We'll Meet Again
Chapter Two
"Elizabeth! Come and help with dinner!"
It was Sunday. Elizabeth relished the final day of the week – the day that her father was home from work during the afternoons, and she and Mama cooked a gorgeous roast dinner – though it had been nicer when there no rationing of the food - for him to come home to. Daddy often came home looking rugged and dirty – and Mama would not let him anywhere near the kitchen until he had had a bath and put on clean clothes. It was up to Buffy to keep cooking whilst Joyce found her husband fresh clothes from the airing cupboard.
Buffy chopped the carrots neatly, and was peeling the potatoes when her father came through the door, as black as the coal he worked with, and his trousers thick with mud. Mama stopped him in the hallway, and ordered him straight into the bathroom. It was a dingy and dark room – Buffy's least favourite room of the whole house. It consisted of a fireplace, a metal tub, and a sink. The toilet was outside – and that was even worse. Buffy was deadly afraid of spiders, but the privy was full of them. If she could help it, Buffy never used it more than three times a day.
Joyce then returned, and told Buffy she could do as she pleased until the roast was served. It was a nice day – the sky was fairly blue and cloudless – so she chose to go outside in the garden.
"Don't forget to wash your hands when you come in!" called Joyce, from inside. "Don't think I didn't notice the grubby fingerprints on that mug yesterday!"
Buffy nodded solemnly, but skipped across the lawn to her normal spot nevertheless. Settling down on the worn spot of grass she liked so much – this time with a withered book – she crossed her legs demurely, and enjoyed the light wind playing with her golden curls.
The book was one that her mother had given her. It had been Mama's, and before then it had belonged to Buffy's grandmother – and Mama had made Buffy promise that she would hand it down to her daughter. Personally, Buffy disliked the tale. Little Women, it was called, and it told the story of four daughters. Buffy had decidedly taken to the character of Beth – she seemed the least pretentious – for Jo was too boisterous, Meg too affected, and Amy too vain – but had been devastated by her death later on in the book. She had tossed the book aside, and hadn't opened it again until she gave away her favourite book of all, Adventures of the Wishing-Chair, to her brother when he had left. Buffy began to whistle their childhood lullaby.
"Oi, you!"
This particular exclamation made Buffy jump. The voice wasn't familiar to her – it was neither her mother's nor her father's, as they spoke with a proper and gentle accent. This accent was harsh and rude. She didn't like it at all. She followed the sound with her head, and was surprised to see a head sticking up over her fence.
"Oh!" she cried, clutching her book to her chest, and standing up, immediately. "You gave me a fright!"
"Sorry." Buffy narrowed her eyes to see that the head was in fact that of the boy who lived next door. He wasn't gentlemanly at all. Her father would be disgusted to see a young man talk like he did. And if her mother had heard him, his ears would have most definitely been boxed by now.
"How old are you?" asked Buffy, curiously, meeting the boy at the other side of the fence, leaving her book untouched on the grass. "You look a lot older than me. You're certainly taller!"
"I'm eighteen," declared the boy, proudly. "But I bet a squirt like you's only twelve."
Buffy blushed. "I'm sixteen!" she replied, indignantly. "I'm just petite. It's better to be small and ladylike than be a giant brute like you!"
The boy did not look offended at all. Instead, he stood his ground. "Ain't your brother tall? Haven't seen him in a while, but I know he's at least six foot."
"Billy is fighting in the war," Buffy said, sticking out her chest with pride. "He's all muscled, though. He's not a weed, like you." Buffy stopped, thoughtfully. "If you're eighteen, why aren't you in the war? Billy was two months too young, but he still joined up."
"Well, good for Billy," answered the boy, rudely. "But I'm asthmatic. The army-types don't want me. I'm too much bother."
Buffy bit her lip, and blushed again. She hadn't anticipated that he was poorly. Imagine what a fraud she would feel if she had given him the white feather and called him a coward! She would have been ever so embarrassed, and her mother would have never forgiven her for such unladylike behaviour.
"I put you in your place, didn't I?" retorted the boy, with a grin. "It's alright. The asthma ain't that bad. Just gets bad in the winter." He coughed. "An', of course, I get the hay fever."
Buffy frowned, concernedly. "Are you O.K?" she asked. "Do you need a glass of water?"
"Nah, I'm fine," said the boy.
"What did you want, then?" implored Buffy. "Why did you call me?"
The boy put his hands in his pockets. "Well," he said. "I see you every night, and was curious. You go to bed dead early. My mum lets me stay up till nine-thirty."
Buffy's eyes widened. "Nine-thirty?" she repeated. "I would never be able to get up the next morning! Eight-thirty is perfect for me, thank-you."
"I'm just a rebel." The boy grinned. "Say, what's your name? You gave your brother's name – and I know your dad's name, he used to work with my old man. But who are you?"
"I'm Elizabeth," replied Buffy, giving her full name. It was only Billy who could use the abbreviation. There was no chance she would let this wretched boy use it. She didn't think she could stand hearing it with that strange accent!
"I'm William," said the boy, sticking out his right hand. Buffy didn't shake it. Instead, she exclaimed, rather surprised.
"That's my brother's name!" she cried. "But you don't look anything like a William. My Billy's got curly brown hair, and it goes right around his face. Its ever so nice – not like that dreadful colour you employ."
William raised his hands to his bleached blonde hair defensively, and sniffed the air hungrily. "That smells nice," he said. "I wish we still ate roasts at home. We don't have much money now my dad's dead, and the rationing is hardly generous. Sometimes my nan makes it though," he added, happily.
"Elizabeth!"
Buffy turned her head to see her mother standing in the window, calling her to dinner. She nodded, obediently, and twisted to face William once more to say goodbye and offer her sympathy for his father's death, but he was gone. Scouring her neighbour's garden, she saw not even the slightest hint of blonde. She frowned, and started towards her house again, her head full of the strange young boy who was unknowingly falling in love with her.
