Follow Your Dream. Patricia Burns
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a p-proper person and you l-listened to me.’
‘I am listening to you,’ James protested.
‘You’re not! You’re thinking about Wendy.’
This was so true that he was silenced.
‘I hate her. She’s so beautiful and everything, she just does what she likes. It’s not fair! I saw what she was doing. Just ’cos I said you were going to be rich—’
‘What?’ James asked. He couldn’t follow this at all.
Lillian bit her lip. For several moments she didn’t answer. She just stood there, fiddling with the dish cloth. Finally it burst out of her.
‘I told her you were going to be rich one day, and own a garage and a car and everything, and now she’s sitting next to you and looking at you with those goo-goo eyes—’
Now it was James’s turn to be angry. He didn’t want to be seen as some stupid boy boasting about what he was going to do, when he knew no one would believe him. His own mother didn’t believe him when he said he was going to get her out of that flat one day. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe it himself. He did, completely. But he knew how it looked to other people—just a pipe dream.
‘You told her about that? Lillian, I told you in confidence. That was between you and me. I haven’t told anyone about your dreams. I wouldn’t even think of doing so. They’re your private thoughts.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry—’ Lillian was shaking her head from side to side as she listened to him. Now she looked up at him with anguished eyes, her face pinched and her mouth distorted. ‘I didn’t mean to, honest. It just sort of came out. We were talking, and we never talk usually and she was being nice for once and telling me what she wanted and about marrying someone rich and that and I just sort of let it out. Oh, now I’ve spoilt everything! I wish I was dead—’
Living with two women over the years had made him used to coping with emotional outbursts. He put his arms round Lillian and rocked her as she sobbed on his shoulder.
‘Come on, now, you don’t mean that. And I know you wouldn’t have let it out deliberately; you’re not like that. It’s not the end of the world—’
‘Well, well, well! What a touching little scene!’
James looked round. There in the doorway was Wendy, standing with one hand on the frame and the other on her hip, smiling. James felt his face going red. This must look bad.
‘She’s upset,’ he said.
‘She’s fifteen,’ Wendy said, as if that explained everything. She strolled into the kitchen and picked up a spare tea towel. ‘Good thing it was me and not Gran or Dad what came in.’
With a howl, Lillian backed out of his now loose embrace and ran from the room.
Wendy shrugged. ‘She’ll learn,’ she said. ‘You can finish the washing. I don’t want to ruin my hands in that water.’
‘But shouldn’t we—couldn’t you go after her, say something?’
‘She’s all right. Like I said, she’s fifteen. She’ll get over it.’
When everything was neatly stacked away, she leaned her back against the sink and gave him one of her slow, considering looks.
‘You’ve made yourself really useful round here, haven’t you? I wonder why?’
This time James didn’t stop to think. He stepped forward and put his hands on her narrow waist, pulling her towards him. His mouth closed on her shining, mocking smile. For a second or two she resisted him, then her lips opened and responded and he fell into a whirlpool of a kiss. When Wendy pulled away, she almost looked impressed.
‘My—you’re quite good at that, aren’t you?’
‘Come out with me tonight,’ James said.
Wendy put a hand to her head, smoothing an imaginary stray lock back into place. ‘Oh, no—just because you’ve got a stripe up already, it doesn’t mean I’ll go out with you. Maybe if you get made a sergeant.’
She gave a superior smile. They both knew that national servicemen hardly ever got made sergeants.
She made for the door.
‘Is that a promise?’ James pressed. He knew he could get the trade qualifications needed. He already had the skills from his time at the garage. He could certainly get to be corporal. After that, being made even an acting unpaid sergeant depended on someone dropping out.
Wendy looked back at him over her shoulder. ‘Maybe.’
He would make it, James resolved, if it was the last thing he did.
Chapter Eight
‘BUT I don’t want to work in a shop!’ Lillian protested.
Easter was fast approaching, and with it her last weeks at school. Now she was fifteen, she could leave and get a job. Staying on till the end of the school year was out of the question. Gran was annoyed enough that she had to stay on till the end of term. She was even more annoyed that Lillian should question her choice of a job.
‘Don’t want has got nothing to do with it, young lady. You’ll do as you’re told.’
‘But I want—’ Lillian hesitated. She wanted so much to be a dancer. The thrill of those precious few minutes on stage at the bandstand had confirmed everything she had always imagined. Hidden in an old chocolate box at the bottom of her underwear drawer was the newspaper picture of her receiving her prize from the carnival queen. She got it out and looked at it whenever she was feeling low, and it always gave her a boost. But it was no use even trying to explain this to Gran. In fact, it was important that she kept quiet about it. What Gran didn’t know about, she couldn’t forbid.
‘I want to be a hairdresser,’ she said, surprising herself. Her Aunty Eileen had been a hairdresser.
‘That means a long apprenticeship with you earning next to nothing.’
‘Well, if money’s the thing, I’ll work in a factory. I’d earn more in a factory than at a shop.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. Our family has always worked in shops. We had a shop once, after all. We’d still have it now, if there was any fairness in this world.’
Lillian knew she was defeated once Gran referred to the shop.
‘Yes, Gran.’
‘Your sister says there’s an opening at Dixon’s, in the household department. You’ll go and apply for it tomorrow.’
The last thing Lillian wanted was to be working at the same place as Wendy. After the way she had behaved towards James, Lillian could hardly bear to look at her. She muttered something that sounded like agreement, but in her heart she was refusing. She marched straight out of the house, fuming. Why wasn’t her life her own? Why couldn’t she do what she wanted? She walked to the High Street and went along looking at the shop windows. Halfway up, one of the shoe shops had a notice in the window—Junior wanted. Lillian went in and asked to see the manager. A tall man with thinning hair was fetched. He looked at her over his half-moon glasses.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve come for the job. In the window,’ Lillian said.
As the words came out of her mouth, she could hear that they sounded stupid. She should have planned this better.
‘My name’s Lillian Parker. I’m leaving school at the end of this term,’ she explained.
‘I see. Right. And what makes you think you are suitable to work here?’
‘I…I’m very interested in shoes,’ Lillian improvised. ‘And I’m used to looking after people. My family has a guest house and so I’m dealing with the