SEVEN

‘I’ll be off, then,’ Rosamund said as normally as she was able. As if, she thought, going to Laceby on a Saturday night was run of the mill. She paused briefly at the door, expecting a protest from her mother, or a warning to be back before bedtime and to think on what she was about. But only her father spoke.

‘’Night, lass. Take care, in the dark.’

‘There’s still a moon. I’ll be fine …’

She tried to smile, but her mouth was stiff because she had thought that the worst moment would be walking out through the barrier of her mother’s disapproval. But it wasn’t. Since last night, there were far worse things to contend with.

The worrying had begun when she’d awakened without reason, to lie unmoving and tense for several minutes. All had been still; silence hanging over the house like a blanket. She lit the candle, blinking the face of her watch into focus: half-past two.

She burrowed beneath the clothes again, all at once alert, calculating that the bombers had been gone for more than eight hours. She wished she knew the flying speed of a Lancaster. She must ask Jon. You could ask a lot, say a lot, in three long, lovely hours.

She closed her eyes to remember the feel of his arms, his smile, the wayward lock of hair, his lips; the way the little pulse behind her nose began its fluttering when he whispered that he loved her. She had stretched her body languidly, sensuously, needing his nearness, turning her head on the pillow to smile as if he were beside her.

It was then the dog began its howling. Shep had heard the bombers, and soon she would hear them, too. All at once apprehensive, she had blown out the candle, then wrapped the eiderdown around her, feeling with a toe for her slippers. Pulling aside the curtains, she opened the window. Soon, she would see the distant glow of the flarepath lights. Twelve Lancasters had taken off …

Twelve, she thought miserably now as she wheeled her cycle down the dirt road. And eleven had come back.

Ten landed in fairly quick succession then, much later, another bomber circled and landed. She was beginning to will and wish the last one home when the runway lights went out. A cold gust of air hit her face and she had shut the window, hurrying into bed, hugging herself into a ball.

One of our aircraft is missing. In her mind she’d heard the controlled voice of the newsreader as if she were downstairs and it was nine o’clock. One Lancaster from Laceby, which wasn’t expected, because the runway lights had been turned off.

She had tried to imagine the huge blackboard in the film about a Wellington bomber. Everyone had been to see Target For Tonight; had flown with that crew, sat in the smoke-filled gloom of the picture house and willed them a safe landing.

There were people in the control tower in that film, and in the operations room, talking the wounded Wellington back, watching triumphantly as the aircraft’s number and the name of its pilot were written on the blackboard as it landed.

It would be like that now in Laceby’s operations room she’d thought. There would be Waafs standing round the plot and the controller sitting in front of another huge blackboard and a man – or maybe a woman – standing ready with a piece of chalk. But she wouldn’t write in the plane and the pilot because one of their Lancasters had not come back.

God! Listen! Not Jon? Please not Jon?

Yet why should it be Jon? It had happened to someone else; some other pilot’s plane was missing, not his. Matilda Mint had flown with J-Johnnie. How could it be Jon? She had lain cold and wide awake and there had been a pain in the pit of her stomach as if she hadn’t eaten for days.

She pulled back her thoughts to here and now, turning on her front and rear lights with stubborn defiance, telling herself that Jon would be there, exactly like last week, only this time she would not bump into him because tonight there was a moon. And they would kiss as he helped her into the back of the transport and she would wonder why she had spent the entire day in misery.

She began to pedal furiously.

‘I’ve left my bike round the back, Mrs Drake; is that all right?’

‘Of course it is. Come in do. You look frozen. Bessie’s upstairs, doing herself up. Sit by the fire and tell me the news.’

‘What news? Nothing ever happens at Laburnum. We had a heifer calf the other day and the sow aborted her litter. Oh, and sometimes a Lancaster flies over a bit too low, and Mum goes mad. She hates having the aerodrome so near.’

‘Talking about the aerodrome – and we can, ’cause Bessie’s dad is out – I hope you realize there’d be ructions if he ever found out about the dance!’

‘There’d be ructions at home, too, only it would be Dad who’d be all right about it, and Mum who’d hit the roof. Yet you don’t mind, Mrs Drake.’

‘I can’t say I approve, exactly, but Bessie knows right from wrong.’ She tapped her nose with a forefinger. ‘And it isn’t a lot of fun growing up in a war. I did, so I know what I’m talking about.’

‘It’s good of you to be so understanding. You’ll never let it slip that I went to the dance, will you?’

‘Course I won’t. And you’ll mind what I told Bessie, won’t you, Rosamund? Never do anything you’d be ashamed to tell your parents about – like that sort of thing!’

‘Oooh, I wouldn’t! And Bessie wouldn’t either!’

I tell lies too, Mrs Drake, because it’s all I’ve ever thought about since Jon kissed me.

‘That’s all right, then! Bessie’s dad is inclined to be strict, see, her being a girl. I’ve told him many a time that he’ll drive the devil into the lass, not out of her, if he doesn’t stop acting like a Victorian father! Bessie said you’d met a lovely young man.’

‘Mm. He’s a pilot – Jon Hunt. And it’s marvellous to be able to talk about him. At home, I’ve got to watch every word I say. I slip out for a few minutes at night to be with him.’

‘Then the pair of you must have got it bad! Are you sure you can’t tell your mother about him, Rosamund? Creeping out like you’re doing something wrong doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.’

‘I’m sure. Mum would tie me to the table leg if she found out about him.’

‘Now I wonder why? I got the impression he was a wellspoken young man – educated too.’

‘He is, but Mum says it’s stupid to get fond of someone when there’s a war on because something might happen to him – you know …?’

‘Yes, I do know. And I can understand some of the crews at the aerodrome wanting to have fun whilst they can – do a bit of living. There’s more than a grain of sense in what your mother says.’

‘Sense doesn’t come into it as far as I’m concerned. I can’t stop thinking about him.’

‘Then in that case, Rosamund, remember what I just told you! Don’t do anything you might regret. Count to ten, think on!’

Rosamund was spared the red-cheeked embarrassment of a reply by the arrival of Bessie, curled and quiffed and powdered.

‘Hi! Will I do?’

‘You look great, Bess!’

‘I still think that skirt’s too short,’ Mrs Drake sniffed.

‘Are we ready, then? Best be a bit early. We don’t want to be left behind, do we? And how are you going to get home, Rosamund?’

‘My bike’s round the back. Jon said he’d borrow one from the ’drome, and ride with me.’

‘So how can he do that, eejit? It’s going to be no end of a bother, shoving a bike over the fields in the dark, hadn’t you thought?’

‘We-e-ll …’ She hadn’t thought!

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, he’d better have mine! That’s all right, isn’t it, Mum?’

‘Course it is. He can leave it in the wash house on the way back. Tell him not to make a noise, though.’

‘Good! That’s settled. Let’s be off!’ Bessie kissed her mother soundly. ‘Won’t be late, Mum!’

‘You better hadn’t be! I want you in before your dad gets back from the pub. No later than half-past ten, don’t forget!’

‘It’s exciting, isn’t it – knowing we might get caught, I mean!’ Tonight the sky was clear, and they could make out the outlines of walls and lampposts.

‘No it isn’t! And, Bess, they were flying, last night.’

‘Yes. It was Berlin. It said so on the news.’

‘One of Laceby’s lot didn’t come back. I counted.’

‘Oh, my Lor’! You’re sure? Could you have missed one? Maybe two of them landed together.’

‘That’s one thing they don’t do! They aren’t Spitfires!’

‘OK! Don’t get shirty! And why should it be Jon’s plane? It’s twelve to one against that it isn’t! Jon’ll be with the transport when it arrives; bet you anything you like he will!’

But Sergeant Jon Hunt was not with the transport that pulled up outside Laceby Green Parish hall. A corporal jumped down, calling, ‘Anyone for the love bus?’ at the top of his voice, and to get on board sharpish, if they didn’t mind!

‘Where’s Sergeant Hunt tonight?’ Bessie demanded of the man with two stripes on his arm.

‘Never heard of him! All I know is that Flight told me to collect the bints, and that’s what I’m doing!! Now do you want a hand up, or don’t you?’

They said they did, and the corporal pointed his flashlight towards empty spaces in the far corner of the truck. Last week there had been seven girls for the dance; this week, Bessie thought dully, the transport was almost full. Word had got around about the free dance where men outnumbered women by three to one. Well, they’d better keep their hands off Mick!

‘What’ll we do, if …?’ Rosamund left the question hanging in the air.

‘If they don’t show we’ll leave pretty damn quick, because Mick won’t be there either. How’ll I find a partner with all this lot there!’

‘We aren’t talking about dancing,’ Rosamund hissed, not caring who heard her. ‘It’s Jon, and it’s serious!’

‘But we don’t know yet, do we? Bet you anything you like it wasn’t J-Johnnie!’

‘Women for the aircrew dance!’ yelled the corporal when they stopped at the guardroom.

‘How many?’

‘Gawd knows! About twenty!’

The red and white pole lifted and they lurched past, driving more slowly, skirting tall buildings and hangars. Then the truck stopped abruptly, throwing everyone inside sprawling.

He was doing it on purpose, Rosamund thought. The corporal was a nasty little man. She had taken a dislike to him the minute she’d set eyes on his two stripes, though probably it was because she had expected to see Jon there like last week. She took the hands that were offered, then jumped to the ground. She could see the rounded roof of the Nissen hut and stood rooted, staring at it.

‘Bess! I’m going to be sick!’

‘Don’t dare! Sick smells awful!’

‘But I can’t go in there, I can’t! I couldn’t bear it if –’

‘Rosie …?’

Hands reached for her, arms cradled her, pulled her close.

‘Jon! I thought – oh, darling, you’re all right!’ She began to shake and the words she wanted to say got mixed up with a choke of tears. ‘When you weren’t with the transport, I thought it was true!’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The bomber that didn’t come back! I thought – I was sure –’

‘It was J-Johnnie?’

‘Yes. I don’t know why, but I was so certain – just having found you, I mean. But I shouldn’t be glad, should I, that it’s someone else?’

‘It was B-Bertie, Steve Grafton’s Lanc.’

‘It’s all wrong, isn’t it? Here’s me, cockeyed with relief, yet some poor woman is going to get a telegram soon.’

‘Not quite! She’ll likely get a phone call from him. He’s all right; made an emergency landing down south. Hydraulics got shot up; the undercarriage wouldn’t go down. The plane’s a write-off, but the crew got out with only a broken arm and cuts and bruises between them! Mind, they’ll be a bit shaken, now it’s finally sunk in how close they came to getting the chop.’

‘Has anything like that ever happened to you, Jon?’

‘No, thank God. Pancaking is a dicey business! So do you want to go in or stay out here?’

‘Both! Kiss me, please. We’re wasting time!’

‘Talking about time,’ he said, many kisses later, ‘I’ve got a bike. Saw one outside the admin block so I took it and hid it behind the hut.’

‘Yes, but Bessie pointed out that we’ll have to short-cut across the fields to Laceby. A bike is going to be a bit of a nuisance.’

‘I’ll manage. I want to see you home!’

‘And you will. It’s all arranged. We’ll do a quick nip across the fields to Bessie’s. You can borrow her bike – as long as you put it back quietly.’

‘Great! So let’s go inside. I want to look at you – properly.’

‘It was Berlin last night, wasn’t it?’ she asked as they danced. ‘Was it awful?’

‘Bloody awful! I’ve never done Berlin, though I knew it was a nasty run; thick with flack and fighters. But I hadn’t reckoned at them coming at us from all sides! I tell you, darling, after last night nothing can be as bad again! If you can survive Berlin, you can survive anything! I reckon the gods love me!’

‘I love you, too,’ she said slowly, not caring that anyone looking at them could read the words. She wanted the whole place to know. Watch my lips! Rosie Kenton and Jon Hunt are in love! She was crazily, dizzily happy. She wanted to laugh out loud because it had all come right again. ‘Do you know how much I love you?’ she whispered, lips close to his ear.

‘I’m willing to be shown,’ he smiled. ‘Let’s go outside? And this time, don’t forget your coat!’

Neither minded leaving the hot, crowded hut, where cigarette smoke hung in drifts against the corrugated roof; where the band played lustily and the laughter was loud and too high.

They left the aerodrome, slipping beneath an unguarded fence to the fields beyond. The moon was higher now, and threw long shadows across their path. They stumbled over tussocky grass, paused to kiss, to touch. The still night was cold and bright and very beautiful.

‘Ride with me as far as six oaks,’ she whispered, as they crept out of Bessie’s back yard with the bicycles. ‘I’ll be all right from there.’

‘Where is six oaks?’

‘Just a little way from our lane end.’

‘I’ll take you all the way; see you in.’

‘Shep might bark, Jon.’

‘I shall see you to the gate,’ he insisted, so she giggled and said she adored him when he was bossy. It was all she could think of to say, because she was high-as-a-kite happy, and desperately in love.

They stopped at six oaks because they hadn’t kissed or touched for an eternity and because she wanted the clump of trees to be one more place that was special.

‘Next Saturday, we won’t be able to see the oaks. There’ll be no light at all. It’ll be the dark of the moon. That’s when witches work – at moon-dark.’

‘Idiot!’ He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘No one believes in witches!’

‘If you live around these parts you do! A witch lived at Laburnum Farm. Margaret Dacre. She and her husband built it in 1592, though it was called Wolfen Place then. She practised witchcraft, so legend has it, but was never caught. There isn’t even a mention of her in any of the accounts of the Pendle Witches. I think she must have had friends in high places!’

‘And you believe it, Rosie?’

‘Why not? It isn’t everyone can say they live in a witch’s house! But we’d better hurry. It was just that I wanted to kiss you at six oaks, so that every time I pass there and you aren’t with me, I can close my eyes and pretend you are.’

‘Tomorrow night, sweetheart?’ They were standing at the rusty gate. ‘At nine?’

‘Am I truly worth all the bother?’

‘Yes. And more.’

‘I’ll have to go now. See you, Jon. Take care.’

They kissed hurriedly because they were parting, and such kisses are sad kisses, and best over quickly. The gate creaked as she pushed it aside. Distantly, Shep barked a warning, and she ran down the narrow path to the yard gate.

‘Hush, Shep. It’s only me!’

Her mother looked unspeaking at the mantel clock when she got in.

Her father said, ‘Hullo, love. Mum’s just going to make a drink. Want one?’

‘Please. But I’ll see to it.’

‘Had a nice time, then?’

‘It made a change, Dad. We listened to the wireless, and talked.’

‘Make my cocoa with milk, will you?’ Tight-lipped, as if it hurt, Mildred Kenton broke her silence.

‘Milky cocoa for three it is!’

Don’t make a noise, Jon, when you take the bike back Already, in the loveless chill of Laburnum kitchen, she was missing him. Take care. See you tomorrow. And tomorrow, and tomorrow …

The shortest day came and went. Winter was half over. From 22 December, Rosamund thought, the days would start to get longer. Blackout curtains were drawn at five o’clock, and remained drawn until half-past eight next morning. Mind, if They hadn’t been messing around with the hour, it would have been an hour earlier, in both cases. In winter, because of daylight saving, clocks were at summertime; in summer they were at double-summertime, and two hours ahead. Bart Kenton did not agree with it; nor did his dairy herd. It was interfering with nature, and the milk yield went down for at least a week whenever They altered the clocks.

To which Mildred replied, ‘Nonsense!’ arguing that it didn’t affect the herd at all! Cows didn’t know there was a war on; nor could they tell the time. Her parents, Rosamund sighed, never agreed on anything these days, except perhaps that the Allies were going to win the war. Even so, they disagreed about when!

Sufficient to know that Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin had met in Tehran to make plans for another landing. Italy apart, they had agreed on a second front, though where and when was the deepest secret.

Newspapers lifted spirits by speculating upon the timing of the second front, and where the Allies would land. On the Dutch coast some said or Cherbourg or Calais or, more appropriately, why not at Dunkirk? Amazingly the Ministry of Information did nothing to censor those meanderings, since they could only serve to irritate an enemy already in the freezing deeps of another Russian winter.

Some still tuned in to Lord Haw-Haw, who passed on ugly little Goebbels’ rantings about the secret weapon that would bring the British to their knees. But people only laughed, demanding to know why, if it existed, it wasn’t being used on the Russian Front, where the German army seemed in desperate need of it.

‘Steady, now.’ Rosamund tightened her knees on the pail as the cow kicked out peevishly. ‘Steady, girl …’

She cleared her head of all thoughts of last night. Milking was monotonous; making it easy to let her mind wander, and she often gave way to fantasies or recalled words spoken between them.

This afternoon, though, she tried to push Jon from her mind because now he would be miles away on a crowded, dimly lit train; going home to Primrose Cottage, Lower Sellow, to where his aunt had removed herself in 1941, for two reasons: the lease on her flat had run out and, more importantly, London was being bombed, though why she had lighted upon faraway Cheshire was still a mystery.

Jon was elated about his leave at first. Jammy, he’d called himself, landing ten days at Christmas; probably because he had just flown his thirteenth op and thirteen, come to think of it, had always been lucky for him!

‘You should be coming with me.’ He was all at once serious. ‘It’s time you and Aunt Lottie met.’

‘You know I can’t!’

‘Couldn’t you manage a weekend even? No, you couldn’t,’ he said flatly when she didn’t speak. ‘Hell! What a mess!’

‘I’m sorry, Jon. I’m making a fool of you, aren’t I? Why did you get yourself tangled up with someone like me? You could have any girl you wanted, yet –’

‘Rosie! You know why we got ourselves tangled up – because we were meant to! Just think that in the whole of Lancashire in a fog in the blackout, it’s you I bump into! And as for having any girl I wanted – why bother, when I’ve found her? But it will come right for us!’

‘It’s got to, Jon. We’ll just have to be patient, that’s all.’

‘No! When you want someone as much as I want you, patience doesn’t come into it! It’s all of seven weeks, and still we’re no further forward. I want you like crazy, Rosie, want to have you the right and decent way. For Pete’s sake, how long have I got, will you tell me?’

‘What do you mean – got? Got to wait? Listen! I don’t want to wait either. We’ll be lovers, Jon. That’s enough for me!’

‘But when, because I was talking about living, not waiting!’

‘All right, then! Now, if you want!’

‘Hell, girl, it can’t be turned on to order! There’s such a thing as being in the mood – both at the same time! But we can’t either of us relax! We’re snatching all the time: ten minutes here at your gate; a few hours at the dance. You should be coming with me to Cheshire!’

‘I know! In the normal course of events I should be but I’m not normal, am I?’

He heard the tears in her voice and pulled her closer, settling his cheek on her head, hushing her.

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. The last thing I want is to make you cry. But I want us to be married. We can’t go on like this! When I get back from leave I’m going to see your folks!’

‘Jon! We’ve known each other six weeks and four days! They’ll say we don’t know enough about each other! Love at first sight? They’ll say there’s no such thing! Lust, more like!’

‘But there is such a thing! I fell in love with your voice in the darkness, and then I saw you, and it all clicked into place. I thought: Hell! It’s her! The one! Love at first sight, Rosie, and lust, too, because before I’d even danced with you, I’d stripped you naked with my eyes and wanted what I saw! So either they let you marry me, or –’

‘Or we’ll be lovers. We agreed we would, ages ago.’

‘I want to call you wife. I want it to be all above board.’

‘And if it can’t be, Jon?’

‘Then it’ll have to be a hole-in-the-corner affair – finding somewhere to go; me making a tart of you, putting you at risk!’

‘But aren’t there ways and means …?’

‘Of being careful? Oh, you wouldn’t have to worry, Rosie. You get all that guff dinned into you when you join up. They call them hygiene lectures, but what it all boils down to is making sure you don’t catch something nasty and not getting the lady pregnant at the same time! Hell! I’m sorry, darling. How can you know about such things?’

‘I know about VD, Jon. We talked about it at school. But why are we going on like this? Tomorrow you’ll be on leave and I won’t see you for ten days! I’ll be so miserable I’ll have to keep telling myself that at least you’ll not be flying!’

‘Sorry. I’m being selfish, aren’t I? But I get het up, sometimes –’

‘And do you think I don’t?’

When they were apart, she longed for his touch, his kiss; when they were together kisses were not enough. She wanted him, yet she was afraid of the moment when he would take her, because she would get it wrong or do something stupid. She wanted to be with him always, yet there were times when need of him was so like a pain inside her that she wished they had never met.

‘Don’t be sad, Rosie. It’s all going to come right for us because I’ll make it! The minute I get back from leave I’m going to knock on your front door and introduce myself!’

‘No, darling. Let me tell them first; prepare them. I’ll do it before you get back – promise I will!’

‘On my life do you promise?’

‘Jon Hunt! Never say a thing like that! I won’t promise anything on your life! I just give you my word that I will!’ She reached up to kiss him. ‘I’ll tell Dad first. If only one of them will listen to reason, it’ll be him. Dad’s our best hope …’

‘Rosamund? Are you all right?’

Her father, crashing into her thoughts.

‘Of course I am. Why do you ask?’

‘Because you were miles away. I thought you’d dropped off. You’ve milked that cow dry.’

‘Sorry, Dad. I was miles away. Can we talk do you think – just you and me?’ It had to be now! If she left it any longer her courage would fail her! ‘It’s you especially I want to talk to – not Mum.’

‘Secrets, is it? Mum’s birthday …?’

‘N-No. More serious …’

‘I see. Then can it wait? Happen we can have our talk whilst we’re mucking out.’

‘Fine, Dad.’ But it wasn’t fine! The moment had gone! It had had to be then; that very moment when the words were there, ready to tumble off her tongue. Yet now she must wait to tell her father of her love for Jon whilst the shippon floor was awash with cow muck and the stink was awful; tell him of something precious and special and golden on a freezing morning when her nose was red and drippy and a wind straight from Siberia blew through the window slats! ‘It’s just that I keep wondering why we have to be different from everyone else. And why don’t I have any grandparents?’

It came out in a rush because it was the only thing she could think of to say, and she closed her eyes briefly, and begged Jon’s forgiveness.

‘Aah! Now, all at once, you ask?’

‘Not all at once, Dad. I’ve often wondered.’ She had. She wasn’t telling lies.

‘Then like I said, we’ll talk about it – after …’

‘OK.’ Eyes downcast, she carried her pail to the dairy, emptying milk into the cooler, miserable that she hadn’t been able to do it; glad she hadn’t promised on Jon’s life. She shivered, then settled herself beside the oldest cow in the herd. ‘You take the heifer, will you, Dad?’

Best leave the newly calved young cow to her father. His hands were gentler than her own, his patience infinite. It being a first calf, the heifer had only now joined the milking herd and hadn’t been given a name, yet, nor a number in the herd book.

‘We’ll have to settle on a name for her,’ her father called from two stalls down. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Not at the moment. I’ll think of something …’

Later, that was. When her mind was calmer and tears weren’t there in her throat, needing to be shed.

‘Now then – what’s all this about grandparents?’ her father said as they cleaned the shippon.

‘I just wondered, that’s all. It seems silly, even if they aren’t alive, not knowing what their names were.’

She glanced sideways to see her father stick his empty pipe between his teeth.

‘It’s no great shakes, Dad.’ The pipe had warned her to go carefully. ‘It’s just that I’ve often meant to ask …’

‘And you had every right to wonder – especially on your birthdays and at Christmas.’

He laughed briefly, though his eyes were still sad. And guarded now.

‘It wasn’t anything to do with getting presents. That was the last thing I thought about.’

It really was. Absent grandparents had long since ceased to bother her. Until this moment, that was, when she’d blurted out the first thing that came into her mind. Ships, shoes, sealing wax. Did it matter what else they talked about?

‘But why do you ask now, Rosamund? Why is it suddenly important?’

‘I really don’t know.’ Liar!

When she was very little, she had accepted that some children had grandparents; some did not. Yet by the time she was old enough to realize that everyone had to have grandparents, she was old enough to have worked out that there was some reason why she hadn’t been told about hers.

Sometimes she had thought – in her imaginings, of course – that it was because her maternal grandfather had been in prison, or that her grandmother secretly drank gin.

Dad’s parents she had dealt with more kindly because they were obviously good souls, as was her father. Good, but simple and not half posh enough to figure in her mother’s plans. So, for her sins, she had asked nothing, because even as a child she had known how far she could go; how deeply she could delve.

‘I had always meant to tell you, lass, but I kept putting it off.’

‘Why?’ Had she really needed to know, when she seemed to have managed perfectly well without grandparents? Did she need to know now?

‘Because of the way things were; just you and mum and me. A family, I suppose, up against it and too proud to admit it – we-e-ll – admit it to your mother’s parents, that was.’

‘Admit what? Did you have to get married or something?’

‘No. Nothing like that. But your mother had squandered her inheritance; they made it quite plain!’

‘Squandered? She bought this beautiful house with it!’

‘I’ll grant you that, lass. But every penny she came into went to buy it, and farming was in the doldrums in those days. A bad move, they thought, and I got the impression they wanted more of a hand in things; a say in where the money went.’

‘But it was Mum’s money! Did they want to get their hands on it or something?’

‘Between you and me, I fancy they did – or a hand in the spending. And I fancy they thought she’d married beneath her because I was only a herdsman. Anyway, one day there was a right old row and things got worse. Soon, your grandma stopped visiting. You couldn’t blame her because after the big row your mum didn’t even ask her in if she called.’

He looked down at the pipe in his hand as if he were considering whether or not to put it in his mouth again, but Rosamund knew it was because he didn’t want to look at her.

‘So they fell out? But lots of families have rows. Why didn’t one of them apologize?’

‘Because Milly had no intention of climbing down! She’d never been over fond of either parent, it seems. They expected her to live her life as they thought fit, and marrying a labourer when she could have flaunted her inheritance and taken her pick from half Skipton wasn’t what they’d intended.’

‘Yet Mum tells me what to do – when I shall find myself a young man and settle down, and when I’m to be allowed to go out!’ The shippon floor and the dairy were finished. Soon, their time would have run out, because supper was always at six. ‘But what about your parents, Dad? Didn’t Mum want them around either?’

‘Mine weren’t a lot of trouble. My mother died when I was young and there were six bairns to rear. My father soon got wed again – you couldn’t blame him – and I got myself a living-in job on a farm as soon as I left school. Better, that way. I wasn’t over fond of my stepmother.’

‘You had brothers and sisters?’ She turned abruptly away, making great play of hanging buckets on hooks and cleaning the shovels, all at once bewildered because somewhere there must be aunts and uncles and cousins – lots of them! ‘Why didn’t you keep in touch?’

‘Because we’d bought Laburnum and had to work from morning till night just to keep our heads above water. And because your mother wanted to be left alone to sink or to swim. The farm and you and me were all she wanted, she always said.’

‘In that order?’

‘Sometimes I had reason to think,’ he said so softly that it sounded like an apology, ‘that that was the way it was – is.’

‘Dad! What a way to live!’ She blew out the lamps, then linked her arm into his in the darkness. ‘Mum can’t keep the world out, nor the war either! And all these years she’s been so busy keeping herself to herself that she won’t even go into Laceby unless she’s got to. She knows people there think she’s stuck up, especially now that farmers are making a lot of money because of the war! After Laburnum, all that seems to matter is her religion.’

‘I knew your mother was a devout Methodist when I wed her,’ Bart corrected softly. ‘I went into it with my eyes open and I’ve had no cause to complain. And, Rosamund,’ gently he removed her arm as they neared the house, ‘there’s no need to mention our little talk, eh? Your mother has a lot on her mind. Wars upset women. They don’t like rearing bairns, then having them taken away to fight.’

‘But I’m still at home! Mrs Drake has two sons away, yet she doesn’t make people miserable because of it!’

‘Aye, though happen you’d best not talk overmuch about the Drakes either!’

‘Because Mum doesn’t want them intruding into our lives, nor Bessie influencing me? She doesn’t want me to know what a normal family is like! But don’t worry, I won’t talk about grandparents nor the Drakes – at least not in front of Mum.’ She reached up to brush her lips against his cheek. ‘Though I can’t begin to understand why we’ve got to live like this.’

‘Nor me, Rosamund. Reckon it’s best that we count our blessings, though, from time to time; try to understand that what your mother does is out of thought for her family – for you and me.’

He opened the kitchen door and motioned with his hand for her to walk through ahead of him. He did it firmly, as if to tell her that what they had talked about was over and done with; as if it had been brought out from a dim, secret place, dusted, then pushed back again. But it wouldn’t be like that when she told him about Jon, because tomorrow she would be done with dithering and come right out with it! She would have the words ready!

I want to tell you about Jon Hunt, Dad. He flies one of the bombers, at Laceby. I’ve been meeting him whenever I could, and we want to be married!

And when he had told her mother, which he would have to do, there would be no going back, no being swayed by the anger, the pleading, the disbelief. If they said she couldn’t marry him, then she and Jon would be lovers, make their own marriage, because once it was all out in the open, not even Dad dare be on her side.

‘Aaaaah …’ Jon Hunt sighed with pure pleasure. Ten days at home and not a uniform in sight!

Fireglow lit the room, warming every picture, every piece of brass and copper it touched. The saggy chair in which he sprawled moulded itself to his body, made him want to spend the remainder of hostilities in this higgledy-piggledy little house; never shift his behind until Hitler had surrendered. Unconditionally surrendered. It went without saying, though he probably wouldn’t be around to see it. He had long ago admitted it was pushing his luck to think that J-Johnnie would still be flying at the end of the war. Right from that first terrifying raid over Bremen he had accepted that the euphoria of putting up his wings was over, and that now it was him against them; doing his damnedest not to go for a Burton. Thirty ops was what he must aim for. Some crews got away with it, with a whole lot of luck.

‘Asleep?’

‘No. Just being thoroughly lazy and enjoying the quiet.’

‘You had a very peculiar look on your face.’

‘Probably because I was thinking that I’ve done almost half a tour of ops.’

‘And that’s good?’

‘It’s a heck of a lot more than some bods do.’

‘It isn’t right!’ Charlotte Martin flopped into the chair opposite, holding her hands to the fire. ‘Once you’d finished university, it should have been plain sailing. All things being equal, you should be sowing your wild oats now; not flying damn great bombers!’

‘And what do you know about wild oats, Aunt Lottie?’

‘Enough! I’m a hard-headed journalist, don’t forget. You and I wouldn’t have survived, if I hadn’t been!’

‘And you’re managing all right?’

‘Sure. I sell my fair share of articles; still got a few friends in Fleet Street – and the column I do for the local paper butters the bread. But what I really want is to write novels – when the war is over, that is, and things get back to normal.’

When things get back to normal. When you can buy as much meat as you can eat. When the shops have things to sell again. When people made a bonfire of their blackout curtains. Phrases said so often they had become clichés.

‘What kind of a novel? Romance?’

‘No. I’m more of a thriller writer, I think.’ She reached to pick a sheet of paper from the floor. ‘Writing a letter?’

‘No, but be my guest. Read it.’

‘You’re sure?’ She put on her glasses. ‘Things You Should Know. What on earth is it meant to be?’

‘Just what it says!’ He was teasing her with his eyes, laughing. ‘It’s for Rosie.’

‘And who is Rosie?’ The sheet of paper was laid aside.

‘She’s my girl. I intended telling you. I was doing a potted history of my life for her. There’s so much about each other we don’t know, you see, and we get so little time together. So I said I’d write it all down. Stupid of me, I suppose …’

‘So tell me about her, Jon?’

‘She’s called Rosamund Kenton. Their farm is on the other side of the boundary fence at the aerodrome. Trouble is, her folks are very strict; she can’t let them know about me.’

‘Well, that’s a fine romance, if you like!’

‘You can say that again! She manages to get to the aerodrome dance, and we meet for a few minutes at night when I’m not flying. I’m hoping things will be better once the light nights come and she’s allowed out more.’

‘Allowed out? How old is she then?’

‘Nineteen – in June …’

‘Going on nineteen, and she can’t get out! Don’t her folks know she’s old enough to be called up into the Armed Forces?’

‘She’s reserved. She works on the farm – got exemption when she registered. But she’s going to tell them about me – tell her father, anyway. He’s more likely to be on our side than her mother is.’

‘And will she tell them, do you think?’

‘I’ve told her if she doesn’t, I’m going to knock on the front door, introduce myself, then tell them I want to marry their daughter! It’s a fine old mess, isn’t it?’

‘Hey! Chin up!’ He sounded so forlorn that she went to sit on the arm of his chair, pulling him close as she had done when he was a small boy. ‘I’m on your side too! There’s a war on; things change! You are considered old enough to have command of six crew and a deadly bomber, and your Rosie is old enough to do war work. Why doesn’t she put her foot down, stick up for herself a bit?’

‘She does. She got as far as telling her parents she wanted to go out Saturday nights, though if they knew she was meeting me they’d put a stop to it. Well, her mother would …’

‘So you’ll both have to go carefully – be patient.’

‘Patient, Aunt Lottie! So how long do you think we’ve got – I’ve got? Like I said, I’ve done thirteen ops, but the next one might be –’

‘Stop it! Don’t dare say that! I won’t have it!’

‘It’s a fact of life, though! Rosie and I collided in the blackout and I thought she was going to the aerodrome dance, so I helped her onto the transport. Only she was going to a beetle drive in the parish hall! Reckon we were meant to meet.’

‘And how long has it been going on?’

‘Since early November, and I can’t get her out of my mind. Even when I’m flying she’s there.’

‘Less than a couple of months. Can you both be sure you want to marry?’

‘Yes. That night we met – when we danced – I was already wondering what it would be like to make love to her.’

‘Then let’s hope you both don’t get curious at the same time!’

‘I’m hoping we do; so is she. Do you think we’re mad?’

‘Why should I? Just because I’m an old spinster doesn’t mean I don’t know what it’s like to be in love in wartime!’

‘Were you and Guy lovers, Aunt Lottie?’

‘No, but I wish we had been! And don’t think we didn’t want to, because we did! We didn’t get around to it, though.’

‘Because he might have been killed and you might have been left holding the baby?’

‘He was killed, so we never knew – not even once. I wish we had and that I’d got pregnant! Oh, people would have pointed the finger, called me a slut and a tart, but at least I’d have had something of him left! And I’d have kept the baby too. I wouldn’t have let them take it from me!’

‘So do you think that Rosie and I are wrong to want to?’

‘That’s something I can’t give advice on. It’s up to the two of you to work it out between you. I wish you’d been able to bring her with you. Is she pretty?’

‘She’s adorable. Blonde, and blue-eyed. She’s sort of fragile, yet she heaves milk churns and drives a tractor. It’s quite a walk to her place, but it’s worth it just to have a few minutes together. That’s why I was writing that list for her – we don’t waste our time talking!’

‘Then all I can do is wish you luck and tell you I really do understand. This war is a bitch, isn’t it?’

‘So was yours …’

‘Yes.’ She turned to the table beside her, taking a photograph in her hands. It had faded over the years and the features blurred a little, but it was still possible to know the soldier was too young to die. ‘Lieutenant Guy Ward. We were going to be married on his next leave; were counting the days. And then the telegram came. They were terrible, those little yellow envelopes. His mother came to tell me …’

‘Don’t, Aunt. I’ll be taken off flying for a time, when I’ve done my thirty.’

‘And do you think Rosie’s parents will let her marry you once you’re not operational?’

‘Not really. Reckon we’ll just have to take things as they come – hope for the best.’

‘But you’ll be careful – you know what I’m talking about?’

‘If we both can’t count to ten, you mean? I’ll take care.’

‘That’s all right then. And enough pontificating! Why don’t I make a cup of tea? I got a half-bottle of whisky last week – was saving it for Christmas Day, but what the heck? What say we have a snifter in our tea – live dangerously!’

‘Sounds like a good idea.’

‘Right! I’ll get the kettle on and you can finish your Things Rosie Should Know. If you’re quick about it, you’ll catch the five o’clock post. She is allowed letters?’

‘Wouldn’t know. I’ve never written to her before. But she picks up the post every morning when she takes the milk churns to the collecting point.’

‘Then make sure she’s got my name and address – phone number too! It might be nice to hear from her once in a while. And Jon – thanks …’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Oh, for being you and growing up into such a fine young man. And for being the son Guy and I never had.’

Tears trembled on her words and he took her in his arms, hushing her softly.

‘Don’t get upset. I’m going to be all right, I know it. We’re winning the war now – once the second front gets going, it could all be over by next Christmas!’ He dried her tears, smiling gently, even though he knew there was still a long way to go; still a lot of takeoffs and flack and night fighters to contend with and that thirty ops was going to take some doing. ‘Bet you anything you like it will!’

In spite of all the shortages and most young men being away at war and the Post Office staff cut by almost half, there was a delivery of letters on Christmas morning.

Rosamund saw the envelope at once; not only because it stood out white against the OHMS buff-coloured ones, but because she had known it would be there. He had promised to write.

She held the letter to her cheek, then pushed it into the back pocket of her overalls to stay there, deliciously tantalizing, until she could be alone to open it.

‘Happy Christmas, sweetheart,’ she whispered.

A bomber flew over low, and she flinched at the suddenness of it, and closed her eyes as the noise it made beat inside her head.

‘No!’ They couldn’t be flying ops! Not on Christmas night? Surely, for just twenty-four hours the bombers could be grounded!

She started the tractor, revving it into an answering roar, glad that Jon was on leave. She wriggled herself comfortable on the cold iron seat, and the letter crackled intimately beneath her bottom.

‘Did I wish you a happy Christmas, Sergeant Hunt, darling? Did I …?’

It was not until afternoon milking was done and Christmas dinner eaten and her parents settled either side of the parlour fire, that Rosamund was able to open the letter. Decently, that was. She could have snatched at it, reading the odd line then pushing it out of sight again, but that wasn’t the way it must be. The reading of Jon’s first letter should be an occasion, a ritual, a rite. It should be opened carefully and each word savoured because as she read them with her eyes, his voice would be saying them inside her head.

The mantel clock struck six and she knew that her parents would be listening to the news because her mother was still anxious about Mr Churchill, and how soon he would be home from Tehran. His illness there had caused consternation and if it hadn’t been for the miraculous penicillin, he might well have died, in a foreign country, of pneumonia. Britain – the world, even – could not do without him, her mother insisted, and when he got safely home he should be made to take a long convalescence and give up cigars until his chest was back to normal!

Rosamund closed her eyes, counted to ten, then took a knife from the dresser drawer. For half an hour, whilst the announcer droned immaculately on, she had the kitchen to herself, to read and reread the letter. She peered at the postmark – Chester 6.30 p.m. 23:XII:43, then carefully slit the envelope to pull out a single sheet of paper. She laid it open on the table top, smoothing a hand over it as if she were touching Jon’s hand, then smiling indulgently, she began to read and to listen to his voice with her heart.

Happy Christmas, my Rosie,

I miss you already. I love you, I want you. I began to write you a detailed account of things you should know about Jonathan James Hunt way back as far as I can remember; about when I stopped believing in Santa and the tooth fairy, right through to university and getting my wings up. But it seemed like line-shooting and none of it is relevant, anyway, because all that happened before we met were only milestones along the way to Laceby Green, and groping around in the dark to find a girl’s handbag.

It really began on a Saturday; on 6 November 1943, at half-past seven, and when I saw you (with tremendous relief, actually, because I had been waiting for you a long time) I knew you were my girl.

I want to marry you, have children with you, grow old with you, and because I love you so much and one lifetime cannot possibly be long enough to contain our loving, we shall come back and meet again and love again. So, my darling, you are stuck with me for ever; right through eternity until time is no more.

I will be back on I January. It’s a Saturday, and the first day of a new year; new beginnings, too.

I love you with all my heart.

Jon

‘And I love you too,’ she whispered, relieved he hadn’t asked if she had told her father about them. Because she had not been able to say the words, even though they were there, carefully arranged in sentences inside her head. She had said them until she knew them by heart, sure in the knowledge that when the time was right, they would slip out easily. But the words were still unspoken because after that first fumbling attempt, the time had never been right. It made her feel as if she had betrayed him.

‘I will tell Dad; I will!’

Yet even as she said the words she knew they had no substance because deep inside her she had already accepted that not only dare she not tell her father about them, but she must persuade Jon it would be foolish if he were to call; that the only way they could continue to see each other must be in secret – and wasn’t a secret love better than none? Wasn’t it asking too much of any parents, much less her own, to be anything but shocked that their daughter had been carrying on – because that was what her mother would call it – behind their backs, and wanted to marry a man they hadn’t known to exist!

‘Marry our daughter! And who might you be, young man?’

The door would be slammed in his face, the inquisition would follow and she would be treated like a criminal. And not just herself, but everyone remotely connected would come in for their share of blame. Bessie, and the RAF too, just for being there, and Jon! Jon would bear the brunt of it for slyly coveting their daughter! She laid the letter to her cheek as if asking for understanding, and forgiveness, then slipped it into her pocket.

I’m sorry, Jon. I love you so much I would die for you, yet I’m not brave enough to let my parents – my mother – know about us; can’t risk losing you. Because that’s what would happen once she knew.

Tears filled her eyes and she slammed the flat of her hand down hard on the table top, exactly as the door opened and her mother stood there, demanding to know why she was crying.

‘What is wrong, Rosamund? Aren’t you well?’

‘I – I don’t know. I hurt all over …’

It was all she could think of to say, because her mother had beamed in on her thoughts, then crept in without a sound to witness her misery.

‘Hurt? Is it that time of the month, because if it is, a dose of laxative is what you need!’

‘No! It isn’t that. It’s sadness, I suppose, and being sick of the war and –’

‘Then for shame, Rosamund Kenton! You should try to think of those who are far worse off than you! Now dry your eyes and make your father and me a pot of tea. We’ll have a slice of Christmas cake too!’

‘Yes. All right. And I’m sorry.’ She dabbed hurriedly at her eyes, then blew her nose noisily. ‘I’ll bring it through to you. Won’t be long …’

Mildred Kenton banged out of the kitchen, back ramrod straight, and in that moment Rosamund felt hatred towards her. Not for seeing her tears nor even for not giving her a hug and a bit of sympathy, nor for cheating and churning illegal butter to make a Christmas cake, but because she had equated her feelings for Jon to the level of laxatives and painful periods!

I hate you! Eyes narrowed she aimed her thoughts at the kitchen door. You are small-minded and narrow-minded and yes, Mother, you are bad-minded, too! Tell you about Jon? I’d rather have my tongue pulled out!

She took a deep breath, then set the kettle to boil. Her mouth felt tight as a trap, her tears were forgotten. In that moment she knew she was doing the right thing; that all the lies she must tell in the future and all the underhandedness and deceit would lay lightly on her conscience. They wouldn’t let her marry Jon – not if she begged them on her knees – but wasn’t marriage merely the words of a priest, and a piece of paper to prove he had said those words? Why must it be right because a priest or a minister said so? Why, if two people were in love, could they not be lovers?

Because society said it was wrong before marriage! The act of love was taboo, until the magic words had been said! And after that, not only was it right, but was expected of them!

Cant! Hypocrisy! Old people who were no longer capable of loving, denying it to those who were – until they had been through the rigmarole of the Ritual of Words, that was, and received the smirking approval of society!

Anger thudding inside her, she filled a jug with milk, sliced pieces of forbidden cake and placed them on the best china plates, laid the tray with a clean white cloth. There was no pain inside her now, no self-recrimination. Just bitterness towards her mother – and her father, too, for letting himself be henpecked and led by the nose, just because his wife’s name stood alone on Laburnum Farm deeds.

A week from now, Jon would be back and she would tell him she had not been able to confide in her father; explain why. And Jon would understand, and they would be lovers.

More than anything else, she wanted to belong.

The parlour fire was lit again on Boxing Day and piled with beech logs. The work of the farm had gone on as it always did; morning milking, pigs and poultry feeding, egg collecting, evening milking, mucking out. There were no days off for farmers.

Bart Kenton dozed. In the chintz-covered chair opposite, his wife knitted. Another pair of socks in the same dark grey. Sock wool was rationed. One clothing coupon must be surrendered for two ounces of wool and men’s socks cost three coupons, bought over the counter. It gave Mildred Kenton great satisfaction to save a coupon by knitting her husband’s socks, and the prim pleasure of saying to anyone who cared to listen that not once since she and Bart were wed had he worn a pair of shop socks!

‘Are you doing anything, Rosamund?’

‘No, Mother.’ Only staring into the fire.

‘Then you’d better hold this skein whilst I wind it. I’m running out of wool. And switch the wireless on, will you?’

The mantel clock, which was always a minute fast, began nine silver chimes, and when it was finished the announcer would say, ‘This is the BBC Home Service. Here is the nine o’clock news, and this is Alvar Lidell reading it.’ Or maybe it would be Stuart Hibberd. They seemed to take turns about, reading good news and bad in the same level, unemotional tones. Funereal voices, Rosamund thought.

She knelt at her mother’s feet, thumbs jutting, hands held wide for the skein of wool. The Greenwich time signal pipped six times, then gave way to the Moment for Thought.

It was Stuart Hibberd’s turn tonight. No one spoke, because news bulletins were important and the one at nine especially so. Rosamund thought it strange that the war outside should be so regularly welcomed into their home since, at all other times it was kept firmly where it belonged – behind the chain fence at the end of the cow pasture!

A statement had been released, read the announcer, that General Dwight D. Eisenhower had been appointed Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Forces; our Russian allies, had begun their third offensive of the winter. The Eighth Army, meantime, was advancing steadily in Italy, having taken Ortona.

In the Adriatic, a motor torpedo boat of the Royal Navy had sunk a German light cruiser and on Christmas night, aircraft of Bomber Command completed a successful raid on Berlin. Eighteen of our aircraft did not return.

It was said in the same clipped tones, Rosamund thought miserably, and added at the end as something of an afterthought; as if it were the only piece of bad news in an otherwise splendidly optimistic Boxing Day bulletin.

‘I must say that I didn’t expect an American to be given precedence over Field Marshal Montgomery!’ Mildred tossed the ball of wool into her knitting basket. ‘But Americans can be very pushy.’

‘We were glad enough of them in my war.’ Bart opened an eye.

‘That’s what I’m trying to say. They join in when we have almost got the war won! And if you want my opinion, they’d have stayed neutral this time if the Japs hadn’t sunk their fleet at Pearl Harbor.’

‘Our lot had almost lost the war when they joined us in the trenches! We were right relieved to see them, I can tell you! None of us thought them pushy, Milly!’

‘Be that as it may, Hitler got a fine Christmas present from our lot! I’ll bet Berlin never expected a raid on Christmas night!’ She said it gleefully, eyes bright with malice.

‘No, Mother. And I don’t suppose our bomber crews expected to be sent there either. A hundred and thirty men aren’t coming back – ever! There’ll have been a lot of telegrams today. “Happy Christmas, Madam! Sorry to have to tell you that your son was killed last night over Berlin!”’

‘There’s no need for sarcasm, Rosamund! It’s war, and everyone suffers! Think of the mess it’s made of our lives! Half our acres taken, and no right of appeal!’

‘Granted. But I haven’t gone to the war, and if I’d been born a boy you’d have been able to keep me out of the fighting too! We eat better than most. How many families had a Christmas cake this year? Who but you was able to scrape enough out of their rations to make one!’

‘I – I save sugar. We none of us take it in drinks. I can put a little by every week!’ Startled by the ferocity of her daughter’s attack Mildred faltered. ‘And – and we have our own eggs! Surely I can take a few for a cake at Christmas? And I had a bit of black treacle in the bottom of a tin.’

‘And butter, and dried fruit? You kept milk back and churned it into butter, and I know you swapped eggs for some raisins!’

‘Rosamund! I churned barely half a pound of butter! Does that make me a criminal?’

‘When there’s a war on, yes! All our milk should go to the marketing board. You know it’s against the law to separate it into cream, or make butter! But you did.’

‘Now that’s enough! I won’t have you speak to your mother like that, Rosamund!’

‘I’m sorry, Dad, but this war hasn’t touched us at all! We’ve got plenty of food and we’ve given no one to the fighting!’

‘We’ve given half our livelihood!’ Mildred had got her breath back. ‘They took our fields!’

‘Then if that’s the worst of it, Mother, I don’t think you’ve got a lot to worry about! And don’t offer me a slice of that cake because it would choke me!’

She jumped to her feet, flinging open the door, slamming it behind her, making for the kitchen. She’d had enough, cooped up here all over Christmas, seeing no one at all, because you couldn’t blame Bessie for not calling!

She flopped miserably on the three-legged stool beside the hearth, not bothering to light the lamp. The fire had been banked down with a mixture of coal dust and damp dead leaves, but there was a glow underneath. She held her hands to it, for comfort, because she had gone too far. She was unhappy and missing Jon and had taken it out on her parents – her mother, especially. But her mother was smug in her out-of-the-way farmhouse; could pretend the war was a thousand miles away, except when a bomber flew over to remind her!

‘Lass?’ The kitchen door opened. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes thanks, Dad.’

‘There’s no call to sit here in the dark.’

‘I’m going to bed …’

‘Then don’t you think that before you do you might say good night to your mother and maybe tell her you’re sorry for what you said?’

‘Sorry? But I’m not! I only spoke the truth! We are well off here, and Mum did do a black-market fiddle to get that cake. There won’t be a Christmas cake at Bessie’s house!’

‘I wouldn’t mention the Drakes if I were you. They seem to upset your mother!’

‘Everybody upsets Mother if she doesn’t get her own way. And, Dad, I’m sorry if I upset you, but I won’t apologize to Mum.’

She rose to take a candlestick from the mantelpiece. Then she lit it, and touched her father’s cheek gently with her fingertips.

‘Good night, Dad. Sleep well.’

‘Well?’ Mildred demanded of her husband as he closed the parlour door behind him. ‘What did she have to say for herself?’ Her knitting needles clicked at speed, her mouth was set tightly.

‘Nowt. She’s gone to bed. I don’t think she’s in the mood to eat humble pie tonight. Happen tomorrow, when she’s slept on it, she’ll tell you she didn’t mean it.’ He sat down wearily, then pushed his slippered feet to the fire.

‘There’s something wrong, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it, Bart!’

‘There’s nothing wrong with the lass that company her own age and a bit of warmth and sunshine wouldn’t put right. Folk are sick and tired of the winter. Leave it, Mildred? And you’ve got to admit, she didn’t go out Saturday.’

‘Saturday was yesterday – Christmas Day! Of course she didn’t go out!’

‘And she stayed home today – didn’t get on her bike and go to the village.’

‘I should think not! This is a farm and a farm is for seven days a week! But there’s something going on, I know it. There’s been nothing but back answers, and for a long time now! Does she think she’s grown up or something, just because she’s registered?’

‘She registered because the powers that be think she’s grown up enough to do war work! They could have sent her to Preston, on munitions, or into the Army.’

‘Well, they didn’t! She’s still at home, and till she’s twenty-one she’ll do as I say! And I’ll have an explanation out of her in the morning; find out what she’s about!’

Oh my word, yes! Because no matter how much her husband sat there shaking his head, there would be questions asked – and answered – tomorrow!