Home Front Girls

any second her mother would chuckle and tell her it had all been a silly joke, but one glance at Miranda’s pale face told her that she was dreadfully serious.
    ‘And what if I refuse?’
    Her mother shrugged. ‘Then there would be little we could do to force you to go out to work. But I’m not at all sure how you would manage. You see, Daddy can’t afford to give you your allowance any more.’
    This was the final straw and Annabelle scowled as her mother looked about the room and sighed. Yesterday’s lingerie littered the floor, and clothes that Annabelle had tried on earlier in the day then discarded were lying crumpled in the bottom of the wardrobe.
    ‘You perhaps ought to hang those back up,’ her mother suggested tentatively. ‘Now that Mrs Fitton has gone you will have to be responsible for your own washing and ironing too, and there’s no point in making unnecessary work for yourself.’
    And with that the woman turned and walked from the room, closing the door quietly behind her as Annabelle stared after her. Throwing herself off the bed, she stormed to the window and flicked the snow-white net curtains aside to stare down gloomily into the tree-lined avenue where they lived in Cheylesmore in Coventry. It was one of the very best areas in the city, and the home she had grown up in was magnificent – a rambling Victorian four-bedroom detached house set in half an acre that had been tastefully furnished from top to bottom by her mother. A sweeping drive led up to the heavy oak door, and on it was parked her father’s gleaming Triumph. Annabelle smirked. That would give people something to talk about, if her father were to drop her off at some shabby workplace in that. But now as she calmed down a little she was sure that it wouldn’t come to that. She would give it half an hour and then go downstairs and turn the tears on, and all this silly nonsense would be forgotten. She had always been able to wrap her father around her little finger before, so why should now be any different?
    Humming to herself, she began to rummage through her wardrobe again to find the new dress. She must wear something decent at tonight’s party at her friend’s house. It was Jessica’s eighteenth and if her dishy brother, James, was going to be there, Annabelle was determined she would look her best. Sadly, since the war had started there had been a shortage of young men, since a lot of them had already been called up. James had only missed it because of a minor heart defect, but Annabelle could live with that. He was one of the most eligible chaps she knew and his family were positively rich, occupying an even larger house than the Smythes. In a much happier frame of mind, she continued to rummage, taking no notice of her mother’s suggestion of hanging up her other clothes.
     
    Downstairs, Miranda entered the drawing room to find her husband staring into the fire with a glass of brandy in his hand and a dejected expression on his face. He was worried for the future, for his family; the comfort they had always known was under threat. He glanced up as his wife entered the room and his face instantly softened as it always did when he caught sight of her. Even after twenty-four years of marriage he was as besotted with her as he had been on the first day he had set eyes on her.
    ‘How did she take it, darling?’ he asked as his wife crossed to the decanter standing on the highly polished mahogany sideboard to help herself to a small sherry.
    Miranda sighed as she joined him. ‘Not well, I’m afraid – but then I think we expected that, didn’t we?’
    At forty-three years old, Miranda was a striking-looking woman. Her hair was still a lovely shade of pale blonde with barely a grey hair in sight, her face was unlined and she had retained her slim figure. Annabelle’s hair was a darker shade of blonde and her eyes a deeper blue, but she was also a very beautiful young woman. Richard loved them both to distraction, although he was aware that the gossips said he had married above himself – which he knew to be the truth.
    Richard Smythe was proud of the fact that he was a selfmade man. He had started life on a slum terrace on the other side of the city, and after leaving school at the earliest opportunity he had got taken on in the stables of a big house near Shilton, eventually graduating to the garage when his employer acquired a Hispana-Suiza. Years passed, and he left to work for an old gentleman who owned an