PEACH STONES, band of brothers

fourteen, KEEPING THE BOYS FIGHTING FIT

( Chapter Fourteen: KEEPING THE BOYS FIGHTING FIT )

THE SORENESS BETWEEN HER LEGS DIDN'T SET IN PROPERLY UNTIL THE NEXT DAY, when they returned home that morning. Robin had hurried upstairs to get ready for the day, and had been gone for half an hour or so. She eventually hobbled down the stairs and walked as straight as she could into the kitchen, tottering through the threshold in her pretty heeled brogues, with her dark hair resembling a bird's nest. It was always in an unruly state in the morning, especially when she forgot to put in her pillow rollers. Of course she'd forgotten to put them in last night; her head was too woozy to even think rationally.

"Holland," Jim said from behind his teacup, from where he was sat at the kitchen table. He was sitting to the right of the head seat, the same spot he'd sat in that time when her grandfather had made her smoke all the cigarettes in his pack, all that time ago. She was suddenly filled to the brim with nostalgia when he announced, "Eindhoven."

Her face became ever so forlorn at the notion of him having to leave her again to go and risk his life in this silly war, "When?"

"Soon," he responded nonchalantly, patting his knee and gesturing for her to go and sit down with him. She smoothed her sundress dress down against the back of her thighs and sat down on his lap, the tips of her shoed toes just grazing the panelled floor. He added, "Very soon — Winters says we should be gone within the next week or so ... well? Are you gonna miss me?"

Olive Freebury had entered behind Robin, done up in a lovely way, with her hair wrapped back in a decorative working turban. She was sort of channelling Irene Hamilton's look, ready to join the war effort the way so many women had done before her. "I'm sure she simply cannot bare to spend a single day without you," the older woman quipped, a teasing smile adoring her lips, "But she's not going to miss you drinking all our milk, Mr Alley. Letter for you, Robin."

She plopped the envelope down on the table, and it scraped against the lacquered wood. Tearing it open, Robin realised it was that photograph she'd been thinking about so often. Just married, someone had written in loopy cursive at the edge of the photo. 1944. Jim propped his chin into the crook of his shoulder and got a look at the photograph, also, and it made him smile endearingly.

"Apologies ma'am, gotta stay fighting fit," Jim responded cheekily, weaving his arms around Robin's waist. He always finished off the fresh milk that Irene purchased for herself and Robin to share — there was a certain domesticity to the way he lingered around their little cottage so often, and Robin relished in it.

"You are a bother, James Alley," Olive claimed, rolling her eyes but managing another smile as she plucked their ration cards out of their safe spot in the bread bin and tucked them into one of her pockets. She looked very fashionable that day, but was more weary of possibly not making new friends at her new job than her looks. Robin was sure she would be absolutely fine, but she was always so positive and uplifting — not everyone could afford to live like that, sadly.

"You look lovely," the brunette told Olive earnestly, as the other woman pottered around the kitchen, gathering things for her packed lunch, "Doesn't she, James? Ready and rearing to go. When does your first shift start?"

"I'm nipping out to the greengrocers for our ration," Olive claimed, "But after that I'll be over to the factory in a jiffy. But I must leave now, otherwise I might be late and my position could be compromised."