‘You’ve hardly eaten a thing,’ said George, gesturing to the fish and chips growing cold on the newspaper wrappings on Maggie’s lap.

They were sitting on a bench in Bournemouth’s Pleasure Gardens eating supper. Guilt was making her behave strangely and she was grateful to the band that was playing in the bandstand, to give them something to focus on. Since the bombs that fell directly on the Square earlier in the year, destroying Woolworths and nearby shops, the centre of Bournemouth had come back to life and was now ablaze with dahlias, geraniums and musical offerings from the Bournemouth Municipal Orchestra. Children holding fishing nets played in the stream with their trousers rolled up, and posters advertised the dances held at the Pavilion. There was something steely about the residents of the town; it would take more than the Luftwaffe to crush their spirit and bring the seaside resort to its knees. Despite the coastal defences, requisitioned hotels, thousands of uniformed men and women stationed there, the bomb damage and lives lost, Bournemouth fought hard to cling to its holiday atmosphere, though Maggie wasn’t sharing in it today.

‘Lost your appetite?’ continued George.

She stared at the fish and chips growing cold. It was true, Maggie had barely touched them and her stomach churned with nerves.

‘I don’t want to turn to fat,’ she said, smiling, and putting her hands around her tiny waist, as she forced herself to swallow down a couple more chips and then offered the remainder of her fish to George.

‘No chance of that, Maggie,’ he grinned, willingly eating up the fish, making her wonder where he put it all – he was as skinny as a whippet. ‘You’re a natural beauty.’

Forcing her troubling thoughts of Audrey aside, she told herself to forget what had happened at the bakery and simply focus on George.

‘Truth is, I’m excited,’ she said unconvincingly, though she was absolutely genuine. ‘To be your fiancée. I can’t stop thinking about what our wedding will be like. It’s going to be the happiest day of my life.’

Their toes were touching and she hoped George wasn’t aware of how scuffed and battered her shoes were – she would have to find a new pair somehow. Tucking her feet underneath the bench, and once the fish and chip supper between them was finished, they sidled up close to one another, until the sides of each of their warm bodies were touching. Maggie blushed as she imagined the two of them laying side by side in a bed on their wedding night. As if reading her mind, George confidently draped his arm around her shoulders, flexing his jaw as he smiled with pride. Her head rested against his shoulder and she closed her eyes for a brief moment, wishing she could stay there forever.

‘Have you told your family yet?’ he asked. ‘I was thinking I should do the right thing and meet them to ask permission for your hand. I know it’s wartime and everyone’s rushing and grabbing girls to marry while they have the chance, but I would like to do things properly. I know my parents would like to meet you, too. They’re fine people, with hearts of gold, and I know they will love you. I’ve written to my mother about you and she says she’d like to write, so she can get to know you. It made me realise there’s so much about you I don’t know. I don’t even know where you live. You always insist I drop you on the corner, or at the bakery…’

His words trailed off and Maggie blushed crimson and looked down at her hands. They’d only been on a handful of dates in the few months they’d known one another – and she had deliberately not talked about her family, other than to say she had sisters. Thinking of her sisters, her thoughts went to Isabel and the bruise on her cheek. The thought of her suffering at the hands of that horrible man at the laundry made Maggie all the more determined not to ruin this opportunity.

‘Oh, there’s no need for formalities like that,’ she said airily, in her mind going through the awful scenario of introducing George to her grandmother, who would probably be drunk, a fag hanging out the corner of her mouth, cursing at the room as if it were filled with enemies, and probably make up some dreadful story about Maggie.

‘But there is,’ said George kindly. ‘I want to do this properly. I’ve fallen in love with you, Maggie, and I want to know everything about you. Thoughts of you will keep me going when I’m posted away, like my own personal photograph album.’

Maggie sighed to herself. She feared George would run a mile if he knew the truth about where she was from; the hovel she called home did not match the image of her life she had portrayed. Feeling utterly depressed by the prospect and racking her brain for what to do for the best, she was suddenly struck by an idea.

‘I’ll take you to meet them now, if you like,’ she said, to George’s astonishment, standing and taking his hand. ‘It’s a bit of a walk, though.’

---

Walking hand in hand through the centre of Bournemouth, past military personnel and civilians taking a turn around the Square, and then up towards Wimborne Road, George chatted easily about his family and his brothers, who were all in the services and who were now scattered around the world. Not for the first time, Maggie was touched by how much he cared about them. How he prayed that all of them were safe, for his mother’s sake as much as his own.

‘She had three boys in their twenties and my younger brother was just eighteen,’ he explained. ‘She cried and cried when we were called up, but makes up for us not being there by writing every week. My father said he wouldn’t be able to stand the quiet in the house when we left – we were a noisy lot and loved to sing songs around the piano or play cards – but after the Blitz bombing in London, I should think he’s grateful for some quiet.’

Maggie could listen to George talk for hours. She loved the sound of his family and longed to be part of it. As was usual when they met, she didn’t talk about personal matters, but instead about music and dance halls and their shared dream to see more of the world in peacetime. Before they knew it, they were standing at the entrance of the Wimborne Road Cemetery, near the entrance lodge, where there was a crater from a bombing earlier in the year and a low wall, once the base for decorative iron railings that had since been removed for the war effort.

‘That bomb must have shaken the bones of the dead,’ said George. ‘What are we doing here, Maggie?’

The cemetery was peaceful as they walked in the failing light past the chapel, and towards a corner of the graveyard where plain tombstones stood in irregular rows. Birds or bats swerved and swooped overhead, landing on the outstretched branches of a tree, their little black bodies looking like musical notation.

Maggie stopped and turned to George, who looked at her with a combination of amusement and confusion in his eyes.

‘I thought you wanted to meet my family,’ she said, pulling him by the hand to an undecorated headstone, under which her parents lay. ‘I’m sorry to say that this is them. My parents both died from TB. They went into the sanatorium and never came out. These days, my family is just me and my sisters.’

As she spoke, she felt a distant tremor of sadness shoot up her spine. Suddenly wondering what she was doing there – and hoping this would put an end to George’s questions – she let out a small, sweet laugh, held her palms up in the air and shrugged.

‘Let’s get out of here, shall we?’ she said. ‘I don’t fancy being in here when night falls.’

‘So there’s nobody else?’ he said. ‘Apart from your sisters, you’re all alone?’

She sucked in her breath, wary of the lie she was about to tell, but before she knew it the words were out of her mouth.

‘I suppose the people at the bakery – Audrey, Charlie, John and William – have been more of a family to me than anyone,’ she said, not meeting George’s gaze. ‘I’ve had more teas in Audrey’s kitchen than I can count.’

Her words stuck in her throat as she realised the irony of what she had said about the Barton family, after what she had been doing right under their noses. She blushed and closed her eyes in shame. How foolish she felt.

George, reading her expression as grief for her dead parents, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a sweet, soft kiss.

‘I’ll take care of you, orphan Maggie,’ he said. ‘You’ve got me now.’