Paint on the Smiles by Grace Thompson Page B

noticed even the smallest changes, like the clock which had gone from the kitchen and was tucked in a drawer, having refused to stop chiming once it had been wound. And the table, which had been recovered with fresh American cloth with a pattern of roses.
    The workshop was changed too. The machines were heavily greased and covered with cloth. The window blinds long ago broken had been replaced by curtains.
    ‘They’ll have to go,’ he said in his quiet voice. ‘Too dangerous with machinery about.’
    ‘Of course,’ Ada said. ‘There’s stupid we were not to think of that.’
    Phil lifted the covers and touched the machines, felt the blade of the guillotine, stroked the letter press and the litho printer. He examined them closely, for signs of rust or damage, she presumed. His pale and unusually clean fingers stroked them like pets.
    ‘They’ll need a bit of work but they aren’t too bad. They could run again, I suppose.’
    ‘Willie’s been in a few times to check them and grease them,’ she told him.
    ‘If they do run—’ He turned to Ada, his eyes haunted ‘—who’ll give me work now?’
    ‘Plenty of people,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve already got orders waiting for you. Waldo wants you to print his Christmas offers and posters for thenew season’s jams. Peter Marshall has work for you and there’ll be others once they know you’re back in business.’
    ‘That won’t keep us all.’
    ‘There’s the shop and the business is growing. We’re thinking of opening a second shop. I haven’t told you that, Phil, I kept it as a surprise. We’ve been doing well, so you don’t have to worry about money for a while yet.’
    Mrs Spencer had been following them, just staring at her son, not speaking. Her eyes were red with tears but now she said, forcing a smile, ‘They’ve been good to me, Phil. Every week without fail I’ve had a visit and some money as well as a box of groceries. Brought by Willie Morgan every Saturday night.’ She looked at Phil, who was staring at her, and she had to turn away to hide her tears. ‘Marvellous they’ve been.’
    ‘Go and make us a cup of tea, Mam,’ Ada said, seeing how upset she was. ‘Sinking for a cuppa I am, all this talking I’ve been doing. Not giving Phil a chance, am I, Phil, love?’
    Phil seemed not to hear her. He was staring at the machines, wondering where he would find the strength to rouse them into life. He felt so weak and old.
    Ada returned to live at the cottage and she drove herself to work every day but it was three weeks before he opened his arms to her and three more weeks before he shared her bed.
    Her routine had returned to the way it had been before Phil’s imprisonment and Cecily suffered agonies of misery at the emptiness of the shop premises with only herself and Van there.
    ‘You wouldn’t believe the difference one person makes,’ she said to Waldo when he called with Melanie one evening in late September. ‘I suppose it’s because we’re such good friends as well as sisters.’ She smiled across at Ada who sat with Phil near the roaring fire. Phil was constantly chilled, his face was pinched and pale, his shoulders drooped listlessly and his eyes were dull and lacking any spark of enthusiasm. She wondered how Ada could stand it.
    ‘Sorry, but there’s no chance of my coming back here,’ Ada said, patting Phil’s skeletal hand. ‘Not now I’ve got my Phil back home. But,’ she asked hesitantly, ‘I’ve been wondering, couldn’t we find work for Phil with us? We’re opening another shop when we find a suitable premises – we’ll need extra staff then and he doesn’t feel up to restarting the printing business just yet.’
    Waldo flashed a warning shake of his head to Cecily, who took a deepbreath and said, ‘Ada, love, don’t you think you and I should discuss this on our own first? I mean, we always have, haven’t we? And we can’t talk about Phil as though he isn’t here, listening to all the nice