with someone safe and sound. I suppose Patrick’s at the top of that particular list.’
Mary Anne sighed with relief. ‘Good.’ Patrick had endured an awful upbringing by a mother who’d had more men friends than hot dinners. Patrick hadn’t had too many hot dinners at all. He’d grown up scrawny and scruffy, but Lizzie had become his friend. At the outbreak of war they became more than that. Patrick was good to Lizzie and in Mary Anne’s opinion they were made for each other. This news couldn’t have come at a better time.
All the same, why was Lizzie looking towards the mist rising from The Cut? Was there something in her eyes she didn’t want her own mother to see? Mary Anne dismissed her concern. Her daughter had always been sensible. She wasn’t the type to bring trouble home.
They both rubbed their hands together as they passed from the chill of the street and into the warmth of the shop. Cries of welcome reverberated around the back room as tea was poured and sandwiches and home-made cake were passed round.
Neither woman had noticed the lone figure watching them from behind the broken timbers of a bombed-out house. But he saw them and hated them for being a family, for being happy, and for having each other.
Chapter Seven
‘Patrick, you look a picture.’
‘In that case, Mrs Randall, I’m a failure. I was hoping I looked like a first-class aircraftsman!’
Patrick had come looking for Lizzie at the Lord Nelson pub after travelling up from a fighter station on the south coast. Like her he’d acquired a temporary room; unlike her, his lodgings were above a chip shop.
‘Not that they’ve got much fish at the moment and not too many chips,’ he said ruefully. ‘Lovely smell though.’
In her son’s absence, Patrick’s mother had let his room out to lodgers and was making a pretty packet, an amount of money she had no wish to lose simply because he was back. Not that he was too inclined to return to his childhood home anyway.
He found it funny that Lizzie and her mother were staying above a pub. ‘Handy for getting home if you’ve had a few in the bar,’ he said chirpily, his eyes following Lizzie’s every movement.
Lizzie poked her tongue out at him as she handed him a cup of tea. ‘Two days. That’s all I’ve got, Patrick Kelly, so there’s no time for me to get drunk. Well, not if you want to make the most of my company.’
His eyes sparkled as he grinned. ‘I don’t need to make any decision between you and a pint of beer. I know what I want.’
Lizzie blushed. ‘Less of your cheek, Patrick Kelly.’
Her mother had returned to her sewing, pretending that the skirt she was altering had her undivided attention.
‘Will you come with us to the pictures, Mrs Randall?’ asked Patrick.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’re quite welcome. It’s a cowboy film.’
She shook her head. ‘Not my favourite kind of film I’m afraid, and anyway, I’m expecting our Stanley to call in.’
Patrick was far too polite to show his relief. All the same, she sensed it, and who could blame him? These two young people were serving their country. Both faced the possibility of being injured or killed – Patrick in the air, and Lizzie on the home front. Let them have their time together unchaperoned – no matter what they got up to.
‘How’s Stanley getting on?’ Patrick enquired.
‘Not too bad,’ Mary Anne replied, ‘though we’ll all be happier when we’ve found somewhere to live.’
‘Not easy,’ Patrick said ruefully. ‘Bristol had it bad enough in November, but you should see London.’ He shook his head. ‘The East End’s a mess. I’ve occasion to go up there now and again, you know, stationed where I am.’
Lizzie had gone quiet, her eyes lowered as though the surface of her tea was incredibly interesting.
‘How long before you leave?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘Thought we would have shipped out by now, but it won’t be long. Mark my words, it won’t be