and blue patterned dress in a crisp cotton, which creased easily and was, besides, too young for her now. She would see if Aggie might like it. And lastly she had her summer frock, with a tiny flower print in pink, black, white and orange. It was undoubtedly her favourite with its summery, short puffed sleeves and its comfy, faded feel. It was perfect for a June dance. She had her pink cardigan she could wear with it, and her brown shoes looked smart with it too. Understated and admirably appropriate for a woman approaching forty, childless, and, for all she knew, widowed.
    Her dressings had been removed, and the skin on her face was pink, no longer red and angry. It was still slightly sore to the touch when she covered it as best she could with her powder, just to see how it might look the following evening. It looked acceptable, she thought. She considered her frocks, hanging over her wardrobe door, draped across her bed. She liked them all, but at the same time she couldn’t care less if she never wore any of them again. It was indifference, she knew – a horrible, blank feeling that she had become accustomed to over the