Monday dawned misty, and by mid-morning a drizzle had set in.

“Good for the flowers,” said Da, standing back to scrutinize the May Queen’s cart. It was his job to drive it at the head of the parade. “I’ll put some blossom in my cap, shall I?”

Frank was leaning against the gatepost, scowling. “They’ll never come and make a moving picture in this weather,” he said. “Just when we had a chance to do something interesting, bloody Welsh weather goes and spoils it.”

“You watch your tongue, Frank,” said Da. He looked down at his muddy boots. “It’ll be a while yet before it lets up, though. You girls had better watch your good shoes.”

I was not sure I even wanted to wear my good shoes, or my best dress. Like Frank, I had been excited at the prospect of film-makers in the village. If they were not going to come, I wondered if I might put on my coat and boots, and keep dry. “Florence is going to need an umbrella,” I told Da gloomily. “You’d better put some blossom on that, too.”

“Cheer up, girl!” He slapped me lightly on the back. “At least you’re not going to be up there in the rain in a thin dress! Maybe next year, eh?”

But by midday the rain had stopped, though the sky remained blank and greyish-white. I put on my dress and shoes, and my new hat. My reflection showed how narrow the close-fitting cloche hat made my face, and how large my eyes looked beneath its brim. I combed out some curls in front of my ears, but that made me look like a girl with side whiskers, so I tucked them back in. I touched my lips with the precious lipstick I had saved for and bought at the chemist in Aberaeron, then twisted it back down into its brass tube and stood back. There was little else I could do to make myself look more alluring; my dress was as fashionable as the pattern Mam had made it from would allow, my stockings were silk, my shoes, though second-hand, were not very worn, and newly polished. I thought I looked all right.

The street was full of puddles. I picked my way between them, my excitement growing. Men were setting up tables for the May Day supper, women were bringing baskets of food, children scampered everywhere, shrieking and getting in the way. There was no sign of Flo or her attendants, but I saw Mary Trease standing by the pump and waved to her. She smiled and came towards me, clutching her handbag. Her dress, of a pale lemon, silky material, fluttered around her knees.

“You look nice, Mary!” I told her. “What a pretty dress!”

“It belongs to my cousin down in Cardiff,” she confessed. “But she’s got lots of dresses. Sarah, do you think they’ll come?”

“The film people? I hope so!”

“Let’s you and I go and watch for them, shall we?”