"She Wears Red Feathers"

A sharp March wind rattled the awnings in the Market Place as the traders
packed up, canvas snapping like sails. The pavements still glistened from a
passing shower, reflecting the shop-front lights which had come on too soon,
now that the afternoons were lasting longer.

Lily stood outside Woolworths with a paper bag of broken biscuits, stamping
her feet for warmth. Her skirt clung damply to her stockings. Her shoes were
still wet from the puddle she’d stepped in while crossing the High Street.

From inside Woolworths, the gramophone section blared music into the street:
Guy Mitchell, bright and brassy, the chorus belting out as a shop girl tested a
new needle.

She wears red feathers and a huly huly skirt…

A couple of teenagers by the sweet counter started singing along, laughing
and making exaggerated dance moves.

Lily snorted. “Load of old nonsense,” she muttered.

“Still catchy, though,” someone said behind her.

She turned. A young man stood there, cap in hand, hair tousled by the wind.
He looked familiar in a way she couldn’t place at first: older than she
remembered, but with the same lopsided smile.

“Lily Carter, isn’t it?” he said. “Haven’t seen you since your brother’s
birthday do. Before I went in.”

She blinked. “Alf Turner? Blimey. You look different.”

“Less hair,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “More Army.”

She grinned. “You ate all the sausage rolls, as I recall.”

He laughed, a little shyly. “Guilty.”

A bus rattled past the junction. The wind carried the warm, yeasty
smell of the brewery. Lily tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying not
to shiver.

“You waiting for someone?” Alf asked.

“My sister. She’s doing the matinee shift at the Gaumont.”

“Oh, right. They’re showing The Stars Are Singing, aren’t they?”

Lily nodded. “She says the audience keeps clapping before the film even
starts. Coronation fever. Everyone’s gone a bit daft.”

“Nice to have something cheerful,” Alf said. “After… everything.”

They both knew what he meant: the Canvey Island flood, the funerals, the
photographs in the papers of Dutch families standing in mud where their houses
had been. Even in Romford, miles from the sea, people still talked about the
tides running too high and the weather turning strange.

A scrap of newspaper blew across their feet. Stalin stared up from the limp
page, his face a rain-blurred smudge of ink.

Alf nudged it aside with his clumpy demob shoes. “World’s changing.”

“Always is,” Lily said.

Another gust of wind cut through her coat. She tried not to show it, but Alf
noticed.

“You look frozen,” he said. “I’m heading to Lyons for a tea. You’re welcome
to join me inside. It’s warmer than standing out here.”

Lily raised an eyebrow. “That an invitation or a rescue mission?”

“Whichever gets you out of the cold.”

She hesitated, but decided it would be safe and respectable. And her sister
wouldn’t be out for another twenty minutes.

“All right,” she said. “But only for a few minutes. Don’t get ideas.”

He gave a mock bow. “Wouldn’t dare.”

They crossed over the road and took a short walk along South Street. Lily glanced
down at the paper bag in her hand — Woolworths’ cheapest biscuits, meant for
her sister — and slipped it quickly into her coat pocket. Lyons wouldn’t thank
her for bringing food in from outside.

Alf opened the door for her. The café was busy with older women, mothers
with children and a couple of clerical types from the brewery. The air was
thick with the smell of tea, warm milk and damp coats. The hiss of the urns
blended with the clink of teaspoons against thick china cups. A wireless behind
the counter played quietly: tinny and soft, almost lost beneath the low murmur
of conversation.

He led the way to an empty table and they sat facing each other across the
Formica. A Nippie in a starched apron soon appeared and Alf ordered two teas.

They sat in companionable silence, watching through the steamed up windows
as people hurried past outside, collars up against the wind.

“You settling back in?” Lily asked.

“Trying to,” Alf said. “Feels strange. Everyone’s carrying on like nothing’s
changed.”

“Things always look the same before they feel the same,” she said.

He looked at her, surprised. “That’s… um... true.”

She shrugged. “Just something my gran used to say.”

The Nippie arrived with a small tray, setting down the cups and saucers with
a neat clink, the metal teapot following with a soft tap. She placed the milk
jug and sugar bowl between them, laid a teaspoon on each saucer, murmured “Two
teas,” and was gone before either of them could thank her.

Alf reached for the teapot first, steadying the lid with his thumb as he
poured Lily a cup. The tea glugged softly into the china, steam curling between
them. He slid it across to her before filling his own.

The rain began again — fine and cold, almost mist — tapping against the
window. Lily sipped her tea. Too hot, too strong, exactly what she needed.

Alf watched the street. “Your brother still working at the yard?”

“Still moaning about it, more like.”

He smiled. “Some things don’t change.”

“Some do,” she said, glancing at him.

He looked down at his cup. “Yeah.”

The wireless behind the counter crackled, then played a few bars of strings.
Faint but unmistakable, the bright bounce of Guy Mitchell again, drifting above
the clatter of cups.

She wears red feathers…

Lily groaned softly. “Oh, not again.”

Alf grinned. “Told you. Catchy.”

She smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to buy it.”

“Only if you promise not to laugh.”

“No promises.”

They sat there a little longer, not quite talking, not quite silent, the
rain softening the world outside.

When the Nippie brought the bill, Alf reached for it at once, sliding a
couple of coins onto the saucer before Lily could speak.

“You don’t have to...”

“It’s only tea,” he said, not quite meeting her eye.

She let it go and they stood to leave, Alf didn’t ask to walk her home. They
simply nodded to each other outside the café — a small, warm acknowledgement of
the moment they had shared — and parted to go their own ways in the unsettled
spring evening.