16

The RAF transport driven by a woman corporal came to a stop at Peddlesbury guardroom gates. Leaning out of the window she called, ‘Dance!’ and the red and white striped pole that barred their way rose slowly to let them through.

The transport had started from Helpsley, made a stop at the Black Horse in Alderby then gone on to Peacock Hey to pick up landgirls there. Women partners were in short supply at the Friday dances at RAF Peddlesbury and the Air Force obliged by taking them there and taking them back when the dance was over.

‘Hi,’ said Roz as Kath took the wooden seat at her side. ‘Everything okay?’

‘If you mean were there any letters – no.’ At least tonight she could enjoy herself without being reminded too much about the decision she had made. Not that she had changed her mind – she hadn’t, but that first flush of heady defiance was taking a bit of getting used to and Kath Allen’s conscience had always plagued her, ever since she could remember. ‘Everything’s fine. I’ll enjoy myself tonight if it’s the last thing I do, so –’

‘Point taken.’ Roz smiled. A decidedly self-satisfied smile, Kath thought, but then very soon Roz would be with Paul, dancing close. Soon, the whole of her world would be enclosed by Paul’s arms and nothing and no one would exist but themselves. Lucky Roz, who lived her life on a knife-edge and loved wildly; Roz, who counted the days, now, as a child counted the days to Christmas. For Roz, the next few weeks would be agonies of apprehension and fear intermingled with frenzies of joy and relief. There would be no in-betweens. Life with Roz would be tumultuous until it was all over.

The transport drove slowly, past Nissen huts with roofs of curved metal sheeting; past camouflaged buildings and tall, wide-doored hangars. In the distance, at the far end of the runway, stood the control tower, angular and many-windowed, painted like the rest in the camouflage colours of black, green and khaki. Every building was utilitarian and unpretty, standing out with something akin to vulgarity against so beautiful a landscape. It would be good when it was all over and they were pulled down, the concrete runways broken up, ripped out and carted away. Or would the aerodrome be abandoned to rot and crumble? Kath frowned. Would elderly men and women come here to stand remembering their fear-filled youth and say, with just a little pride, ‘I was here at Peddlesbury in forty-two. My, but you should have seen it then. Lancasters all over the place, taking off every night,’ – with the passing of the years it would seem like every night – ‘and knocking hell out of the Krauts. Bloody marvellous, it was. Made you feel proud. You young ’uns haven’t a clue; haven’t lived …’

Looking back, it would seem marvellous, Kath supposed, all the bad times forgotten. Fifty years from now …

‘You’re quiet.’ Kath felt the jab of an elbow.

‘Mm. Just thinking about this and that. I’m looking forward to tonight.’

She was. She would forget Barney and Aunt Min – forget Marco, even – she would dance every dance in her gold slippers and have the time of her life. Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow there might be a letter – from North Africa.

The truck braked to a stop and the driver let down the tail-board.

‘Right, girls. This is it. Straight ahead to the dance.’

She smiled as she recognized Kath, a smile that was returned.

‘Hi! I remember you. York station …’

‘York station.’ A cold, December night and no bus for two hours to take her to Peacock Hey. She had come a long way. ‘Nice to see you again, mate!’ Kath Allen was one of the crowd, now; a landgirl with six months’ service in. She’d changed some, since York station. She lifted her hand, smiled a goodbye.

Oh my word, changed? But she wouldn’t think about that. Not tonight.

With the exception of the flight-engineer, the whole of S-Sugar’s airmen had come to the dance. The flight-engineer, a valued member of the crew because he was a failed pilot who could land the Lancaster in an emergency, waited at York station for a fiancée who was booked in for six nights at the Black Horse, Alderby. And the very best of British! said the remainder of the crew, saucily.

Paul and Roz found seats in a quiet corner; Skip smiled at Kath, holding out his hand as the first dance was called, and the tail-gunner who had come to them as Jock’s replacement, went in search of little Juney, the driver who brought them all luck.

The dance hall – the gymnasium, really – was pleasantly cool. Tonight, blackout curtains need not be drawn until nearly eleven o’clock and open windows let in cooler air and let out cigarette smoke that in winter would have hung in shifting clouds at the ceiling.

‘Everything okay?’ Skip smiled, taking her in his arms. They took it for granted, now, that they were partners.

‘No complaints.’ Not tonight. ‘And Julia?’

Julia, Skip’s wife, at home with her mother in rural Derbyshire.

‘She’s doing great – finding it a bit difficult to sleep nights, now. Bump does his daily dozen the minute she lies down, she says. She’s sure we’ll have a boy. Got the kick of a footballer, she says – boots and all. And how’s your better half?’

‘Fine. Just fine.’ Kath smiled. ‘Not a lot of letters lately, but there is a war on.’

‘Mm.’ Skip pulled her closer and rested his cheek on her head. Kath knew the way things were. Both of them married, their weekly liaison was safe and uncomplicated. ‘Julia wanted to know how my landgirl was getting on last time she phoned and I told her you were still madly in love with me.’ He grinned. ‘A very understanding lady, my Julia. Doesn’t mind me going to dances. Expect your bloke’s the same?’

‘Oh, yes. Barney’s very understanding.’ She closed her eyes, begging forgiveness for so blatant a lie. ‘Last time I heard he’d been on a long convoy, had a look at some pyramids and managed to find a pint or two of decent beer.’ All of it true, really, though there were many shades of grey between black and white. ‘You’ll tell Julia I asked about her, won’t you? Y’know, it’s funny; we know each other so well, you and me, Skip, but I don’t know your name – except that it’s Johnny.’

‘That’s life, girl, when there’s a war on. It’s John Wright, as a matter of fact, though I answer better to Skip these days.’

John Wright, from somewhere in Cheshire. Captain of a massive bomber with a crew of seven; a father-to-be at twenty-four and well above the average age for aircrew. Life was a bit unfair, Kath frowned, if you let yourself dwell overmuch on the whys and wherefores. Life was two-faced, as well; like the talk they’d had in the sugar-beet field.

‘… a nasty thing, divorce – still a stigma attached to it. Almost as bad as having an illegitimate child. Just not done …’

Not done. Yet They, the faceless ones, separated husbands and wives without a second thought, then threw men and women – lonely men and women – together regardless of what might and often did happen. Yet still They clung to their dogma. Thou shalt not …

Life wasn’t a bit unfair, Kath brooded; it was bloody unfair, sometimes.

‘Sorry, Skip,’ she murmured, stumbling. ‘Got two left feet tonight. Be an old love, and buy me a beer?’

They left the floor, smiling at Paul and Roz as they made for the end of the room where beer was being sold.

Paul and Roz, dancing now, she with her arms clasped tightly around his neck, he with his hands laid possessively on her buttocks, their feet hardly moving. Lovers, their actions proclaiming it and they not caring who knew it.

Lucky Roz. She who met life head on and who would think about the consequences tomorrow. Roz who was loved as she, Kath, wanted to be loved, needed to be loved.

She wished she could get a little tipsy tonight. Not drunk; just relaxed enough to help her forget this war, this damn’ awful war. But you could never get drunk when you were miserable, and if you weren’t miserable, the need wouldn’t arise.

Oh, yes; life could be very unfair – if you let it.

It had been pleasant this morning, picking the raspberries, Hester thought. Getting up early and beating the blackbirds to it. Even so early, the sun had been bright and the walled kitchen-garden, though in a sad state of neglect these many years, had been warm and private and she had found herself singing quietly as she picked.

This year, the fat red berries were ready long before their time, due, no doubt, to an early spring followed by a week of rain at just the right time, and the warm, south-facing corner of the walled kitchen-garden in which they grew. Hester always gave raspberries to Polly and Grace; it was a custom that even a war couldn’t break, though what either would do with them when sugar was in such desperately short supply, she had no idea. But wars, she insisted stubbornly, could not be allowed to interfere with habit – not at Ridings.

She tapped on Home Farm kitchen door, then walked in. Walking-in was a country custom, just as it was the custom to enter a house by the back door, the front door being used only on important occasions, like a child being carried to its christening, a bride leaving for the church or, sadly, at times of bereavement. On all other occasions the back door sufficed, it being considered more neighbourly and better all round than depositing muck and mud in the hall.

‘Good morning, Grace – and Arnie?’ Hester regarded the small boy, scowling with concentration, tongue protruding. On the newspaper-covered table top stood ornaments of copper or brass, several pieces of rag for putting-on and a bright, fluffy yellow duster. ‘My word, but you’re busy.’

Arnie glanced up, smiled broadly at his grown-up friend, then returned to his rubbing.

‘Arnie is earning himself a sixpence,’ Grace supplied, ‘on account of it soon being Poll’s birthday, aren’t you, lad?’

‘Mm. For a card. And a stamp.’

‘A special card,’ Grace confirmed. ‘A card with roses on it and what else, Arnie?’

‘A pre-war card, with real gold writing on it. I’ve got to buy it soon or somebody else’ll get it and I want Aunty Poll to have it. Mrs Ramsden’s going to get it for me when she goes to Helpsley on Monday.’

‘That’s a very nice thought, Arnie, and thank you for reminding me.’ Hester smiled. ‘I’ve brought the usual, Grace, though I wish I could have brought a bag of sugar, too. Raspberries aren’t the same without sugar, are they?’ Eight ounces of sugar a week went nowhere.

‘Happen not, but Mat fair loves them and he’s not all that much of a sweet-tooth, thanks be.’ Grace smiled. ‘You’ll take a cup, Mrs Fairchild?’

‘Thank you, no.’ Hester made it her habit never to accept tea, rationing being what it was, though in the old days she had dearly loved to call in at Home Farm for a cup and a chat. ‘Oh, dear. Such a state we’re in. No sugar for raspberries; no sugar for anything.’

‘No.’ Grace cast her mind back to peaceful times, and the squirrelling of summer’s goodness, learning to her cost that such ordinary things needed sugar and never would she take those precious white grains for granted again. ‘Do you remember the pantry at Michaelmas? Such an array. Rows and rows of jams and chutneys, jars full of bottled fruit? Such a sight it was …’

‘And now there’s nothing in pantries, nor in the shops, Grace. It took a war to put paid to unemployment, yet there’s nothing to be bought now with a man’s wages. Birthdays aren’t any fun at all.’

What should she give to Polly? What could she give? Not even a tablet of her favourite lavender-scented soap to be had.

‘You’re right.’ Grace nodded mournfully. Being young was no fun these days. A man couldn’t even buy his sweetheart a ring, except one with diamonds in it so small that they were no more than chippings. And as for wedding rings – now they had to be in nine-carat gold, if you please. Seemed wrong, somehow, starting out in marriage with a utility ring costing one pound, nine shillings and sixpence. And what about a bride’s trousseau? One pair of fully-fashioned stockings, two pairs of knickers and a petticoat, with hardly enough clothing coupons left for a nightie. Twenty coupons gone; six months’ allowance and nothing to show for it. And as for wedding dresses with yards and yards of satin in the skirt; well, wedding dresses were downright unpatriotic, now.

Mind, Jonty’s young lady would be all right – if ever he got around to asking one to marry him. Grandma Ramsden’s jewel box had a heavy gold wedding ring in it, aye, and one set with pearls and garnets that any lass would be proud to wear. Sad he’d not be giving it to Roz …

‘Sad,’ she murmured, hastily adding, ‘about the young ones, I mean, and nothing for them to buy …’

‘Sad,’ Hester agreed, recalling Polly’s indignation at having to queue for twenty minutes for a yard – one yard, mark you – of knicker-elastic only yesterday. ‘You know, Grace, since the Japs came into the war, our supply of latex has practically dried up. Most of the rubber-producing countries overrun, now.’ Knickers without elastic? It hardly bore thinking about.

‘Aye.’ It wasn’t the Far East that Grace was so bothered about; it was no further than your own doorstep that you needed to look, she thought grimly. Shops empty and people who’d lost everything in the bombing having to beseech the Board of Trade for dockets just to replace a few essentials, it’s coupons for this and dockets for that and permits for a few yards of curtaining, even, and them taking months and months to come through. My cousin’s girl has a little one who’s grown out of her cot, but can she get a bed for the bairn? Takes time, she’s been told and small comfort that is, with the little one’s feet sticking out at the end.’

‘So we just go on counting our blessings, Grace.’ Hester rose to her feet. ‘And we are luckier than most in these parts. At least we’re safe here, and can sleep nights. Ah, well – must be away.’ She smiled down at the boy who was more interested in his polishing than in the seriousness of rationing and privation. ‘Come and see me soon,’ she whispered, her hand lingering on his untidy shock of hair.

It was lonely, now, at Ridings with Roz hardly ever in. She dreaded the winter with its short days and long, closed-in nights. Some mornings, even in the kindness of summer, she dreaded getting up to face the day. She missed Martin so much, now – perhaps because all at once she’d had to face facts and facts were that Roz was no longer hers. ‘Don’t forget now – if Polly can spare you.’ Such a delight of a boy; such an inquisitive, active mind. A privilege, that’s what a son was and her son – hers and Martin’s – had died in her womb.

‘Mat shall have the rasps for his pudding tonight.’ Grace smiled, holding open the door. ‘It was kind of you to spare the time picking them …’

Time. It was something she had plenty of, Hester thought as she opened the orchard gate. Time to brood, to think, to want Martin as she hadn’t wanted him for years, now. Time to grow old without him, the husband they’d snatched from her.

‘Oh, my dear, how I need you with me now …’

It was the wrong time to see him, that man she had so far avoided; to come face to face with Marco Roselli when she was aching so for Martin, could not have been more wrong. For just the passing of a second she hesitated, off balance, then taking a gasping, steadying breath she walked, stiff-backed, toward the man she would rather never have seen.

He was tall, but then she had known that, yet she was not prepared for his slimness, for the warm, golden-brown of a body stripped to the waist, the thick, dark hair. Nor was she prepared for the slight bow of his head, the smile that was genuine, the whispered, ‘Buon giorno, Signora.’

How could he; how dare he? She clamped her lips tightly, stared at him, through him, then turned her head away as if to shut him out, ignore him, make believe he were not there; not deserving of even a passing glance. One of Martin’s enemies on Martin’s land. She could not prevent him being there; she could not, even, demand that Roz should not work with him, but she, Martin’s wife, need not and would not acknowledge him.

She tilted her chin and, shaking inside, walked on, her breathing uneven. Since January, when he had been forced upon them, she had been careful to avoid him, to go nowhere he might be, yet this morning when she had been totally unprepared for this meeting, they had come face to face in her own orchard. She quickened her step, anxious to be at Ridings, feel the comfort of its walls around her. She needed to be in Martin’s house, needed his nearness; to stand still and quiet so she might hear his voice. Because she did hear it. More and more, now, she felt his presence. All she need do was to stand beside the garden seat and he would walk down the staircase to her.

Her heart had slowed its erratic beating, had steadied to a dull thudding she could feel in her throat, and even as she placed her hand on the door knob she knew she had been wrong. A nod, no matter how slight, an acknowledging of his presence would have cost her nothing and left her with her dignity. Instead, she had over-reacted; had flounced past him like a teenaged girl so that he had had the better of the encounter.

She closed the door behind her, shutting out the morning. She felt calmer, now. She was in her own kitchen, in her own house – the house from which Martin had left the morning of his last leave. She was safe, again.

Filling the kettle, she placed it to boil, dismayed that today was Saturday and Polly would not be here; nothing to do but wait until Roz came home. She looked at the empty cigarette packet on the table, wishing that she smoked, that it hadn’t been considered fast for a woman to be seen with a cigarette between her fingers when she was young. She would have liked to light one now; inhale its smoke deeply as the young ones did. Since the war, almost everyone smoked. It was good for stress, they said, and calming. The young ones needed them.

Taking the empty packet she threw it on the fire, watching the flames take it. When she had had a cup of tea, she would go back to the garden and pick raspberries for Polly, then walk down the drive to the lodge with them. It would help rid her of this unreasonable anger; help allay this awful loneliness.

The pain of Hester’s encounter was still with her when Roz came home at midday. Sighing, she held her cheek for her granddaughter’s kiss, fighting the indignation that struggled to be brought into the open.

‘The prisoner,’ she said much, much too quietly, ‘was in the orchard and I think it has come to something that even on my own land I must put up with such – such intrusions.’

‘Gran?’

‘The Italian, I’m talking about. Impudent as you like he wishes me a good morning – in Italian – then smiles at me as if we’re long-lost friends. I tell you, Roz –’

‘Don’t get upset, Gran – please? So Marco smiled at you? There’s nothing wrong in that, surely? He’s young, Gran, like Kath and Jonty and me. He isn’t exactly enjoying this war and heaven only knows when he’ll see his family again.’

‘Then more fool him for coming here. But I never wanted him at Ridings; I said so at the time and I don’t like to hear you defend him, Rosalind. Not here, in my own home.’

‘All right. I’m sorry.’ Walking over to the sinkstone she began to scrub her hands, eyes down. She didn’t want Marco to be the cause of trouble; especially now when Kath was getting so fond of him. ‘But don’t go on, so. I don’t suppose he wanted to be in the army any more than our own boys wanted to. Don’t stoop to the level of those Helpsley women? It isn’t like you to be so unfair. Marco works very hard, and we – well, we all like him,’ she added, defiantly.

‘You may please yourself, I suppose, though it hurts me to hear you talking like that.’

‘Darling – sit down.’ Gently Roz took her shoulders, guiding her to the table. ‘I’ve only got half an hour and I don’t want to waste it talking about the prisoner. Ready for your soup? Try to eat some – please?’

Carefully, she filled two bowls; without speaking she cut bread. She could do without this upset. She had worries enough of her own.

‘You know, Roz, it’s strange to me that you’ve talked more about the Italian than ever you’ve done about your own young man.’ Hester said it softly, though her eyes were filled with reproach.

‘Paul? But I told you about him.’

‘You told me his name, Roz, and that you might bring him to meet me …’

‘Gran – I will bring him and before much longer, I hope.’ She hadn’t wanted to talk about Paul; not until she brought him home, until she knew it was all right for them. But her grandmother was upset, so she had little choice. ‘I want to bring Paul to meet you when he’s finished his tour of ops – that’s thirty raids over Germany.’ Almost without thinking she had laid stress on those words. ‘I think he’ll be flying tonight or tomorrow, and if he is he’ll only have four more to do and then he’ll be taken off flying for a time.’

There, she’d said it, now. And she hadn’t wanted to; hadn’t meant to say anything about him until she was absolutely sure it was all right.

‘But why wait? Can’t he come soon – tomorrow, Roz? I’d so like it if you’d bring him. Why must it wait?’

‘Because –’ She was crumbling her bread, making a mess on the table top and she couldn’t lift her eyes to face her grandmother fairly and squarely. ‘Because – well, we want to get married when Paul comes off flying, but you won’t let us, will you? You’ll say I’m too young and you’ll forget that you were my age when you and Grandpa got married, that our war is just as awful as yours and –’

She took a deep, despairing breath then forced her head upwards to gaze clearly into her grandmother’s eyes. She’d said it, now. She’d messed it up when she’d been so careful for so long. And all because of Gran’s hatred for an unknown sniper who had waited at the window of a ruined house for the slightest of movements; had lifted his rifle and had squeezed the trigger, gently, gently. ‘Oh, God, can’t you forget your war? Can’t you help me and Paul to fight ours?’ She covered her face with her hands, fighting back tears of sadness and pity and frustration.

‘Roz – darling child – don’t cry.’ Pushing back her chair she gathered her grandchild to her, making little hushing sounds, gently pushing back the hair that fell over her face. ‘Please don’t cry. Do you think me so awful? And how can you be so sure I won’t say yes? Don’t you think the sooner you bring your Paul home, the sooner you’ll know?’

‘Gran – you mean you’d let us?’

‘I mean that I want to meet your young man – talk to him, see for myself what he’s like. You don’t expect me to say yes, until I’ve met him?’

’No. And I don’t know a lot about him myself – only that I love him so very much. I haven’t met his parents, either. They want him to go to university, you see, so he hasn’t said anything to them about me.

‘But Pippa knows about us. She’s his twin – Philippa. She’s a sergeant in the WAAF. They aren’t a bit alike, Paul says. Pippa’s dark, like her father and Paul is fair – very fair – like his mother. He’s nearly twenty-three and he wants to be an architect, like my father was …’

Oh, and Gran, there are things I can’t tell you – not yet – but you must let us get married – you must.

‘Roz, child, it’s all right. All I want is for you to be happy. I only want you to be sure, that’s all. Bring Paul home – soon. And let’s eat our soup. If you don’t fret about Paul, I’ll forget about the – the prisoner and we’ll both calm down and act like grown-up people, shall we?’

‘Okay.’ Roz blew her nose loudly. ‘And you’re right. Of course you must meet Paul, first …’

She picked up her spoon, staring down. She didn’t want the soup; she didn’t want anything. She felt churned up inside and ready to scream. When she wasn’t with Paul she went to pieces, just thinking about things. Only when she was with him could she force herself to believe that things were normal and would turn out right. But for Paul, she would have done anything.

She lifted the spoon to her lips. The soup tasted awful. She wished she could be sick.

‘It was good of you to come up here,’ Roz murmured. ‘Didn’t much fancy waiting it out on my own.’

‘No bother. Didn’t fancy a night in the hostel; most of them have shoved off into York, to a show. Peacock is so quiet it isn’t natural.’

They sat, arms round knees, looking to their left to Alderby, to their right to the aerodrome. The evening sky was bright and cloudless. From here on Tuckets Hill it seemed that if they tried hard they would pick out the spires and towers of the York churches.

‘I knew Paul would be flying tonight. Doesn’t seem right, somehow, going bombing on a Sunday night.’

‘It’s one less to go,’ Kath countered, practically. ‘And the sooner Paul’s off flying the better, as far as I’m concerned.’ The strain was telling, now, on Roz. That darting smile was seldom seen lately, and the mischief had gone from her eyes. ‘And no, if you’re about to ask, there wasn’t a letter there when I got back last night, though I hope he’s all right.’

There had been heavy fighting in North Africa, the BBC news broadcasts had given out soberly, to be followed by more graphic accounts in the daily papers. Rommel was attacking at Mersa Matruh. Mersa Matruh had surrendered. Rommel’s tanks were pushing on to El Alamein. There had been heavy casualties.

She hoped he was all right. Her love for Barney was gone – if love there had ever been – but still she wished him well.

‘Did you know,’ Roz said softly, her eyes fixed on the control tower at the runway end, ‘that Gran came face to face with Marco yesterday, and cut him dead. She was really upset. In the end I started talking about Paul, just to get her mind off the Germans and Italians. I didn’t mean to, Kath. I’ve been playing it close to my chest; fingers crossed, sort of, and not meaning to say anything till Paul knew where he stood. But lately she’s been talking more and more about Grandpa, though I don’t know why. Maybe she’s getting tired of the war.’

‘Aren’t we all – and this is your gran’s second war, remember. But I knew about it – about her and Marco, I mean. Marco told me. He didn’t say a lot; just that she was a formidable lady and he’d keep out of her way in future. I think he was a bit hurt, though.’

‘So would I be.’ Roz pulled a stem of grass then chewed it reflectively. ‘How are things going, by the way, for you and him?’

‘They aren’t, and what’s more they mustn’t.’ Kath narrowed her eyes, staring down at Peddlesbury. ‘You know what we need up here, don’t you? A pair of binoculars or a telescope, or something. We could see better, then. We might even be able to make out which one was Sugar. Mind, if anyone caught us at it we’d get carted off to prison as spies, I shouldn’t wonder – but it’s a thought.’

‘Kath! You’re brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that? We’ve got a pair at home somewhere. Next time, I’ll bring them. But we were talking about you and Marco. Are things really bad?’

‘As bad as they can be, I’d say. D’you know, Roz, ever since I knew I didn’t want to go on living with Barney I feel guilty every time I see Marco – as if it’s because of him that it happened.’

‘And it wasn’t, of course? You’re sure? Would you swear that if you’d never met Marco, things would have been all right between you and Barney?’

‘They wouldn’t. Things started going wrong when I joined the Land Army. If I’m truthful, I suppose it was when I got it into my head that if I didn’t go out and volunteer there and then I’d be trapped for the rest of my life. Trapped? A young married woman shouldn’t have been thinking like that.’

‘Maybe it was Aunty Minnie who was getting you down?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it was Barney and Barney’s mother’s house and Aunt Min, all rolled into one. All I know is that I wanted out; wanted to start again, in the country. I knew, even as I signed on the dotted line, that Barney wouldn’t like it.’

‘And you’ve been proved right. Do you think he’ll let you go, Kath – willingly, I mean?’

‘No, I don’t. Not for one minute. But I wouldn’t ask him for anything – only my clothes and they’re mine, anyway. He could have all I’ve saved. There’s quite a lot in the bank, now; enough to buy him that car he’s always wanted. He’d like that, I know.’

‘And he could take Aunty Minnie out for rides in it.’ Roz laughed, mischief briefly lighting her eyes.

‘He’s welcome to her. Personally, I need Aunt Min like I need a rat up my trouser leg!’

‘Now we’re back to Marco again! Funny how the talk gets round to him, isn’t it?’

Marco, and threshing day, and the rat. Marco holding her wrists, telling her to hang on, the thresher beneath her, banging and turning. Then Marco holding her close, hushing her, telling her it was all right. Even then it had felt good to be near him. Now, she could think of little else.

‘Tell me what you told your gran about Paul?’ she demanded, shutting down her thoughts.

‘I told her we want to get married.’

‘Great! I always said you should be open with her, didn’t I?’

‘I know. But she said she’d have to meet him first. She didn’t say a downright no, though.’

‘She’ll love him, Roz. She’ll fall for him – bet you anything you like she will. So don’t look so miserable. And what’s that, down there? Something’s going on. There’s a couple of little pick-ups on the perimeter track …’

‘Yes. The crew-trucks. They’ll be taking-off soon. Oh, dammit. Wish I’d got those field-glasses with me!’

‘We’ll bring them next time.’ Kath reached for Roz’s hand and it felt cold in her own. ‘Come on, love. Let’s count them out and wish every one of them well? He’s going to be all right, I know he is. And tomorrow night, I think you should take him home. It’s time he and your gran got to know each other – all right?’

‘All right. Except that I forgot to tell you. By tomorrow night we could be on with the first cut of hay. Mat said that as soon as the grass was dry in the morning he was going to open up the Beck Lane field.’

‘Open up? What’s that?’

‘They cut the first hay – and corn, too – by hand with a scythe, to make an opening so the mower can get in. I hope Mat won’t want to go on working till it’s dark – won’t expect you and me to stay too late, Kath.’

‘Wouldn’t know, love. It’ll be my first haytime. And listen! There’s one of them starting up.’

They sat, breath indrawn, and thinly the sound came to them: four engines, warming up. Then there would be more and more until there were close on forty great roaring engines being revved into full-throttled life.

Kath crossed her fingers as the first bomber began its clumsy trundle to take-off point. ‘Good luck,’ she whispered. ‘And next time we’ll be able to see which one is Sugar, won’t we?’

But Roz made no reply. Already her eyes were wide with apprehension, her world fear-filled until she knew Paul was back.

‘He’ll be all right.’ Kath squeezed the hand that lay clenched in her own. ‘He will be. I know it.’

‘Yes, Kath. Funny, but I always had it in my mind that they’d get that tour of ops over with around haytime and it looks as if I’m going to be right.’

‘It does. And didn’t you tell me it was lucky to see a load of hay – that it was good for a wish? Think of all the loads of hay we’ll be seeing – all the wishes?’

Wish on a load of hay. Like the first swallow and the first cuckoo-call, hay was lucky.

And she would be wishing, Roz thought as the first green light flashed out from the control tower. She wished a lot these days and always, always for the same thing.

‘Take care, Paul,’ she whispered. ‘Come back safely.’