When the Lights Come on Again by Maggie Craig

umbrella either, so Liz swung her own up to cover the two of them.
    ‘Do you take the tram or the train to Clydebank?’
    ‘Train to Singer’s,’ said Helen shortly. She was obviously reluctant to accept the shelter of Liz’s umbrella, maintaining a slight distance between the two of them.
    ‘I can go that way too!’ exclaimed Liz. ‘Where do you live?’
    ‘The Holy City,’ said the girl, naming the group of tenement houses in Clydebank which had acquired their nickname because their flat roofs were said to resemble those of the houses in Jerusalem.
    ‘The Holy City!’ repeated Liz. ‘I was brought up in Radnor Street! Just up the road a wee bit! What a coincidence!’
    She wasn’t getting much response. She also seemed to be speaking in exclamation marks.
    ‘Look,’ she said urgently, putting a hand on Helen’s damp sleeve, ‘I’ve really got nothing against Catholics.’
    Helen’s voice was as dry as the evening was wet. ‘That’s big of you.’
    Liz grinned. She had deserved that. She must sound as patronizing as the Red Cross woman had sounded to her.
    ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? What about you, though? Do you have anything against Protestants?’
    Helen gave her fair head a decisive shake. ‘I don’t have anything against anyone.’ She was holding herself less stiffly, her posture more relaxed.
    ‘Come in a wee bit under the brolly,’ urged Liz. ‘Your hair’s getting wet. Can we start again?’ she asked, when Helen had done as she had asked. ‘Chum each other home?’
    Helen tilted her head to one side. She was really pretty, eyes the colour of the summer sky, a straight little nose and a Cupid’s bow of a mouth. Despite the rain, her short blonde hair continued to sit in perfect waves. I ought to hate her, Liz thought ruefully.
    ‘Why not?’ said Helen.
    Walking closely together, the two girls began to negotiate the puddles on the broad pavement.
    ‘Are you working?’ Liz asked.
    ‘Aye. I’m an assistant at Woolie’s in Sauchiehall Street. How about you?’
    On the point of answering, Liz was interrupted by a deep-voiced shout from behind them.
    ‘Ladies!’
    ‘Can he mean us?’ murmured Helen. Liz laughed and turned, somehow not at all surprised to see the tall young man hurrying towards them. He was smartly dressed in a belted trench coat, but, like Helen, he didn’t have an umbrella.
    ‘Ladies,’ he said again when he reached them, taking off his hat in greeting. ‘Could I offer you a lift home to Clydebank? It’s such a filthy night. Fine weather for ducks, what?’
    Liz looked at him. He looked back at her, his face open, the expression on it friendly.
    ‘And are you heading for Clydebank?’ she demanded.
    ‘More or less,’ he said. Then the look on his face turned sheepish. ‘Well, Milngavie, actually, but it’s only a mile or two out of my way.’
    ‘It’s quite a bit out of your way!’ She was back to speaking in exclamation marks.
    ‘Shouldn’t you put your hat back on?’ suggested Helen. ‘You’ll get drookit.’
    He turned his hazel eyes and his pleasant smile on to her.
    ‘Drookit? That’s a good word.’
    ‘And this is a daft place to be holding a conversation,’ said Liz firmly. ‘We’re all going to be drookit if we don’t get out of this rain soon. Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.’
    ‘Och, go on,’ he said, suddenly sounding a lot more Glaswegian. ‘I’m quite trustworthy, I assure you.’ He gave a quick nod of his increasingly damp head, indicating the door of the church hall behind him. ‘I could get my mother to supply you with a written character reference, if you like.’
    Helen chuckled. Liz wished she hadn’t. It would only encourage him.
    ‘I’d be happy to give you a lift to your homes in my little bus.’ He half turned, gesturing. ‘She’s parked round the corner.’
    He stood waiting for their answer, seemingly not at all perturbed by the rain running down his face and dripping off his eyelashes. They were