14

Roz awakened to the clamouring of the alarm, reaching out, making small grunts of protest, finally finding it, silencing it.

‘Aaaaah …’ She blinked open her eyes, focusing them on the ceiling, willing them not to close again.

Tuesday, and last night had been wonderful. She raised her arms above her head and stretched her body awake from fingertips to toes, then curling herself into a ball she lay, hugging herself tightly, remembering.

Last night they had come together as if they’d been parted for weeks, not days; as if only last night was left to them, then after that – nothing. And that was mad, she knew it, because soon they would have a tomorrow; maybe a whole year of tomorrows. Soon, it would be; not if.

She smiled, calling back last night; calling back Paul’s lips, his fingertips, his hard, lean body. Once, when first they were lovers, she had been a little surprised, afterwards, had not wanted to move from the circle of his arms. She had even found it difficult to speak, except to say his name, because the newness, the enormity of it, had left her strangely shy, once the pulsating need for him had left her.

But their couplings now were passionate and wild; a defiant, delirious snatching from life, just as it had been last night in the cool green deeps of the wood. Now she wanted to reach out and touch him as if he were beside her in the big bed in York, yet now she must get up and deliver milk, clean the dairy and hose down the milking parlour. Oh, why was life away from Paul so ordinary and colourless? Why did she only exist between their meetings; only come alive when she was with him?

She shrugged into trousers and shirt, running downstairs on stockinged feet and it was only when she lifted the kettle and realized it was already hot and full, that she turned to see her grandmother sitting at the table.

‘Gran! Morning, love.’ She bent to kiss her. ‘You’re up early. Birds, was it?’

‘No.’ Briefly her fingertips lingered on the warm young cheek. ‘It was Peggy, I suppose. I awoke at three and couldn’t get back to sleep.’

‘So you spent the rest of the night thinking and brooding? Have another cup with me, and a piece of toast? Nothing will make it better, I know, but –’

‘Nothing ever makes losing a daughter better.’

‘I know, Gran, and I’m sorry. But I never knew my mother. I’ve tried to remember something – anything – about her, but there’s nothing there; not the sound of her voice, nor the scent of her nor even her holding me …’

‘You were only two.’

‘Yes. It was different for you. You had her, Gran, and she was with you for a long time. I realize she was your comfort for losing Grandpa and your little boy. And now all you’ve got is me; red-haired Roz – with a temper to match.’ She smiled. Then, almost in a whisper she added, ‘And who isn’t always as good as she ought to be.’

She looked at the woman whose fingers fussed nervously with a teaspoon. Hester Fairchild, her grandmother, mother and father – yes, and friend, too. Always there. Safe and gentle and unchanging, though inside her she must have wept more tears than most.

‘You know I love you, Gran, even though sometimes you mightn’t think I do. It’s just –’ She shrugged, spreading her hands in a gesture of bewilderment.

‘It’s just,’ Hester said softly, willing herself to tread carefully, ‘that there’s a war on, and no one understands your war but you. Well, I understand. I have loved someone with all my heart and this old woman I’ve become loves him still. I know what it’s like to stand there as he walks away from you and all the time trying to be brave. I know how it is for you, Roz.’

‘We’ve run out of saccharin. Can you drink it without?’ Roz set the cup on the table then hurried back to the stove to turn over the toast.

‘Gran – I know what you’re going to say and yes, I will bring him home, very soon now.’ She closed her eyes as she said it, mentally crossing her fingers. ‘Very soon you’ll meet him; when haytime’s over, perhaps …’

‘Your young man? You promise, Roz?’ Her head had jerked up, eyes suddenly alert.

‘I promise.’

Hester sighed deeply, thankfully. She had never got this far before and elated she was tempted to ask why soon; why not tonight, tomorrow? But she did not. Instead she whispered, ‘Will you tell me his name?’

‘It’s Paul.’ Smiling, Roz turned from the stove. Paul. It was good to say his name in this kitchen; in this house. ‘Paul Rennie. And there’s only a scraping of marge I’m afraid, and the marmalade’s all gone.’

‘Never mind. There’s another jar due on Friday.’ All at once the marmalade ration didn’t matter. Weren’t there more important things in life – that suddenly Roz’s young man had a name and that soon he’d be coming to Ridings.

They ate in silence, Hester accepting that no more must be asked, that all she could do now was wait; Roz knowing she could not, dare not, make any promises that Fate might hear and fling back in her face. Soon. That was all it could be for just a little while longer.

‘Will you wear black this afternoon, Roz, or your grey costume?’

‘Neither. I shall go ordinary, as Peggy knew me. It doesn’t seem right to wear mourning for her; she was always so full of fun. Even after –’

She couldn’t say it; couldn’t say ‘even after Dunkirk’. It would have been like saying, ‘even after Paul was killed’.

‘You’ll wear a hat to church, though?’

‘I’ll wear a hat, Gran.’ Her summer straw. She would say her goodbye in a hat with little pink roses around the crown. That’s what Peg Bailey would have wanted.

And there would be no tears. Her tears would all be inside her. She was a Fairchild; later, privately, she would weep.

Tuesday morning, and Kath had set her alarm half an hour earlier. Today there would be a lot to do at Home Farm and half an hour on a June morning was no privation, really, especially when Grace was so dreading what was to come.

‘Hullo, lovey,’ she said when Kath walked through the open kitchen door. ‘You’re early, or is that clock wrong?’

‘The clock is fine. I must’ve smelled the teapot. Will it take a drop more water?’

‘It will, lass. And Mat and me were wondering –’

‘We were wondering,’ Mat said, ‘if you and Marco could manage on your own for a couple of hours?’

‘Of course we can.’ Kath took in the great size of him; tall and broad he was, just like Jonty, yet with a leanness that made him seem younger than his fifty years. ‘No bother at all.’ His face was still young, when he smiled, which wasn’t often these days; when he ran his fingers through his still-thick hair.

‘I knew you’d say that. Not so long ago me and Mat were faced with the worry of the Ridings acres and wondering how we were to manage, yet now we’ve got you and Marco and we’re as straight as we’ll ever be. Thanks, lass, though I’d rather be here, this afternoon; rather be anywhere,’ Grace whispered.

Tears that had never been far away since the night the telegram came sprang again to her eyes, and Kath reached for her hand, held it tightly.

‘I’m all right, now.’ Grace took a deep breath then let it go with a shuddering sigh. ‘Off you go to Jonty, Mat. And try not to say over much to him. He was close to Peggy and he’s got things on his mind.’

‘You’re sure, love?’ Mat bent to kiss her cheek, still moist with tears.

‘I’m sure, Mat. I’ll be all right now Kath’s come. Away you go to the milking.’

‘There now.’ Kath placed mugs of tea on the table. ‘Just tell me what’s to be done?’

‘Well, Jonty’ll want to go this afternoon – nay, not want to go; I think he’d give a lot for it not to be so. But we all want – need – to be there. Peg was like our own, you see.’

Like their own. Precious words, Kath thought. Belonging words.

‘But what’s to be done, Kath? Well, best you leave the Ridings acres alone this afternoon; better if there’s someone here, around the house. The man from the egg-packers should be coming – you’ll have to see he gets them all right. And he’ll be leaving last week’s egg money …’

‘Yes. About half-past three, I should think. Marco can get the cows in, then we’ll start the milking. Don’t worry yourself, Grace. We’ll manage.’

‘Thanks, our Kath.’ She was rewarded with a small, uncertain smile. ’And, lass – Mat thinks it’s best to keep Marco off Ridings land for a day or two; just in case. We don’t want anything to happen; not when he’s settled in so well …

’It’s Mrs Fairchild, you see. She’ll be there at the funeral, proud as Lucifer, breaking her heart like anyone would who knows what it’s like to lose a daughter, but not a tear nor a sigh about her. She’ll be remembering Miss Janet, though, and maybe thinking as how it was a German shell killed Peggy like it was a German sniper that took her man and she’ll be bitter. It’s always hardest when you can’t weep and her sort don’t weep in public …

‘So mind what I said about Marco and watch what you say up at the big house for a day or two? Just a word to the wise, Kath. I think I’ll put Mat’s suit outside on the line to sweeten. I call it his sad suit; the only dark suit he’s got, so it only sees the light of day at funerals. Smelled something terrible of mothballs when I got it out yesterday.’

The whole village would be there in their black this afternoon, and all of them smelling the same. Mothballs at a young girl’s funeral. It didn’t seem right, somehow.

‘Now then,’ said Polly, setting the kettle to boil before she had even taken her pinafore from the brown paper carrier-bag. ‘A cup of tea, I think.’

Tea comforted, and healed. When all else failed, only tea stood alone. And this day had to be lived through. It wouldn’t go away, so be blowed to tea-rationing – today, at any rate.

‘So everything’s ready, is it, ma’am? You’ll be wearing your comfortable black shoes – I’ll give them a polish. And it’ll be the usual hat and the pearl hat-pin, though I wouldn’t recommend black stockings; not when you’re not family.’

Not family? No. Maybe not. She would not intrude this afternoon, nor sit in the Fairchild pew, opposite the choir stalls. Today she would slip in at the back, try to keep her thoughts in check and send her love and understanding to the couple who must live through the pain of this afternoon.

‘Will you walk there with me, Polly?’

‘Aye. If that’s what you think best. There’s to be no flowers; only family’s. A silver collection, though, for the Red Cross.’

‘Yes. Sensible. Do more good than flowers.’ Such a sin; flowers left there to die and wither.

‘I did hear it said,’ Polly stirred the teapot round, ‘as how the Army brought her home last night. Two of her friends from the gun-site came up with her coffin, but they had to go straight back. Couldn’t stay overnight. Seems the war don’t stop for funerals.

‘So how about a spoonful of sugar in your tea this morning? Set you up nicely, a spoonful of sugar will.’

Polly Appleby knew when enough was enough and they sat in silence until Hester said, ‘I try to be grateful, Polly, that I still have Roz.’

‘Aye.’

‘Do you know – right out of the blue – Roz told me she was bringing her airman to meet me. Soon, I think. Maybe after haytime, she said.’

‘Why after haytime? Why not tonight?’

‘I don’t know. But he’s called Paul Rennie – she told me that, too.’

‘Well, I suppose the lass has her reasons, and I suppose you’ll know them in good time. And it’ll soon be haytime. Hay’s getting good and thick; two or three weeks more sun, and it’ll be ready for cutting.’

‘It will, though there’s none here at Ridings, nor wheat, either.’

‘Happen not. But your land’ll be growing wheat next year. And come autumn your potatoes and sugar-beet’ll be ready for lifting. Are we all right for milk?’ she demanded, in desperate need of another cup. ‘Just think, ma’am. Those acres will be paying you back something at last. The Master would’ve been pleased about that.’

The Master. Hester stirred her tea, eyes gazing out over the treetops and back across the years. Strange that lately she had thought about Martin so much; had heard the deep, rich timbre of his voice, heard his laugh. He had been so close that sometimes she had thought that if she walked quietly to the ruins, she would see him there in his uniform, coming down the staircase toward her as he’d done only minutes before he left.

But he had never been there; only an empty shell to remind of what was gone. For all time. All she had now was Janet’s child.

Kath watched them go, Mat, Grace and Jonty, straight-backed and unwilling to Alderby church. She had told them not to worry, that she would look after things; have the kettle on the boil, and the teapot warming, for when they got back.

Once, Grace said only that morning, hospitality following a funeral had been lavish in these parts. It had stemmed from necessity, she supposed, for in the old days men and women had walked miles to a burial and been in need of sustenance before they walked back.

Old-fashioned Yorkshire hospitality, she said, and the custom still kept – until the war, that was. Ham cooked on the bone, ribs of beef and plates of bread and best butter. And maybe a glass of port wine, afterwards, with a slice of good, rich fruit cake. But the rationing of food had put paid to all that; not even a cup of tea could be offered, now. There were some, even, who said that funeral feasts would be a thing of the past by the time the war was over, and maybe it would be a good thing.

Kath sighed as she set a tray with cups and saucers in readiness for their return. She was glad Marco was working in the far cow pasture, checking the fences. Faintly she could hear the sound of the hammer as he beat a post secure. She didn’t want to be alone with him, today especially. She had lain awake last night as she had known she would and told herself it must never happen again. She had married Barney for better or for worse; been glad of his name and the respectability marriage gave her. She had made her bed, she would lie on it and anyway, only a fool expected marriage to be one long honeymoon.

It had all been fine, last night. She had accepted that from here on she would behave as a married woman was expected to behave; that loneliness and separation was no excuse for what she had done. But her resolve was gone by morning and her good intentions flew high and wide when Marco smiled his lovely smile and said, ‘Ciao, Kat.’ The churning was back inside her, and the longing she felt to touch him made it hard to remember all she had vowed that July Saturday almost three years ago. But when this day was over, she would tell Roz about it. Maybe talking would help, though knowing the state of mind Roz was in these days, maybe it wouldn’t.

She hoped Marco wouldn’t come to the house; that he’d have the sense not to. With luck he would stay in the field until it was time to bring the herd in for milking and by then Grace and Mat and Jonty would be back.

Lord! It was all such a mess and the war to blame for it all; the fault entirely of this war that women were alone, and men were prisoners and that people gathered now in sadness in Alderby.

Coldly, deliberately, she cleared her mind of such thoughts and made herself think instead of the little greystone church and a young woman called Peggy who wore the uniform of a soldier.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.

Hester was glad that the ringing of church bells had been forbidden for the duration of hostilities; grateful that today there could be no slow, mournful intoning of the calling bell. And it was good, too, that the passing bell could no longer be rung; the death bell, as they called it around Alderby.

They had rung the death bell in the last war for Martin; one sombre peal for each year of his life. She could hear it still; feel the cold, even yet, of that December day. At least Peggy’s parents had been spared that terrible tolling; could give back their daughter on a day bright with sunlight.

She lifted the latch of the church door and it sounded like the snapping of a whip in the hollowness inside. Heads turned automatically then turned back again to the altar and the studying of the Elizabethan glass window of Christ rising, illuminated to near-splendour by the brightness of the day outside.

Hester sank stiffly to her knees. She did not pray. Today there was too much hatred in her for that. Clasping her hands together she stared ahead to the coffin that lay at the foot of the altar. Peggy had come home to Alderby and had rested all night in the little church, covered by the flag of her country. On that coffin lay the khaki cap of a woman soldier, its brass badge brightly polished, and with it a rose; one pale pink rose, picked tenderly from a cottage garden and placed there with love. It was the kind of thing only a woman would do.

Martin. Hester said his name in her heart. She had not seen his grave, nor picked a flower for him. His memorial stone was here, in St Mary’s churchyard and when the time came, Roz knew it was her wish to be laid there, beneath Martin’s stone.

But not just yet. Not until Roz was happily settled. Oh, Roz, my dear, it’s a dreadful world we’ve wished upon you young things.

Roz closed her eyes, bowed her head and whispered the Lord’s prayer. She didn’t know what else to pray for, except that Peggy was at peace, now.

Were you in Alderby, Peg, on St Mark’s Eve? Did you wraith past the church porch when the rest of us were asleep, and if you did, was anyone there with you?

She lifted her head to gaze at the flag-covered coffin, wondering where Peg was now. With her young man, she hoped. She ought to be with him; they deserved to be together. Closing her eyes again, she clasped her hands tightly together.

Please let there be a heaven? Like it says in the Bible, let there be one?

There’d be no sense to all this killing, if there wasn’t. No sense at all …

Jonty Ramsden sat with his parents in the pew they usually occupied at the front of the church. He’d rather have been at the back, where no one could have seen him. It hurt to see that coffin, there. It didn’t seem right – her so still, now.

Peg Bailey. Margaret, really. They’d come in for their fair share of teasing over the years.

‘Now think what might have happened if that old stork had dropped his girl-bundle on Home Farm, eh? You’d have been Jonty Bailey, wouldn’t you, and our Peg’d have been called Ramsden.’

And they’d laughed and gone along with it, he and Peg, for country children learned soon about begettings and birthings and that storks had nothing at all to do with them.

I’m sorry, Peg, and ashamed. It’s awful being young, and a civvy – bloody awful …

Grace reached for Mat’s hand. She wasn’t a bit brave. If they didn’t come soon, Peg’s parents, she’d be weeping again and making a fool of herself in front of the whole of Alderby. And they’d think, ‘Look at Grace Ramsden taking on so, and her with her son safe at home …’

Poor Jonty. He’d miss her, too. They’d shared a christening, with Peg making most of the noise; bawling the devil out of her like the good ‘un she was. And Jonty and Peg at their confirmation; Jonty in his first long trousers and Peg in her white dress and pretty little veil. Not so very long ago, the vicar had read the banns of marriage for Margaret Bailey, spinster of this parish, and the lass had planned a wedding that the war hadn’t allowed. Peg had not come here as a bride …

She felt Mat’s hand tighten on hers, saw Jonty turn, heard the small rustlings at the back of the church.

Peg’s family had come, were walking stiff and straight to the reserved pews at the front of the church; walking to where their daughter waited.

Please, Grace prayed, let me hold my head high and not make a fool of myself? I loved that lass. She was like my own …

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, grateful that the war had spared Jonty; angered that it had taken Peg. Either way, she couldn’t win.

Tears spilled from her eyes and she let them fall unchecked. You couldn’t fight grief. You had to let it take you, wring you dry and leave you spent.

God – be gentle with her parents?

Roz waited beside the church gate as the congregation filed slowly away. Her grandmother had already left, slipping out by the side gate, making for Ridings where she might weep for all grieving mothers.

Roz waited until Grace and Mat had passed, then falling into step with Jonty she touched his arm briefly, smiling up at him.

‘Shall we walk home together – the back way?’

‘Thanks, Roz. I’d like that …’

‘Sure you didn’t want to go to the graveside?’ she asked as they passed the Black Horse and turned into Home Farm lane.

‘No. Mum’s staying, but I –’ His voice thickened and he looked down, unable to go on.

‘It’s all right. I know you cared for Peg and I know how you feel.’

‘Do you? Do you, Roz? How can you know what I’m feeling right now?’

‘Because I know you, Jonty Ramsden.’ Reaching for his hand she circled it in her own, holding it tightly. ‘Come on, you old dope, let’s get back. Bet you anything you like Kath’ll have the kettle on …’

Hands clasped, they walked away from the sadness. For a little while, the war that had separated them had never happened and he loved her still, as a boy loves his sister; young and innocent again.

‘Are you going out tonight?’ Kath asked of Roz after they had called a goodnight to Grace.

‘I’m going, but I don’t think he’ll come. They were stood down last night, so it’s almost certain they’ll be on tonight.’

‘You’ll be home then, later, if –’

‘No. Think I’ll go up to Tuckets Hill if Paul doesn’t show. You can see Peddlesbury from up there. Might watch the take-off, if they go early. Why do you ask?’

‘Because I want to talk to you. About me.’

‘You and who else, Kath?’

‘I’ll come to Tuckets about half-past eight – just in case?’ Kath begged the question.

‘If you want to. Sounds important.’

‘Not really – oh, I don’t know! I just need to talk, I suppose. Well – best be away,’ she murmured, eyes averted, as they reached the orchard gate. ‘It’s been a pig of a day. I’m glad to see the end of it. See you, then?’

‘Hope you don’t, but I’ve a feeling you will.’ Roz shrugged. ‘And if they’re operational, at least it’ll be –’

‘One less to go,’ Kath finished gravely.

‘One less.’ Nearly there, and it was going to be all right. She was certain of it, now.

Roz sat, arms hugging her knees, looking beyond the cluster of trees and rooftops that was Alderby to the little river, smudged yellow with wild irises and bordered by elders.

Roz had waited in Peddlesbury Lane until eight o’clock, but Paul had not come, so she had gone to Tuckets Hill to watch the Lancasters taking off. If by chance the bombers should be stood down and Paul could leave camp, he would know where to find her.

She would wait for a little while longer. It was pleasant here, and quiet. If she went home there would only be questions and she didn’t want to talk about Paul until that last op was over. She’d tell all, then; insist that maybe for a whole year Paul would be away from flying and time enough for them to marry, even though the law said she wasn’t old enough.

It would be wonderful, though, when it was all out in the open; when she and Paul need never again worry about being seen together. They were engaged, of course. He’d asked her to marry him that afternoon in York, but Gran’s permission would make it official and then she could call him her fiancé. Openly.

Paul. The man she would marry. He was down there now, probably eating a supper of bacon and eggs washed down with hot, sweet tea. It was almost always bacon and eggs before an op. Then he would put on his flying kit and draw his parachute; there would be the inevitable joke about him bringing it back and changing it for another one, if it didn’t open when he bailed out.

And after that they’d be driven to Sugar, out there beside the perimeter track; driven by an aircraftwoman called June who was lucky for them, Skip said. Some women drivers were chop-girls, bad to have around, but little Juney was okay and went through the rituals with them; the silly, childish things most crews did before take-off. Roz smiled. Paul had told her about the crew who always had a pee on the tail-wheel before take-off, another who wouldn’t fly without a copy of the New Testament stuffed into each left-hand top pocket, and one who flew with a one-eared teddy bear called Wilfred in the cockpit. Wouldn’t have dreamed of taking-off without Wilfred … But with Sugar’s crew it had to be the counting ritual. June would walk the full span of Sugar’s wings, solemnly counting, ‘One, two, three, four. They’re all there, Skip. Nobody’s nicked one of yer engines. The old crate’ll fly …’ Then she always stuck up a thumb and said, ‘So-long, lads. See you.’ Good old Juney.

People could be so amazing, Roz pondered. War brought out the best in some, the worst in others. Some people – just a few – were unkind. Jonty knew about people like that. Jonty had been hurt and upset today, in church. She was glad they had walked home together. They were friends again, now. Friends. That was all.

She saw Kath as she skirted the clump of rowan trees at the bottom of the rise. She had forgotten Kath was coming, and who she needed to talk about she had no idea. She hoped it would be about Marco. Barney was dull and pompous. What on earth had she been thinking about to marry a pudding like him? She raised her hand so Kath would see her, then rose to her feet to wait.

‘Hi,’ she said, sitting down again, patting the grass at her side. ‘He didn’t come, you see.’

‘No. There’s plenty going on, though.’ They studied the activity below them. ‘What are they doing?’

‘Looks as if the armourers are fitting the guns. They’ll be flying tonight. Nothing’s more certain.’

‘And those tractors, Roz? Is it bombs they’re pulling behind them?’

‘It is. They’ll be loading them into the planes. Bombing-up, it’s called. It’ll be a while yet before take-off, but best if it’s dark when they cross the coast. These light nights aren’t a lot of good to air-crews. But you haven’t come up here just to count them out …’

‘No, though I’ll stay with you, till they’ve gone.’

‘Tell me about Marco. What happened this afternoon when you were alone?’ It was Marco Kath wanted to talk about; Roz knew it.

‘Nothing happened! He was in the far field all the time – never came near.’ She had been glad he hadn’t; sad he hadn’t. ‘This was waiting for me when I got back. Take a look at it.’ She took an airmail envelope from her trouser pocket. ‘Where has he been, do you think?’

There was a postcard in the envelope; a picture of a river with a garish sunset reflected on its waters and palm trees beside it. Sunset on the Nile.

‘Want me to read it, Kath?’

‘Be my guest. Nothing there the vicar couldn’t see.’

‘“Managed to get a look at the Pyramids. They are big. Yrs. B.” Nothing there the Censor couldn’t see, either. But which pyramids, and where?’ Roz frowned.

‘Probably the Cairo ones. Maybe Barney’s been on another of his long convoys.’

‘And is that all? One postcard in over three weeks? He isn’t exactly inviting writer’s cramp, is he?’

‘I don’t know. I just don’t know what to think, any more.’

‘Neither do I, old love. But you didn’t come all the way up here to show me that?’

‘No. Want a cigarette?’ Kath settled her back against the trunk of a silver birch tree and offered her packet. ‘It – it’s Marco. He kissed me.’

‘My word!’ Roz grinned.

‘All right! If you think it’s funny, there’s no point in saying any more!’ Kath drew deeply on her cigarette.

‘Okay. So he kissed you – again? That makes it twice.’

‘Yes, but this time I asked him to. Stupid of me, wasn’t it?’

‘Dunno, lovey. Depends how far you went.’

‘What on earth do you mean!’ Kath’s cheeks blazed pink.

‘I mean did he or didn’t he – try it on? And if he didn’t, what is there to get so het up about?’

‘Of course he didn’t try it on. Nothing happened – honestly. But it could have …’

‘You reckon?’ Roz watched the rising of a smoke ring with studied concentration. ‘There you both were, in full view of Grace’s kitchen window –’

‘We were in the poultry field.’

‘All right – there you were in the poultry field and you in your dungarees – not what you’d call quick-release gear, exactly. You’d have had plenty of time to count to ten, wriggling yourself out of those things. Nothing could have happened unless you wanted it to. Grow up, love.’

‘Roz! Well! I must say you’ve a knack for being very – very blunt at times,’ Kath gasped, embarrassed. ‘I ask you for advice, and you –’

‘Oh, come off it, Kath. I can’t tell you what to do, and you know it. Just think it out for yourself, will you? Things aren’t so good between you and Barney, then along comes Marco who’s a decent bloke, in spite of the fact that he’s one of their lot –’

‘That’s it! An Italian!’ Kath threw down her cigarette then jumped to her feet to stamp it out. ‘I ought to have my head examined. What could it lead to? And imagine the scandal? What would Grace think if she knew I liked him. And as for your Gran!’

‘And Barney. Don’t forget him. Don’t think he’d be over-pleased about it.’

‘Don’t, Roz. I don’t know what’s got into me. I don’t …’

‘No more do I, Kath, but I understand. Marco’s supposed to be a greasy Wop, and we shouldn’t fraternize. But he’s a nice guy, who’d have been at university reading law if this war hadn’t happened; a man your mother would have been glad to make welcome if you’d taken him home – well, you know what I mean?’ she finished, lamely.

‘I know.’ Kath sat down again, accepting with a shrugging of her shoulders that what had happened was her problem, and hers alone. ‘It’s just that all of a sudden, life’s become so unreal.’

‘You’re right. And, Kath – you’re not the only woman on her own who’s finding it difficult, you know,’ Roz murmured, eyes fixed on the activity below them. ‘Oh, they give us our orders; do this – don’t do that. They. The faceless ones. They should come out of their ivory castles once in a while and see what it’s like in the real world!’

‘Ha!’

‘And I can’t sort your love life for you, Kath – I wouldn’t dare try. But I do sympathize and I think you’ll have to take it one day at a time. I mean – tomorrow they could send you down to Devon or up to Scotland. Had you thought of that?’

Kath had not, and the thought dismayed her. ‘They couldn’t. They wouldn’t – would they?’

‘I doubt it.’ Roz shrugged. ‘They’re more likely to move Marco on.’

‘Marco?’ Not once had she envisaged such a thing. She’d been so pleased with her new life, she thought it would go on for ever.

‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ Roz said softly. ‘Losing Marco, I mean …’

‘It does. We’d never see him again, would we? We couldn’t write to him; he couldn’t write to us. That would be it, wouldn’t it?’ she said, flatly.

‘Suppose it would. Just one thing, though. It isn’t we, but you. Marco’s your problem, not mine. Though what you could do about it, I don’t know. There’s a war on, isn’t there?’ A war on. A trite, useless phrase. Everybody said it these days. It explained a lot; it explained nothing. ‘And, Kath – I don’t think I’ll wait for very much longer. Seems take-off won’t be just yet. Wish I could ring Paul, but they wouldn’t accept the call; not when they’re flying.

‘Think I’ll go home and wash my hair. I can hear them go from home. Will you count them out, too, Kath – wish them luck? All of them?’

‘I will. I’m nearer to Peddlesbury than you are. I’ll count.’

‘Has it helped – saying it out loud, I mean,’ Roz asked as they stood at the top of Peddlesbury Lane.

‘I think it has. That bit about Marco or me being moved on tomorrow. Put things into perspective all right.’

‘Be my guest. Love lives sorted, confessions heard any time. Goodnight, Kath. Sleep well …’

Kath did not sleep well. She lay awake until the bombers began their take-off; roaring and thrashing overhead; a fearsome mixing of full fuel tanks, spiked guns and bombs, ready primed. And four great engines, at full throttle. All that, hurtling over the chimney pots at Peacock Hey once, twice, ten times. Ten crews whose average age was twenty-and-a-bit; all of them wanting to get there and get back. Get back safely.

Where would it be tonight? Skip knew. Already Paul would have begun his calculations. They’d be all right. Sugar would make it. They would all make it. They’d probably not be back until well into the morning, either. She and Roz could count them down together.

‘Thanks, Roz,’ she whispered to the ceiling. ‘It helped. More than you know.’

Having to accept that They could part them – that had really clinched it; made her face the situation for what it really was; that in truth it would be near-unbearable to leave Home Farm and any of the people who lived or worked there. Marco most of all. She’d had to admit she would be devastated were he to leave.

Tomorrow they could send her down to Devon or up to Scotland, Roz had said. Tomorrow, that was, and everyone knew that tomorrow never came.

Oh, please, it didn’t?