expect to go on pretty much as usual, not minding too much what he read in the newspapers, Hitler-this and Hitler that, sticking to Radio Luxembourg rather than the stuffy Home Service. He even expected to turn a fast penny because of the war, as you could when certain goods were in short supply and you were well in with the dockers and the market men. He felt sorryfor Edie; her husband was of fighting age and, though theyâd been married for five years, they had no children. She must be lonely in her Duke Street flat.
âYouâre right.â She gave him a smile, then sighed as she stubbed out her cigarette. âI never used to smoke. I hate the smell it leaves behind, if you must know.â
âYou smell fine to me.â She did; it was the scent she wore. It smelt of roses or something similar. A lot of things about Edie reminded him of sweet flowers. Even at work he found it hard to forget that she was a beautiful woman, with her clear, grey eyes, straight nose, soft skin.
Edie blushed.
âHere, Edie, itâs your shout,â Lorna held up her empty glass from her table by the window. âWeâll have one more here, then what do you say we head up West to a dance hall?â
She smiled at Tommy and stood up. âThanks for the drink. See you tomorrow.â
âBusiness as usual,â he promised, narrowing his eyes as the smoke curled up from his own cigarette. âDonât stop out too late, thereâs a good girl.â He overheard them discussing options; Joe Loss or Henry Hall, waltz or foxtrot, falling over themselves to be asked to dance by an RAF officer in a smart airforce-blue uniform.
As for himself, old codger that he was, it was time for an early night. He left the Duke, expecting to find only Jimmie at home above the shop. Dorothy was in the habit of going out to amuse herself at one of the more local hops, often only a pub room where the carpet was pulled back to make space for the dancers. There would be a gramophone in the corner, a jitterbug record or a soupy Bing Crosby number, and no shortage of couples crowding onto the bare boards.
He walked along the street between the new electric lamps, past the usual cars parked at the kerbside, the Baby Austins and the Morris Minors. There was a milk bar now, on the corner opposite Henshaws, all glass and chromium steel, with pink neon lights.
He caught his reflection in the window, a dapper figure with a lined and shadowed face. It was the harsh light, he told himself,flinging his cigarette stub into the gutter. It made him look mean. When he came to his own expanse of plate glass, tastefully laid out with paint and wallpaper, dotted and striped matching curtain fabric, parchment lamps for the living room, white enamel Strings for the bathroom, with its own brightly lit sign reading
Ideal Home
, he gave a cynical shrug. Turning the key in the lock of the private entrance, he slammed the door behind him and went upstairs.
To his surprise he found no sign of his kid brother, but Dorothy sitting in a chair looking out-of-sorts. She was wearing a dressing-gown pulled tight across her chest, no make-up, and her blonde hair was scraped back from her face.
âWhereâs Jim?â He dropped his hat on the sideboard.
âHow should I know?â
By which she meant, why should I care? Many of their rows these days were to do with them taking in Jimmie after his mother, Mary, died six years earlier. Jimmie had been only eleven at the time. Before that, Dorothyâs gripes had been all about the money he spent on keeping his mother comfortable and happy in the old tenement down the Court. Since then, the objections over Jimmie poured out almost daily.
âWe need to keep an eye on him now thereâs a war on. We donât want him nicking off without telling us where.â
â
Youâd
better keep an eye on him, you mean.â She took a cigarette from the pack on the arm of her chair and lit it