‘That was lovely, Dottie,’ George says. ‘What was that?’
Dottie rolls her eyes. ‘Debussy, of course. ‘Clair de Lune’. I’m practising it for my Grade 6 piano exam. I’m going to be a concert pianist.’
‘I thought you were going to be an actress? You told me you wanted to be the next Gene Tierney just this summer.’
Dottie shakes her head impatiently, her brown curls bouncing on her shoulders. ‘That was ages ago. I mean, I still like acting. I’m auditioning for the role of Cecily in The Importance of Being Earnest for the Easter play at school. Did Ellie tell you? I’m up against Beatrice McCormack.’ She makes a face. ‘I’m sure I’ll get it. I’m much more talented than she is.’
A cough and a clearing of a throat. ‘That’s not a very charitable attitude, Dottie.’ Picking up the Eastern Evening News, Henry Burgess settles into his favourite overstuffed armchair with a sigh and rests his feet on the matching ottoman.
‘I’m sorry, Poppy.’ Dottie shrugs, the lace collar of her blouse rising and falling. ‘But it’s true.’ She looks sideways at George and smiles. ‘You think I’m a good actress, George, don’t you?’
‘You are indeed, Dottie. Your Viola was the best I’ve ever seen.’
A slender tortoiseshell cat pads into the room and leaps onto Henry’s corduroy-clad legs, settling in the groove between his knees. ‘I hadn’t taken you for an expert on Twelfth Night, George.’
‘No, sir. I’m not. I’ve only seen it the once at the school.’
‘Flattery corrupts both the receiver and the giver, George.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’
‘That wasn’t me, by the way. That was Edmund Burke.’
‘Edmund Burke, sir?’
Henry coughs. ‘Never mind, George.’
George turns back to Dottie. ‘I’m sorry, Dottie. I shouldn’t have flattered you. Though your Viola was really very good.’
‘I know I was very good.’ Dottie spins around and wiggles her fingers in the air over the piano keys. ‘What would you like me to play? Ellie told me you like ‘Tangerine’. I’ve been practising. I found the sheet music at Bonds.’
The newspaper rustles. ‘Thank you for the shilling, Poppy,’ Henry says behind the paper.
Dottie looks at George and rolls her eyes again. ‘Thank you for the shilling, Poppy.’
Henry surveys his daughter over the top of his glasses. ‘Don’t play it just now, Dottie. I’m late for the news. Turn on the wireless, will you?’
Dottie expels a dramatic sigh as she slumps off the bench. She fiddles with the wireless knob until Alvar Liddell’s authoritative voice transmits into the room.
‘… with air attacks on United States naval bases in the Pacific. Fresh reports are coming in every minute.’
Ellie flies into the room, shrugging into her tweed winter coat. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, George. There wasn’t much hot water—’
‘Sssh.’ Henry holds up his hand.
‘What is it?’
He points to the wireless.
‘… Japan has announced a formal declaration of war against both the United States and Britain.’
Ellie stares at the wireless as the newsreader reports on the bombing in the Hawaiian Islands. When the announcement is over, Ellie looks at her father. ‘What’s going to happen now, Poppy?’
‘The Americans are going to join in.’ Henry grunts as he rustles his newspaper. ‘About time.’
‘But that’s a good thing, isn’t it, sir?’
‘It’s a very good thing, George.’ Henry clears his throat and suppresses a cough. ‘I only wish they’d offered the hand of help two years ago. Then this bloody war might be over by now.’
‘Poppy!’ Dottie and Ellie look at each other wide-eyed at their father’s uncharacteristic expletive.
‘Sorry, girls.’ Henry buries himself behind the paper. ‘If they’d joined in earlier, this blasted war might be over by now.’
***
Ellie wipes at the foggy window of the bus with her gloved hand. Outside, rain spatters the window with a persistent drizzle as the bus rumbles past the Victorian mass of Mcklintock’s Chocolates and the air raid shelter that has been dug into the lawn of Chapelfield Gardens. As the bus sweeps around the roundabout, the black bulk of St John’s Cathedral rises into the lowering grey night sky, not a chink of light seeping from the stained-glass windows.
‘Do you think Americans will be stationed in Norfolk, George?’
‘No doubt, Ellie. We have a lot of air bases here.’
‘When do you think they’ll be over?’
‘I expect they’ll start coming over in a couple of months.’
The bus turns right, through the ruins of the medieval city wall, onto St Benedict’s Street. ‘We’ll probably get bombed more once they’re here,’ Ellie says.
‘Possibly.’
‘It’s been awfully quiet since the summer. It’s eerie. It’s like waiting for a storm to hit.’
George rests his hand over hers. ‘Don’t worry, Ellie. The sirens are working properly now, and there are plenty of shelters around the city.’ He shifts in his seat, frowning at her behind his tortoiseshell glasses. ‘You really must speak to your father about building an Anderson shelter behind the headmaster’s house. I don’t like that you have to run across the quad to get to the shelter with all the boys.’
‘I have, George.’ She slides her gloved hand out from underneath George’s. The window has fogged up again, and Ellie idly draws a heart in the film. ‘He feels it’s his duty to be with the boys when there’s a raid. Most of the time Dottie and I go down to the cellar. I’ve set us up some cots down there.’ She draws an arrow through the heart and an ‘E +’, hovering over the empty space where she should write ‘G’. She wipes her hand through the heart.
‘I haven’t seen Thomas or Charlie at Samson’s or the Lido for a while.’
‘I bumped into Charlie at the Coach and Horses at lunchtime the other day,’ George says. ‘He was having a pint with a few of his mates. They were in town picking up some supplies.’
‘Was Thomas with them?’ Ellie asks, trying to sound casual.
‘No, now that you mention it.’ George grins and nudges Ellie’s shoulder. ‘You’re not soft on him are you?’
Ellie looks sharply at George. ‘No, of course not. Don’t be silly.’
‘Don’t be cross, Ellie. I’m only teasing. I know you’re my girl.’
Ellie sweeps her eyes over George’s benign face, the warm brown eyes like those of a faithful dog, the round cheeks and neatly combed black hair slick with brilliantine. Not handsome exactly, but presentable. He’d make any girl a perfectly fine husband.
‘When are we going to get married, George?’
George’s eyebrows shoot up above his glasses. ‘What?’
Ellie drums her wool-clad fingers on the window. ‘When are we going to get married? I don’t see why we need to wait.’
‘After the war is over. That’s what we’ve always said. When things are back to normal.’ George squints at Ellie through his glasses. ‘Why do you want to get married all of a sudden?’