( Chapter Five: SCRIMP AND SAVE, THAT'S HOW WE MAKE DO )
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STRAPPED INTO HER KITTEN HEELS ALL LOVELY AND NEAT, Robin Winifred looked straight-nosed and sweet standing on her doorstep, with her token Alice band and nice little tea dress. She'd never before been on a date of any sort, and irrational thoughts shined at the forefront of her mind like pearls; am I wearing the right thing? and does my hair look O.K.? She tapped the heel of her shoe against the flagstones.
After a while, she decided that she admired the silence. It was soothing: the emptiness of the air, the undisturbed benediction, especially when standing there on the porch. She could mull over the things that had recently happened to her, and relish in the fact that nothing was going on — that was, until; soft cheekbones and heart-shaped face and all, Jim Alley met her on that very same front porch at bang on six, his hands behind his back. He offered her his arm and a waggish smile, and she took it graciously, locking them together at the nooks of their elbows. After they'd passed the Hamilton driveway, she inquired in a docile tone, "Where do you go when you leave?"
"I'm over at the bar, most of the time, the Blue Boar," he decided, with a shrug of his sloping shoulders. Robin quickly deducted that by bar he was implying the pub nearby Reggie's Reels, "It ain't so bad being over there — we even get our juice on the house. Makes some of the fellas real mad, though. They feel like they're bein' patronised n' given charity just because they're soldiers — they didn't go through all that trainin' n' marchin' n' Sobel's screamin' for a free pint'a beer."
Swooshing a portion of her dress around using palm of her hand, she looked down at her skirt. It was a pretty lavender-ish colour, and had little clovers embroidered onto it by Olive, who'd done it as a favour to spice up one of Hermia's old dresses. She liked it. She smiled plainly to herself and asked him, "Who's Sobel?"
She glanced up at Jim, and he wore a more pensive look than usual. The wind raked through his hair and ruffled Robin's skirt. "A whackjob CO we had back at when we were back training to be paratroopers. We hated his Goddamn guts. Most men would'a jumped at the opportunity to shove him outta the airplane before the lights turned green," he concluded. "'Suppose, though, this was before we got our jump wings n' paratroop boots. I remember when I first got these babies. Felt like two chunks'a corrugated tin that I had'ta mould around my feet.
"Well, they do look quite swell," she admitted.
"I hope so. Battalion said that they'd wanna set aside half an hour to polish them most evenings. Nothin' says more about a paratrooper than his boots. What d'you think mine say 'bout me, Winnie?"
"Well ... they look as clean as most shoes do, but they have all those little nicks and chips," she scrutinised, trying to take his request at a half-humored angle, "What in God's name have you been doing whilst wearing them?"
