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Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2020
Copyright © Joanna Toye 2020
Cover photographs © Gordon Crabb/Alison Eldred (woman), TopFoto (street scene), Shuttershock.com (all other images)
Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Joanna Toye asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008298753
Ebook Edition May 2020 © ISBN: 9780008298760
Version: 2020-11-11
Dedication
For Cressida, with love from Shosho xxx
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Author’s note
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Joanna Toye
About the Publisher
Prologue
Christmas Eve, 1942
They’d been hanging the Christmas decorations, the balding tinsel and the frosted glass baubles, tatty now, but no chance of anything new after three years of war. Then Jim had his arms round her, smiling down, teasing her about what Father Christmas might bring, when suddenly there was noise – at first, far off, the nasal whine of the air raid siren, and then, overhead, more, a lot more. A great loud whoosh and a tearing squeal and then a massive booming, breathtaking thump.
Lily was torn away from Jim, sucked up and backwards and sideways, hurled against something hard and flung down again, rolling, bumping, like falling downstairs and hitting every step. Then finally coming to rest, her eyes and mouth full of dust, chunks of plaster all around, hemming her in, and everything gone dark and quiet, horribly quiet …
‘Shh, Lily, shh, it’s all right, it’s all right.’
‘What … what?’
‘You were dreaming, love. You shouted out.’
Dazed, damp with sweat, Lily blinked. It wasn’t dark and she wasn’t enclosed. She was sitting up in bed, in her room. The landing light was on and her mother had her arms round her. Lily’s heart was knocking at her ribs. She wondered if her mother could feel it too.
‘Oh, Mum. I’m sorry. I woke you up.’
‘You woke all of us up.’
Jim was standing in the doorway in his pyjamas, hair tousled, feet bare on the cold boards.
Lily closed her eyes. It had been a dream, just a dream, again. But the dreams were still as real as the night it had happened a few weeks ago, when she and Jim had been the last ones left in the store, finishing off the decorations to the Christmas grotto when the bomb had fallen in the street outside.
She raised her hand and touched the place where her collarbone had shattered. She was allowed to take her sling off at night and it felt strange; she was more used now to her arm being strapped across her chest than to see it hanging free. She looked at Jim. He was supporting himself on the door frame.
Her mum, Dora, gave her a gentle squeeze.
‘These dreams, love – it’s the shock,’ she said. ‘And it’s perfectly natural. But give it time and the … the bad memories, well, they might not go entirely, but they’ll fade.’
Lily nodded.
Jim was smiling at Lily, the crooked smile she loved.
‘I reckon this was all a ruse,’ he said. ‘You know what time it is, don’t you? While we’ve been standing here, it’s gone midnight. You just wanted your Christmas presents early! Typical!’
Chapter 1
April 1943
‘Look at it!’ said Lily. ‘You’d think the bomb had dropped yesterday!’ Ladies’ Fashions, Model Gowns and Suits and Coats were in uproar.
Gladys darted her friend a look – only Lily could say that! Gladys wouldn’t have dared, in case it brought that awful night flooding back. But Lily had been so strong, coming back to work when the memories must still have been so vivid and evidence of the destruction was still all around. Now, though, three months later, it looked as though the demolition squad was in again. The first floor was in chaos – and all because there was going to be a fashion show.
Harassed porters were assembling a catwalk under the supervision of the Model Gowns buyer: beside them the store’s carpenters sawed and hammered. In the middle of it all, the buyers from the other two fashion departments were taking dresses and suits on and off a rail, evidently in dispute over what should make the final cut. Juniors scurried to and fro offering more garments for inspection, which were scrutinised and mostly rejected. If not, they scuttled off again to iron out the sort of creases visible only to a buyer’s eye.
A potted palm wove its way uncertainly towards them and beneath it, Lily recognised Jim’s suit trousers. Along with Peter Simmonds, the first-floor supervisor, Jim had been charged with getting the store back on its feet after the bomb and the fashion show was going to act as a sort of relaunch for Marlow’s as well as highlighting the new spring and summer Utility styles. There was no doubt about it, Jim was on the way up. He was also – the thought still made her smile, inside and out – Lily’s boyfriend of a few months’ standing.
‘Jim!’ She hissed him over. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Let me put this thing down.’
Lily helped him to rest the pot on a little plinth where a plaster baby was displaying a smocked romper suit and waving a rattle. Jim’s tie was askew and his shirt untucked, not the sort of appearance Marlow’s usually required of Mr J. Goodridge, second sales on Furniture and Household.
‘If you really want to know,’ Jim began, ‘it’s hell. Suits and Coats and Ladies’ Fashions are at each other’s throats over who gets to show more items and Model Gowns is sulking because she wanted her stuff to go out all in one block – a “tableau” she calls it – and not mixed in with the others.’ He gave a despairing sigh. ‘And they say never work with children or animals. I could add to that!’
‘It’ll be fine!’ Lily tried to reassure him. ‘It’ll all come together at the last minute, you’ll see.’
His eyes were deep-set and brown; his hair was sticking up where he’d pushed his hands through it in the way Lily loved and she had to stop herself from reaching up to smooth it down. Her boss on Childrenswear, Miss Frobisher, tall, blonde, and ever-elegant herself, was a stickler for smartness in appearance, but even on a day when the usual rules didn’t apply, Lily didn’t think she’d approve.
Jim pushed his fingers through his hair again, making it stick up even more.
‘I don’t see how. I knew we should have got more done last night – at least got the catwalk built!’
‘Hah!’ Lily retorted. ‘You and I stayed late to finish off the Christmas grotto, didn’t we, and look what happened!’
Gladys winced, but that was Lily for you, and the measure of Lily and Jim’s relationship. They struck sparks off each other, but they both seemed to thrive on it. As if in proof, Jim was grinning and Lily was smiling at him with a sort of ‘Well? I’m right, aren’t I?’ expression. Even so, Gladys tactfully jumped in.
‘Are the models here yet?’
Before the war, Marlow’s had had its own models, but now they were in the WRNS or turning out shells in a factory somewhere. The models for today had been booked through an agency in London, and to Gladys were invested with an air of almost film-star glamour.
‘That’s another thing.’ Jim looked at his watch. ‘They should have been here three-quarters of an hour ago.’
‘You know what the trains are like.’
‘That’s why I wanted them to come yesterday, but would You Know Who hear of it? Decided to scrimp on expenses.’
You Know Who was Cedric Marlow, the store’s owner, notoriously careful with money.
‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’ Lily pointed out. ‘There’s nothing for them to prance up and down on yet.’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
In a further reminder, there was a monumental crash as a tower of gilt chairs tumbled from a trolley and hit the half-built catwalk.
‘I’d better get over there.’ Jim moved to pick up the palm, but before he could, Mr Simmonds approached. Tall and spare, he always moved at a lick, but this was speedy, even for him. He nodded to the girls and addressed Jim.
‘They’ve had a telephone call upstairs – the models haven’t left London yet. And I’m not sure they will.’
‘What?’
‘There’s an unexploded bomb at Harrow-on-the Hill. No trains leaving in our direction at all. I think we’d better face it, they’re not going to get here.’ Mr Simmonds sounded remarkably calm, but then he was ex-Army, invalided out with a dodgy shoulder. ‘We’re going to have to regroup.’
‘What does he mean, regroup?’ asked Gladys.
Miss Frobisher had sent them both off to dinner early, saying she’d square it with Mr Bunting, Gladys’s boss on Toys.
‘Think of something else, I suppose,’ shrugged Lily. ‘I don’t know.’ Gladys looked worried. Lily persevered with her rissole but chewed cautiously: bits of bone weren’t unknown. ‘Maybe the salesgirls from Fashions could model them, they know the clothes.’
‘They’re all so old though!’
It was true: with all women between nineteen and forty-three conscripted into some kind of war work, Marlow’s, like other shops and stores, was staffed by younger girls like themselves and, to put it politely, the middle-aged. ‘Salesgirls’ was a courtesy title: many of them had been brought back out of retirement.
‘There’s always the juniors.’
Gladys didn’t look convinced.
‘I can’t see the juniors on Fashions swanking up and down a catwalk – they’re like frightened rabbits! I’d be the same with their bosses.’
That was true as well: the fashion buyers were a fearsome bunch. Miss Wagstaff of Model Gowns was a tightly permed, tightly corseted martinet. Miss Drake (Dresses), petite and pretty, looked more approachable, though anyone who’d ever witnessed her beating down a wholesaler on price would have swiftly reassessed that opinion. Miss McIver of Suits and Coats was originally from Aberdeen and was a chip off the old block of that so-called granite city. All in all, Fashions was known to be the toughest department in which to work: Miss Frobisher had started there and survived, which was one of the reasons Lily admired her so much.
‘Anyway, it’s not our problem.’ Gladys pushed her plate away and pulled her jam turnover towards her.
Lily was quiet. It was still a setback for Jim. His problems were her problems; she’d help him if she could. In fact, she often intervened when her help wasn’t required – or desired.
‘Gladys!’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘It is! We’ve forgotten about Beryl!’
In her shop nearby, Beryl was getting ready to lock up. She picked up the card which had been propped in the window for the past fortnight.
Beryl’s Brides will be showing one of our dresses as the GRAND FINALE to the Fashion Show to take place on the First Floor of Marlow’s on Wednesday, 21st April.
Entrance free but ticket required. Reserve early to secure your seat.
Enquire within or at the store for details.
Over the bottom corner she folded a slip of paper reading: TODAY.
Turning the sign to ‘Closed’ and stepping outside, she locked the shop. It wasn’t much of a place – or hadn’t been when she’d first seen it. But Beryl had always had an eye to the main chance and a way of talking herself into it.
Her little shop was one of Marlow’s former ground-floor window spaces, blown in by the bomb. With no chance of replacing huge sheets of plate glass, opening up small units like Beryl’s had seemed the best way forward. Cedric Marlow, always cautious, had taken some convincing, but persistence had paid off and within weeks Beryl had moved her bridal hire business from her front room to proper premises. She’d been talking for weeks about having one of her dresses in the show, all the more because Beryl’s dresses were second-hand. ‘As-new’, she called it, but it meant the same. After her own wedding, she’d spotted an opening. With materials in short supply and clothes rationing biting, who could afford to splurge all their coupons on a dress you’d wear only once? And so her business had been born.
Having a Beryl’s Brides gown as the finale to the fashion show was intended to give sales a boost, and Beryl was hanging every hope on it.
The dress she’d chosen for the catwalk was already upstairs in the store, and very classy it was too. Pre-war of course, Brussels lace, V-necked with a tiny stand collar and elbow-length sleeves. To go with it she’d chosen lacy gloves, a paste tiara and a short veil. Jim had promised he’d organise some kind of bouquet. It was going to be lovely.
Back in the staff canteen at Marlow’s, the full horror had dawned on Gladys.
‘You’re right! Beryl’s going to be devastated!’
Lily reached for her bowl; pudding might help her think. She was always hungry: everyone was always hungry.
‘What is this jam?’ she asked after a few mouthfuls. ‘It’s not carrot, for once. Is it marrow?’
But before Gladys could answer, Jim arrived at speed, practically screeching to a halt like something out of a cartoon.
‘Lily! There you are! How big are you?’
‘What?’
‘How big?’
‘You know how big,’ Lily looked up at him, spoon poised. ‘Five foot seven.’
‘Not your height! Your – your – vital statistics!’
Gladys spluttered pastry all over the table. Lily stared at Jim.
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘Miss Drake thinks you’re a thirty-six. Up top, anyway. Are you?’
Lily put down her spoon.
‘Isn’t this a bit of a private conversation to be having in a public place?’
‘There’s no time to be discreet. You’re going to have to model!’
Chapter 2
As Jim dragged her away, Lily was still trying to take it in. Yes, she’d wanted to help him out but behind the scenes, not parading up and down in clothes she’d never usually wear and certainly could never afford!
‘Why me?’ she protested, struggling to keep up with Jim as he wove between the canteen tables. ‘There’s loads of other girls in the store who could do it!’
‘I know,’ he flung back over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got two already, and they’re delighted. Not like you, Miss Awkward!’
‘Don’t tell me,’ groaned Lily. ‘Gloria from Cosmetics. I bet she volunteered!’
‘She did, actually, and Sally from China and Glass.’
‘There you are then!’ Lily was keeping pace with him now as they climbed the back stairs. ‘You don’t need me. There were only two models originally.’
‘Yes, professionals! You lot’ll take longer to get in and out of the clothes.’
Having scaled the back stairs two at a time, they’d reached the first floor and Jim was propelling her towards Ladies’ Fashions, Lily still protesting.
‘What about Brenda from Books?’
‘Too shy.’
‘Rachel from Travel Goods!’
‘Can’t see without her specs.’
‘Magda! On Toiletries. She’s beautiful.’
Jim stopped and turned to face her.
‘So are you, Lily. Even when you’re arguing, annoyingly.’
Well! He’d never said that before! It was nice to hear, and she didn’t think he’d said it just to get round her. He wasn’t like that. It could – should – have been a romantic moment, but there wasn’t time for the violins to tune up and the bluebirds to start singing.
‘Please,’ pressed Jim. ‘You will do it, won’t you? For Marlow’s? For me?’
It would be ungracious not to, especially after that compliment. Lily gave in.
‘Oh, go on then,’ she said. ‘Flatterer! But I wish you’d asked me before I had my dinner. I’ve just had a rissole, a ton of potatoes and a huge jam turnover!’
The next couple of hours were like nothing she’d ever known. In all her time at the store, Lily had barely glimpsed behind the scenes on Ladies’ Fashions. Now she was ushered through to the changing rooms like a proper customer to be handed one garment after another and told to try them on. She doubted the buyers would have been muttering quite so critically, though, if it had been a customer scrambling in and out of the clothes!
Eventually, like witches round a seething cauldron, the buyers went into a huddle over a pile of edge-to-edge jackets and a consensus emerged. Sally and Gloria, both nearly nineteen, would model what the buyers called the more sophisticated numbers: Lily was to model dresses and suits for a younger clientele. Sally and Gloria seemed flattered and Gloria simpered accordingly. Lily was pleased too and not surprised: she’d looked like lamb dressed as mutton in some of the clothes.
‘And her hair!’ she overheard one of the buyers lament.
Lily defensively touched her wayward blonde curls. None of this had been her idea!
Sally, a pale-skinned redhead, nudged her.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘They’ll do our hair. I heard they’re getting Monsieur Paul in.’
‘And Elizabeth Arden’s doing the make-up,’ added Gloria.
‘In person?’ asked Lily, just to needle her. Gloria was a pert brunette who wore a high hat, as the local saying had it. She’d already applied to the WAAF where she hoped – no, intended – to meet an officer – and not just any old Pilot Officer, but a Flying Officer at least, she’d been heard to say.
Outside of work, Lily liked to look nice if she could, but it wasn’t easy on her wages, not to mention rationing. Most of her clothes were pass-ons or what she could find at jumble sales, altered to fit by her mum, Dora. She couldn’t believe all this fuss over a few frocks!
By now it was now mid-afternoon and, to Lily’s relief, she heard the words ‘tea break’. Then, the girls were told, there’d be a proper rehearsal, during which, Miss Wagstaff informed them, they would learn to walk. There was evidently more to this modelling lark than met the eye.
When she emerged onto the sales floor for her break, a transformation had taken place. The catwalk was in place and violent purple felting was being nailed over it. At the top end, where the three girls would emerge, was a sort of slender pyramid, wrapped round with a gold lamé cloth. The gilt chairs had been laid out in rows and, on a little dais, a lectern had been set up with Jim’s potted palm to one side. Here, because every fashion show needed a compère, Mr Simmonds would stand to announce the models one by one.
Lily looked around for Jim, but he was in conference with a couple of brown-coated porters, of whom Les, Beryl’s husband, was one. Suddenly Beryl herself, in dudgeon as high as it could be, accosted her.
‘Lily! What the blinking hell’s going on back there?’
‘Oh, Beryl – haven’t they told you?’
‘I know the models aren’t coming, but only ’cos Gladys told me! Wagstaff’s told me nothing except to keep out the way till the Marlow’s part of the show’s been decided. A nice way to treat your grand finale!’
As she’d struggled in and out of various outfits, Lily had overheard the buyers discussing the problem of who would model the finale wedding dress now the London models wouldn’t to be there to carry it off.
‘I think it’s Gloria who’ll be your bride,’ she said.
‘I thought as much.’ Beryl tossed her head. ‘Always pushing herself forward, that one.’
Lily swallowed a smile: she’d thought much the same about Beryl when she’d first met her as another junior at Marlow’s. But when Beryl had fallen pregnant it was Lily she’d turned to in a panic, and they’d become friends. Now Beryl and Les were married, happily, and the proud parents of little Bobby.
‘You’re being very good about it,’ said Lily. ‘You must be fed up it won’t be a proper model swanning up and down.’
Beryl shrugged.
‘I’d prefer someone with a bit of class to that jumped-up piece, but it’s still a great chance for me, all those mothers and daughters in the audience. I know Marlow’s customers’d usually turn their noses up at a dress from a place like mine, but, well, it’s like me with Gloria. What choice has any of us got? There’s a war on, isn’t there?’
Lily didn’t need reminding of that when the rehearsal began: Miss Wagstaff would have given the average regimental sergeant major a run for his money.
‘Glide, don’t stride!’ she hectored as Lily came down the catwalk. ‘And eyes front! Keep your head still! You’re in a fashion show, not a searchlight battery!’
Then she made Lily glide all over again with Mr Simmonds reading his lines: she was taking no prisoners there either.
‘Kindly stick to the script!’ she boomed. ‘I know what’s there, I wrote it myself! Number Thirteen – a versatile skirt suit in heather mix tweed by Harella, not Marella!’
‘I’m sorry,’ sputtered Mr Simmonds, ‘but that’s not what it says here.’
Lily had never seen him so cowed.
‘I can’t account for the typist’s butterfingers!’ Miss Wagstaff cut in. ‘It’s Harella, take my word for it! From the top, please. Back you go, Lily!’