‘I don’t want to talk about this, Grandma. Tell me what happened next. Actually, you’d better tell me over dinner, otherwise I’ll be drunk.’

I stand and hold out a hand to help Grandma out of her chair. She leans on me as we walk and it’s just what I need: her weight on my arm. To be steady for someone else.

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

Dot came over one Sunday afternoon and we sat on the verandah with cups of tea. Mum was lying down inside so we kept our voices low. I told her I wanted to move out and she said she wished she could move in with me. We talked about work and which of the officers we liked and which we loathed. Most of them were too old for the girls in the typing pool anyway, but it didn’t stop them from trying, even the ones with wives and children. Besides the senior officers there were an increasing number of junior officers around—first and second lieutenants, younger and with less of an air of importance to them but still attractive in their uniforms, smelling of cologne rather than just soap and sweat, cigarettes and beer.

One named Roy had followed me off the lift just that week, walked me to my desk and asked what I was doing on the weekend. He was sandy-haired, freckled and tall, with a snub nose and the widest smile. But my mind had been stuck all week on the image of Dad at the races, on the lie I’d told Mum. I said I was staying in. He’d winked and said he’d try again next week, maybe I’d change my tune.

‘What’d he look like?’ Dot asked, and I described him to her.

‘He works on my floor,’ she said. ‘He’s a doll, Sarah. You should’ve at least gone on a date with him. Given him a chance.’

I felt a little twist in my gut then. Any other time I would’ve. ‘So I was too mean.’

‘Don’t worry—it’ll only make him keener. I’ll bet Roy’s talking about you to his mates right now. What if I mention you next time I see him? I’ll tell him what good friends we are and I bet he’ll ask me to put in a good word for him.’

‘Don’t. It will seem too contrived.’

‘It will not! It’s what everyone does. Or I’ll just tell him we’re going to the Troc next Thursday. That’s not contrived, is it?’

‘S’pose not.’ I stood and cleared away our empty mugs. ‘Come see the dress I’m fixing up.’

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