“She’s right, Gerald,” came Mother’s voice, soft and unexpected. “We all have to do our bit.”

  I held my breath. I’d never heard Mother contradict my father before. Never.

  My eyes turned toward him as he stood upright, the slanting sun deepening the wrinkles on his weary face, his tweed jacket worn at the elbows.

  When he spoke, he didn’t turn to look at either of us, his gaze unfocussed and distant.

  “I had hoped,” he said slowly, “to keep my only child in some degree of safety. At Oxford.”

  I didn’t know what to say—his reply wasn’t what I’d expected—so I sat watching him in confusion and silence.

  “You do not need my permission to do what you must, but you have it all the same. I’m proud of you, Sylvia.”

  My eyes blurred with tears as Father walked from the room.

  Chapter Ten

  Strawberry Point, April 2019

  Fiona

  The next time I saw Joe Fox, he was leaning through Dolly’s window, the leather bracelet on his wrist catching on the frame as he handed her a baggie of weed and she thrust a handful of dollar bills towards him.

  He saw me first, his smile shuttering, leaving a cold, impersonal mask in its place. Dolly turned more slowly, her hands shaking, but her eyes flaring in challenge when she saw me.

  “This is a private arrangement,” she snapped.

  I swallowed, my gaze skating between them.

  “It’s illegal,” I said softly.

  Dolly waved her hand imperiously. “It’s medicinal. Lots of doctors prescribe it these days.”

  My fingers tightened on the door handle as Joe Fox stared at me, neither moving nor blinking.

  I licked my lips and spoke directly to Dolly.

  “Only doctors can prescribe it. Not … this.”

  The stand-off continued for several seconds, me wishing I’d never seen them and within a second of backing away, Joe Fox glaring at me, and Dolly staring with cool appraisal.

  “Are you going to report me?” sneered Joe Fox, speaking to me for the first time.

  Dolly frowned, waving me inside, and I entered the small room reluctantly. She grasped my wrist with her bony hand, a surprisingly strong grip.

  “Of course she isn’t, are you, dear?”

  “I … I don’t know,” I stammered. I should.

  “Then I’ll explain why that would not be a good idea,” Dolly said calmly. “Firstly, this is for personal use. Secondly, it’s for medicinal use—you must know that marijuana is a proven analgesic, much kinder on one’s stomach than certain brands of painkiller I could name, and my arthritis is worse at night. Thirdly, I asked Joe to help me, not the other way around. And fourthly, it’s none of your business.”

  I leaned forward, lowering my voice.

  “How do I know that he’s not taking advantage of you?” I whispered, but Joe Fox heard me anyway.

  “Taking advantage?” he scoffed. “Do you even know Dolly at all? She’s got street smarts you’ve never dreamed of, lady. No one takes advantage of her—and I charge a fair price.” His lips rose in a hard smile. “Wanna try some? I’ll give you a first timer’s discount.”

  I bristled at his assumption and the implied insult that I was a prude, a judgmental goody two-shoes.

  “Don’t tease her,” Dolly smiled, patting his hand where it rested on the window ledge, her thin, pale skin contrasting with his healthy, tanned bronze. “Fiona is a good girl. And she’s not going to say anything. Off you go now, Joe. We’ll continue our discussion later.”

  He smiled at her, a warm, genuine smile that touched my heart.

  “Sure thing, Dolly. Take it easy.”

  “Oh, I intend to,” she laughed, waving at the baggie where it lay on her lap.

  He grinned, then with a final warning glance at me, strode away and seconds later, I heard the throaty roar of the tractor-mower.

  “Ugh! I can’t stand him!”

  “Really? Why not?” Dolly asked, amused.

  I didn’t think I’d spoken loudly enough for her to hear me—apparently I was wrong.

  “He’s so arrogant,” I said, admitting only half the truth.

  Dolly gave me a level look.

  “I rather like a man with arrogance—providing he has a tight ass, too.”

  “Dolly!”

  “What? You have noticed his tight ass, haven’t you? You have eyes in your head, girl.”

  Clearly Dolly had passed the age of conversational filtering. Perhaps she’d had it once … I wasn’t so sure.

  “Now, help me with this,” she said, pointing at the baggie.

  “Dolly, I don’t know about this … I think, I think…”

  She ignored me, rummaging in the capacious pocket of her mobility trolley until she found a packet of cigarette papers.

  “Roll it for me, would you, Fiona? I’m too shaky today.”

  I knew what she was doing: by rolling the joint for her, I was getting involved—guilty by association, I guess. And if I was caught—or reported—I’d lose my job, same as Joe Fox.

  “Please, my dear.”

  I heard the distress in her voice, or thought I did. Maybe it was my conscience, maybe it was my inability to say no to people. Either way, I hung the ‘personal care’ sign on the outside of her door, then sat down to roll the joint.

  My fingers were clumsy and I spilled the weed across the windowsill three times, sweeping it back into the baggie with my fingers.

  Dolly watched me closely, her arthritic hands knotted together in anticipation.

  Finally, I passed the finished joint and lit it for her from a small book of matches that she kept in her purse.

  She inhaled, her eyes closing with pleasure and relief, and her hands shook a little less. I had to look away—there wasn’t much dignity in being 97, beholden to everyone for the slightest thing, helped to wash, helped to dress, helped to the bathroom. If this gave her pleasure or relief from the insults of age, who was I to stop her? That’s how I reasoned it to myself, but I knew it was wrong, too. One of those moral dilemmas that you’re supposed to discuss in ethics class but hope you’ll never come across in real life.

  When you’re in high school, it feels like the deepest pit of hell. But then you leave or graduate and realize that life has several different kinds of hell: work hell, relationship hell, money hell, apartment hell, family hell, stress hell, health hell, or just the unremitting, everyday sort of hell.

  Choosing to be optimistic was plain foolish, yet I tried to find something positive in most situations.

  Dolly’s eyes were still closed when she spoke again. “Know the rules well, so you can break them effectively.”

  “Is that right?” I sighed. “The world according to Dolly?”

  She gave a small smile. “Perhaps, my dear, but I was quoting the Dalai Lama.”

  “Oh!”

  “Yes, people are very surprising, are they not?”

  And she opened her eyes again, skewering me with a look.

  I sighed again. “Yeah, they shock the heck out of me all the time.”

  Dolly’s head lolled back against her chair and she laughed, her small frame shaking with merriment.

  I’d made her laugh. See? A positive right there.

  “Oh, I do like you, Fiona,” she said, gasping for breath as her eyes watered. “Now, tell me why you were staring at Joe when you came in—apart from the fact that we were mid-transaction; something caught your attention.”

  “Oh, nothing really—the baggie of weed was definitely my focus.”

  Dolly smirked.

  “But I noticed the leather bracelet on his wrist, I just … well, I wondered what it was.”

  “Ah ha! Sharp eyes and an inquiring mind. Very good! And what have your surmised so far?”

  I shook my head. “Not much, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of man to wear accessories, and he doesn’t seem to care about what clothes he wears that much, so…”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “It’s not an expensive item, not an heirloom, therefore it must have been given to him by someone he cares about. A sister, perhaps. A younger sister.”

  “Do you know or are you guessing?”

  She smiled at me. “Deducing. He has crayon on his fingers.”

  “Maybe he has a younger brother or maybe he likes to draw.”

  “It’s pink crayon. And he has glitter on his jeans.”

  “Still, it doesn’t seem like the kind of gift a little sister would buy.”

  “Very true. But I’m sure I’m right about him having one.”

  “Maybe…”

  “A wager!” she said, her eyes bright. “If I’m right, you owe me a favor.”

  “Dolly…”

  She held out her hand, her eyes twinkling.

  “Fine,” I smiled, shaking her hand. “But only a small favor.”

  “We’ll see. Now, tell me more about yourself. What have you been up to since I last saw you? What adventures have you had?”

  My smile receded like the tide, exposing dangerous rocks below.

  “There’s not much to tell,” I said warily.

  “The most interesting people usually say that,” she said, narrowing her eyes as she inhaled again.

  “Nope, just working. I’ve never been anywhere, never done anything … except my cosmetology degree.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No, but I wish I did.”

  “I had a brother. Fred was a keen football player. Center forward. Royal Surrey Light Infantry. Killed at Monte Cassino.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, words seeming inadequate for her long ago loss.

  “Thank you, dear. He was a lovely boy. Always getting me in trouble,” and she sighed. “He worked for the grocery store next door before he was called up.”

  I started to prepare a bowl of warm water so I could soak her nails before I began her manicure.

  “Have you ever been in love?” Dolly asked abruptly.

  I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out.

  “Ah, so you have! How fascinating. Do tell.”

  I sucked my teeth, struggling to meet her gaze. “I’d rather not.”

  She gave me a knowing smile, a sad smile. “Oh, my dear child, you know that the past only has power over us if we let it. Whoever he was, he has lost a jewel.”

  My eyes watered from the smoke and I coughed to clear my lungs.

  “Yeah, well, he didn’t think so.”

  You’re a loser, Fiona. And you’re fucking fat. Fat Fiona, a hairdresser for dead people, for fuck’s sake! I’ve had to put up with the guys’ crap for long enough. You’re not even good in bed.

  “Then he was a fool, and not worth your regrets. It’s time to make new memories, Fiona, better ones, don’t you think?”

  “I’m trying, Dolly,” I said softly, my voice wobbling. “I’m trying.”

  “The hardest steel has been tempered in the fire.”

  “The Dalai Lama said that, too?”

  “No, my dear. Indeed he did not.” Then she patted my hand, the equivalent for her of an effusive hug. “Did you ask Joe why he sells drugs?”

  “No! Of course not. And I didn’t get the chance. Anyway, why would I?”

  “To stop you being so judgmental,” she said calmly.

  “Dolly!”

  “It’s the truth, dear. Just ask him.”

  “He’s so rude! I can’t stand him—he has no manners at all!” I said irritably.

  “Oh my dear, he’s a brute. But I must say, he’s a very good looking one, and personally, I do like a bit of brute in my men. It makes them so much more masterful in the bedroom.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Dolly!”

  She smiled at me, and waved her walking cane, indicating we should change the topic.

  “Do you know, I think you’re just perfect for my plan.”

  Uh-oh…

  “Your plan? Does that involve getting kicked out on my ass or tossed in jail?”

  She smiled wickedly, her blurred eyes gleaming with intent.

  “Silly girl! Of course not! Well, probably not. But where’s the enjoyment without a little risk?”

  “Dolly…”

  “Do you enjoy your work?”

  “Sure,” I shrugged.

  “Do you wake up enthused for the day ahead, ready to take on the world? Do you thrive?”

  No, no and no. “Sometimes.”

  She leaned closer and I caught the faint scent of Chanel No. 5. “Do you want to have an adventure?”

  “Not really,” I said truthfully.

  I just wanted to get through the next month and have enough money to pay my bills and maybe have a little extra to put by for a rainy day, a good book to read and a duvet to curl under. Small dreams, but they suited me. And even on my budget-daydreams, I knew I wouldn’t necessarily see them become reality, no matter how many jobs I took or hours I worked. So, no. Adventures were not within my pay-grade. I didn’t dare to dream so big. Not anymore.

  She leaned back, studying my face with such intensity, I had to look away.

  “What do you think of Joe?” she asked at last.

  Gorgeous. Not to be trusted. “I try not to,” I replied somewhat acidly.

  The creases of her lined face seemed to deflate, a fan of wrinkles beneath a cloud of pale pink and white hair.

  “Well, then, perhaps you’ll take my word for it that he’s a good man, somewhat troubled, a little lost, but a good man, nonetheless.” She nodded briskly. “You’ll see.”

  I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe her too much. Fat Fiona and her dangerous dreams—not a safe combination.

  Chapter Eleven

  WAAF Training, September 1940

  Sylvia

  Four days later, I reported to RAF Wilmslow, Number 4 Recruit Training Centre, and was assigned a bed in a prefabricated Maycrete hut next to the married quarters, along with 19 other WAAFs. I was paid the princely sum of 12 shillings a week with all my bed and board included, which would increase to 14 shillings and 6d each week once I passed all the tests. It seemed like riches to me and it was the first money I’d ever earnt for myself. I was too young and inexperienced to realise that the government would claw back half of that because income tax had risen to 50%. The war had to be paid for somehow.

  I was now Aircraftwoman Woods (Second Class).

  As I laid my suitcase down on the thin mattress, I felt foolish and awkward in my new woollen uniform with a belted jacket, straight skirt, and black lace-up shoes.

  “I say!” called a chic brunette about my own age, “New girl! Do you have any clear nail varnish? I’ve got a ladder in my stockings. Look!”

  And she hiked her skirt above her knees.

  I’m sure my cheeks turned pink. I wasn’t at all worldly or sophisticated, no matter that I’d spent a year in Oxford, no matter that I was a married woman.

  “Oh, I’m frightfully sorry, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  The brunette sighed.

  “Never mind. We’ll probably all be soaking our blisters after our first day of square bashing with the Drill Sergeant, and who needs silk stockings then? That’s what my friend Mabel told me. How d’you do? I’m Barbara Tantram.”

  Barbara held out her hand and I noticed that her scarlet nails matched her Victory-red lips. Lipstick had been one of the few luxuries left during the Great Depression, or so Mother said, but we all knew that the Nazis didn’t think women should wear it: Weimar women were supposed to be fresh-faced and natural. I’d never dared wear anything brighter than a pale coral colour, even when fire-engine red was all the fashion. But as I looked at Barbara, I felt dull and parochial by comparison.

  “Sylvia Woods,” I said shyly, shaking hands.

  “Nice to meet you, Woods. We’ll have such fun and be partners in crime. What do you say?”

  I couldn’t help returning her smile, and that’s how we became friends.

  For two weeks we learnt how to march, salute and treat our blisters. Whoever Mabel was, she’d been right about that. Each evening, we cleaned our uniforms, washed our undergarments and shirts, polished our buttons with Duraglit, and lamented over the mud on our shoes. After six weeks, we could march in step for ten miles, singing the whole way. The rest of our training was more interesting, but marching does teach a person to work as a team.

  When we took our Trade Tests to see which jobs we’d be suited to, we learnt that there were several possible postings for WAAFs including flight mechanic, driver, clerical, or cooking and waitressing, not forgetting the thrilling and secret work with radar. As the war progressed, so did the roles of women, and WAAF women compiled weather reports, maintained aircraft, served on airfields and worked in intelligence.

  “I refuse to be a kitchen orderly,” said Barbara with certainty after a week of KP duty, “and I certainly shan’t be a waitress or break my nails fitting a fan belt and being an oily mechanic. I’m hoping for teleprinter operator. What about you, Woods?”

  “Twelve down is ‘syzygy’,” I said, only half listening as we were in the middle of doing the Telegraph crossword after supper. “Oh, sorry, our postings? I want to be an operations plotter. I want to help the chaps in the RAF to know when the Luftwaffe are launching another raid.”

  “D’you think they’ll let you?” asked Barbara as she filled in 12 down and two more clues.

  “Why wouldn’t they?” I asked in surprise.

  “Because your dear hubby is in the RAF,” said Barbara. “They couldn’t have you at the plotting table when his squadron is scrambled.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “How is Harry? You don’t talk about him much.”

  “I suppose I should say that I miss him dreadfully, but the truth is it’s almost easier not to think about him,” I admitted, not yet having learnt to lie. “And he hasn’t written in ages. I write to him every other day.”

  Barbara shrugged. “Men think that writing is a woman’s job. Besides, the RAF have been rather busy,” she said with gross understatement. “But don’t take what I say as the final word; I do think you have a shot at Fighter Command. They’re so short staffed, they might not care about Harry being a pilot. You’re bright enough to do it. And I heard that a lot more WAAFs are at Fighter Command these days, you know, doing radar plotting; some are even mending barrage balloons, those enormous things that keep the Luftwaffe low level bombers out of the cities.” Her voice dropped. “One WAAF I spoke to said that her friend was being sent to train in photographic interpretation—analysing what the Photo Reconnaissance boys bring back.”