Sowerbutt was whistling, “We’ll
Meet Again”, Vera Lynn’s popular song of the previous year, as he reached the
Cheapside property. He was hoping Polly would be home from her trip to Bedford,
but there was no sign of her as he turned the key in the street door.
He was looking forward to
some time with his lovely lady; a quiet meal at the George
Hotel, round the corner in George Street, was the plan. The manager, who was
delighted with his call-up exemption papers and spare ration books, assured
Sowerbutt that he would keep his eyes out for any business opportunities. The chef was past the call-up age but still passionate about his
cooking. His liver dumplings with fried onions and roast breast of lamb with
mint stuffing were legendary across Bedfordshire. Sowerbutt licked his lips
thinking about the chef’s famous spiced apple fool.
Smiling, he opened the door
to the upstairs flat to be greeted by two high-heel shoes followed by the
local, thankfully thin, telephone directory. “Ooh, you bastard, I’m running out
of things to throw at you,” Polly shouted. Fending off a succession of red, black and gold
cushions from the settee, he
made his way into the lounge-room. He never knew what to expect with Polly,
anger or amore. He might as well toss a coin.http://www.amazon.co.uk/Colour-of-Red-ebook/dp/B00B1CWM5M/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1358353851&sr=1-1
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