[MaC] And so it begins - Cyril

[Brenda McCartney]

The door slammed as Cyril bustled into the penthouse flat and hung his
hat on the rack near the door.

"Is that you, dear," Florence called from the lounge above.

"Yes, finally," he called back up the stairs.  "I didn't think I was
going to make it."

Florence met him at the bottom of the stairs, her face white with
worry.  "Why?" she asked, alarmed.  "What happened?"  Since the bombing
had started months ago, she fretted when he did not come home on time.

Cyril smiled at his wife reassuringly.  "Nothing, love," he said as he
kissed her cheek quickly, then hurried into the bedroom.  She followed
him, noting that his work clothes were grimier than usual.  "We just
had a big shipment to get out, and with the lads gone it was up to us
old men to load the lorry.  We're nowhere near as fast as they are." 
He stripped off his shoes, jacket and tie, then hustled past Florence
into the bathroom to wash up for the party.

"Well, at least you still have business," Florence said optimistically,
following him back in that direction.

"We do," Cyril smiled ruefully, "but it's unfortunate that we have to
get so much of it this way."  Florence knew what he meant without any
further words.  The bombings, the destruction.  People needed hardware
to rebuild, only to be bombed out again.  To Cyril, it meant something
else as well.  There was no profit margin in these kinds of sales.

After cleaning up, Cyril rushed back to the bedroom and dug his tuxedo
out of the back of the closet.  Florence was already dressed in a
lovely sky blue gown, Cyril's favorite.  The style was a bit dated, but
the color brought out the radiant blue of Florence's eyes.  Cyril
paused in his preparations to look at her and beam.  Even after 28
years of marriage and two grown children, sometimes when he looked at
her, he felt twenty again.  He took his hands in both of his.  "It'll
be good to gussy up and go out again for a change."

Florence giggled at her husband standing in his skivvies.  "You'll not
be going anywhere until you get dressed, darling.  We're late."

Even though he was running late, Cyril savored the feeling of dressing
formally once again.  There was a time when it was commonplace.  Back
when times were good.  The Depression and then the war had made it
tough to run a business.  Parker & Beaman, Ltd. had managed to hold on
so far, but only just.  It wasn't just the war that caused the lack of
help, though Florence didn't know that.  Cyril had had to sack all but
a skeleton crew to save money.  Nowadays, he was getting his hands
dirtier than he had since his Navy days in the Great War.

When he was finally ready, Cyril grandly offered his arm to Florence
and they breezed off to the Fitzroy party - which was right next door. 
Florence rang the bell.






		
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