Faded Dreams by Eileen Haworth

did.
       Every year she asked for a doll’s pram just like her cousin Doreen’s, but he never brought one. She’d learned to be grateful for whatever he could manage – it was like her mum said, he couldn’t make enough prams for every little girl in the world and for all she knew, it could be her turn next year. By holding their gifts towards the window in the semi-darkness and feeling their shapes they could identify them, identical presents differing only in colour or style.
       Rag dolls, fashioned by their mother from a piece of blackout curtaining, with  brown woolly hair and smiling embroidered faces, their pretty frocks cut from Granny Sefton’s cast-off underskirts, pink for one and white for the other.
       Florrie wasn’t much of a seamstress and the silky dresses would probably fall apart before long, but she’d tried to make a better job of the dolls. Prams were out of the question, but two shoeboxes covered with shiny paper were transformed into doll’s cots complete with tiny pillows, blankets and a different coloured quilt for each one.
       For his part, Joe had nailed and glued pieces of firewood together to build doll’s house furniture, a dining table and chairs and two small beds all painted red for Betty, a couch and two easy chairs and a piano, all painted brown for Ellen. Hand-sewn miniature cushions and bedding completed the sets.
       Delighted as their daughters were, they couldn’t help wondering why Father Christmas hadn’t brought the longed-for doll’s house to go with the lovely brand-new furniture. But never mind, it would look posh enough once they’d set it out in the sectioned wooden box he’d brought last Christmas.
       An apple, a bag of chocolate gold-covered pennies, a few toffees and a thin story-book were retrieved from each pillow-case and finally, what every wartime child desired, their very own small, slim flashlight, Betty’s orange, Ellen’s green.  Now they could light their way to their friends’ houses or down the long back garden to the lavatory.
       The smell of fried eggs and bacon told them morning had arrived.  They hurried downstairs with their pillowcases bumping on every step to find their father making breakfast for Frank and two other soldiers who had stayed the night.
       There were always plenty of fresh eggs from Joe’s hens and in the weeks leading up to Christmas he’d made sure there were ample supplies of bacon too. Florrie brought some from the wooden meat-safe outside the back door and with  one hand pinching her nostrils, whispered, ‘Joe, is this bacon off ?’
       Plunging his nose into the top slice Joe sniffed deeply then meticulously went through the pile before discarding two slices that were crawling with maggots.  He was puzzled. It should have been all right in this cold weather but happen some of it had been at the back of the safe for months.  Christ, he must be thieving it faster than the missus and kids could eat it. Well, them  young soldiers wouldn't  turn their noses up, it wouldn’t take ‘em long to polish off  some nice eggs and bacon. 
       ‘It's all right now, Florrie. There's nowt wrong with it, I've sorted it out .’
       After breakfast he leaned against the front door as they left, giving each one a warm handshake.
       ‘Thanks a lot, Joe. And you too, Florrie,’ said one.
       ‘Damn good party last night.’ said another.
       Frank Neild made his way to the kitchen where Florrie stood gazing at the greasy plates in the sink.
       ‘I just wanted to say sorry about last night, Florrie.’
       ‘What d’ you mean, sorry? ’She kept her back to him and tried to hide the tremor in her voice.
       ‘I mean little Ellen, and all that.’
       She swung round to face him, leaning back against the sink, ‘It wasn’t just you Frank, you were all as bad as one and other.’
       She looked defenceless and weary and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed before how pretty