EIGHT

Had all things been equal, Monday would have officially been Boxing Day, and an extra day’s holiday. But officialdom insisted that factories on war work should not come to a halt over Christmas, and it was made clear that those who were unpatriotic enough to expect three days off would have to make do with two!

Bessie’s father worked over Christmas without a break, the production of aircraft components being of the highest importance. Bessie’s factory, on the other hand, put in extra hours without pay before Christmas, so that for three days the machines were stopped for maintenance and any necessary repairs, which was a good way as any to ease their conscience, Bessie said, glad to go along with it.

‘What brings you to Laceby, Rosamund?’ She was pleased to see her friend.

‘To see you, because if I hadn’t got out for an hour, I’d have gone screaming mad!’

‘And to post a letter?’

‘Two, actually. To Jon. He’s back on Saturday. Hope there’ll be a dance.’

‘I don’t see why not. There wasn’t one last Saturday.’

‘There wouldn’t be, on Christmas Day – and anyway, they were flying. Makes you sick, doesn’t it, crews being sent out on Christmas night. Eighteen missing, too.’

‘Laceby’s lot got back all right, I heard. I’ll walk with you to the pillar box.’

‘I’ve had two letters from Jon,’ Rosamund confided when they were clear of the house. ‘Has Mick written?’

‘No, but I don’t expect him to. We’re just friends and dancing partners. He kisses me good night, but his heart isn’t in it. I think he’s got a steady girl at home.’

‘But have you never thought to ask, Bessie? He might be married, even!’

‘He might be, but it wouldn’t matter. I haven’t fallen for him. He’s a marvellous dancer, though, and I’d be a bit miffed if some other girl grabbed him. Is Jon spoken for?’

‘You know he isn’t! He was tied up with work till he got his degree, and then he went straight into the Air Force. It’s rotten luck he’s got himself landed with someone like me; someone who hasn’t got a normal family.’

‘So define a normal family for me.’

‘One like yours, I suppose.’

‘What!’ Bessie shrieked. ‘Our lot are mad! Dad’s always laying the law down about being careful with men; when the brothers were at home, Mum yelled at them all the time for not changing their socks and leaving their room in a mess, and now that they’re in the Navy, she nags Dad instead, for going to the pub. And Dad moans at Mum for always wanting more housekeeping money. If that’s normal, I’m Betty Grable!’

‘Yes, but your mother laughs a lot and she isn’t narrow-minded. And you can get out on dates without having to lie about it.’

‘I lie to Dad, though.’

‘So? I lie to both my parents. At least I do now, since I met Jon.’ Rosamund slipped her arm in that of her friend, then whispered, ‘We want to get married, Bess.’

‘Married!’

‘Sssh! Keep your voice down! And don’t say we’ve only known each other two months! I fell for Jon the minute I saw him, and it was the same for him, too.’ She slid the letters into the pillar box, smiling them on their way. ‘Oh, well – best get back …’

‘What’s the hurry? Why don’t we walk to the end of the village?’ Bessie scented news of importance. ‘Are you sure you want to get married? Isn’t it because he’s the first bloke you’ve fallen for – and glamorous with it?’

‘I’m sure.’ Rosamund gazed ahead, fixedly. ‘I want him to make love to me and it’s best you’re married before you let anything like that happen.’

‘But your folks won’t let you! Don’t suppose you’ve thought to ask, because you do need permission!’

‘Think I hadn’t realized that? I was going to tell Dad about us, so he’d be on my side, but I’ve decided I’m not going to. Mum would go raving mad and he’d have to side with her. His life wouldn’t be worth living if he didn’t. I wouldn’t want to land him in it. I’m very fond of Dad.’

‘But not your mother?’ Bessie hissed, warming to the drama.

‘No. Sometimes I think I hate her. D’you know, I’d just read Jon’s letter and got a bit weepy when she came into the kitchen and caught me; said I needed a laxative! How can you tell someone like her that you’re in love?’

‘So what will you do? You’ll have to be careful, Rosamund! You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

‘If – when – it happens, Jon knows how. You don’t have to get pregnant. Your cousin didn’t, did she, on the haystack?’

‘N-no. Well, all I can say,’ Bessie choked, round-eyed, ‘is that you and Jon are going to have to find yourselves a haystack – pretty damn quick!’

Rosamund thought about haystacks all the way home; about why she hadn’t thought of it before, and how warm it would be and how far away from the house their own hayloft was. It would be perfect, if Shep didn’t start barking. And soon it would be spring, and the days warmer and the nights lighter. The hayloft would do, until they could find somewhere better. Her cheeks burned, just to think of it.

Then her elation left her, because Jon wasn’t the sort to do something like that; not on her own doorstep. He would think it cheeky and much too risky! She was stupid even to entertain the idea. Yet as she pushed her cycle into the stable, she looked longingly across at the tall, red-brick hayloft. Come to think of it, it was quite a way from Shep’s kennel too.

Her father crossed the yard as she closed the stable door and he smiled and asked her if she’d enjoyed her bike ride.

‘Yes, Dad. Blew all the cobwebs away. Just went as far as the village – called in on Bessie. I’ll get into my overalls, and start the milking.’

‘I must say, lass, that it’s brought the roses back to your cheeks.’

Roses? Oh, Dad, if only you knew!

She made for the house, wishing she didn’t like her father so much; wishing she wasn’t such a deceitful little bitch and that her mother was more like Bessie’s mother. Then she thought about Jon’s arms and his mouth on hers and the scent of summer hay all about them, and all her doubts were gone.

‘So you’ve decided, then? You’re going back a day early?’

‘Do you mind, Aunt Lottie? I know I’m officially on leave till midnight, Saturday, but if I get the overnight train on Friday, I’ll be back in camp before midday – get my head down for a couple of hours, then –’

‘Then you’ll be seeing Rosie?’ She smiled with her eyes at the young man who had been hers since he was little more than a baby, and wanted with all her heart to beg him never to go back! He had grown up so well; should have had a future. Now, everything was uncertain, because the young fool had volunteered the minute he’d finished university, and for aircrew, too! And the way things stood now, he had only a fifty-fifty chance of making it through the war! Just to think of it filled her with dread.

‘All your washing is done, and I’ve sponged and pressed your uniform.’ She said it matter-of-factly, as if she were absolutely sure she would see him again after tomorrow night. It was just bearable now because he was wearing old trousers and a sweater and looking like a civilian, but the minute he put on that uniform he would belong to the war. ‘And don’t forget to get a decent haircut before you go back! That RAF barber scalps you!’

‘Has anybody told you, Miss Martin, you can be a very bossy lady at times?’

‘I’m entitled. I’m your mother, aren’t I?’

‘Funny, but I’ve never called you Mum.’

‘Thought it best you didn’t, and me with no wedding ring!’ She forced her lips into a grin. ‘And you’ll ask your Rosie to write to me, won’t you? If she can’t come and see me, at least we can send the odd letter.’

‘She’d like that – so will I.’

‘Good! By the way, has she got a photo of you – a decent one?’

‘Afraid not, nor me of her.’

‘Then I think you’d better take her this.’ She handed him a framed photograph. ‘And pack it carefully; I don’t want the glass broken.’

‘Good grief! Me, when I was a sprog pilot! Seems like years ago!’

‘You reckon?’ She didn’t say it was little more than a year, taken before he went to Canada to do his night-flying training. He hadn’t earned his sergeant’s stripes then, nor sewn up his pilot’s wings. The young man who smiled into the camera had worn a white flash in his cap to show he was training for aircrew. ‘I’m giving you this one because you didn’t sign it. Think you’d better put Rosie’s name on it. Will that be all right, Jon?’

‘It’s a great idea. Thanks a lot!’

She would probably keep it at the bottom of a drawer, he thought sadly, because she couldn’t have a photograph of a man who doesn’t exist beside her bed.

‘And, Jon – whilst I’m laying down the law – I do understand the way things are between you; understand better than you know! Be careful, uh?’

She wanted to tell him that if anything went wrong and he didn’t make it, his young lady would have one hell of a time with that mother of hers! She bit on the words, though, because you didn’t say such things when there was a war on.

‘You know I will. I care for her too much – but thanks for understanding.’ He reached for her, pulling her close, laying his cheek on hers. ‘And I care for you too – you know that, don’t you?’

‘Reckon so. Now for Pete’s sake, let’s have done with all the soul-searching! I feel like a lazy night, listening to the wireless. And there’s still some whisky left; what say we finish it? And no more war talk! We won’t even listen to the news!’

‘Fine by me,’ he smiled, grateful for her understanding.

Yet for all that, he couldn’t deny that tomorrow night couldn’t come soon enough and that on Saturday, at about eight, Rosie would jump down from the back of the transport and straight into his arms.

The thought filled him with gladness and sadness, because he had never thought to love and want someone as desperately and unashamedly as he loved and wanted her, which was a bad do, really, because men like him lived one day at a time.

Rosie! Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, I love you.

He sent his thoughts high and wide, so they would reach her, though he knew exactly where she was, what she was doing. Rosie would be in the shippon, milking, and counting the hours until Saturday night at eight. Just as he was!

‘I’ll be going out tomorrow night,’ Rosamund remarked as she toasted bread at the kitchen fire. ‘Probably to the flicks. It’s Casablanca.’

‘Well! If that isn’t the absolute end!’ Mildred Kenton, ignoring her daughter completely, folded the morning paper angrily. ‘They’re cutting the clothing coupons! Again! All we’re to have is twenty-four to last till the end of June! We’ll be running around in skins, next!’

She closed her eyes, shuddering. Two warm nightgowns, three pairs of stockings and four for yardage for a blouse, had put paid to her last allowance of coupons, and the new issue already spoken for because she needed knickers. Those she was wearing were so darned and dishevelled, she hardly dare hang them out on washday! Three pairs she would need, which meant six coupons, and not a thing to show for it!

‘What about the coupons you got from Ned Loftus?’ Rosamund demanded, turning the bread on the fork; black-market coupons which should have been hers by rights since they’d been swapped for her clothes!

‘Those coupons were used to buy working boots and warm trousers for your father! Surely you didn’t think I was giving them to you to waste on fripperies!’

‘As a matter of fact, I could have done with a few, but I don’t begrudge them to Dad.’

Yet for all that, just five of those illicit coupons would have provided the wool for a cardigan; she was desperate for a blue cardi!

‘And what is more,’ Mildred rushed on, deep in self-pity, ‘those Germans have got a secret weapon!’

‘You’ve been listening to Haw-Haw,’ Bart teased. ‘Shame on you!’

‘I have not! I heard it yesterday in town. There were two women in the queue in front of me, and they’d read it in the paper!’

‘Don’t you think it was our invention they were on about – that plane without propellers, the one that flies on jets?’ Though jets of what he hadn’t yet fathomed.

‘No! Those women called it a rocket, I tell you, and they said it was a plane without a pilot. Seems the news came from Sweden.’

‘Now what would the Swedes know about it? They aren’t even in the war!’

‘I’m only telling you what I heard. It sent me cold all over. Sending poison gas by rocket, that’s what Hitler’ll be doing!’ Close to tears, she dropped her knife and fork with a clatter. ‘I’ve had as much as I can stand of this war!’

‘So have we all.’ Briefly Rosamund laid a hand on her mother’s shaking shoulders. ‘But we are winning now, and I’ll bet you anything you like those rockets are only propaganda, put out to upset us. Do you honestly think that if Hitler really did have a secret weapon he’d tell anybody about it?’

‘Then the papers shouldn’t print such lies!’

‘Oh, Milly Kenton,’ her husband laughed, ‘wasn’t it your very self who said we should never believe a thing the newspapers printed except the date? And only then when we’d checked it for ourselves with the calendar!’

‘Dad’s right. Mind, the papers do get the blackout times right – and guess what: tonight we don’t have to black out till six o’clock! We’ll get afternoon milking finished before it’s dark. And I saw snowdrops yesterday at the end of the lane.’ And please, Mother, please, wipe the gloom and doom from your face? ‘It’s 1944, and this year we’re going to win. Just think of it – before another new year, the blackout could be gone for ever and we’ll light the biggest bonfire you ever saw on Beacon Fell!’

‘You think so, child?’

‘I’m sure, Mother.’

And, God, I’m sorry for lying through my teeth, saying things I don’t believe, but she goes on and on and upsets everybody. And forgive me for wishing her in deepest Siberia …

Jon Hunt quietly closed the door of the Nissen hut his crew shared with the crew of Z-Zebra. It smelled of sweat and damp and stale air. At the far end, seven men lay on black-painted iron beds, snorting and snoring beneath grey blankets. Around them, carelessly discarded, lay flying jackets and boots and battledress tops. Zebra had been on ops last night, Jon figured, and now its crew slept the sleep of the pardoned; the lucky sods who had made it back to Laceby Green.

Slowly, as if reluctant to acknowledge he was a part of it again, he hung his respirator and greatcoat on the peg beside his bed, then pushed his case beneath it. He was the first back of Johnnie’s crew; the remainder, he supposed, would arrive at the very last minute, and Harry would either bore everyone to tears with the amazing progress of his new daughter, or be moody and quiet, announcing that anyone who sang, ‘You’ve had it chum, you’ve had it, never mind’ would have his features rearranged, so bloodywell watch it!

Leave was great; returning from it was a bind. People who reminded you you’d had it for another three months were not popular.

Jon shivered. He was cold and tired, his eyes felt gritty and his uniform had the stink of the dusty train on it. He needed to wash away the overnight smell, but a shower would revive him and he desperately needed to sleep, first savouring the fact that if Laceby’s crews had been on operations last night, there was a fair chance of making it to the dance tonight.

Someone at the far end of the hut grunted and turned over with a creaking of bedsprings. The cold struck unmercifully through the concrete floor. No one had bothered to stoke up the stove, and it had gone out. On his bed lay three grey blankets and it made him think of his bed at Primrose Cottage with its soft blankets and blue eiderdown.

He draped his uniform on a hanger, then shrugged out of his underwear, wrapping a blanket round himself, pulling the remainder over him. Then he closed his eyes to shut out the cold, trying not to let the roughness of the blankets irritate him into wakefulness.

Instead, he thought about Rosie; about her small, round breasts and the feel of her mouth beneath his, shutting down his thoughts at the first kiss; fearful that if he allowed himself to undress her, sleep would elude him.

He pulled the blankets over his head, tried hard to control his cold, shaking body and whispered, ‘See you, darling. Soon …’

Ten days, which had seemed an eternity, were as seconds at the meeting of their lips. Neither spoke. Being together again was all that mattered.

Presently, her mouth close to his ear, she whispered, ‘Don’t ever leave me again, Jon?’

‘I won’t. Promise. Tell me …?’

‘I love you.’

‘And I love you, Rosie Kenton.’

The transport had driven off; those it carried headed for the heavily curtained door of the hut. Jon and Rosamund were alone now in the frosty darkness, and a sudden, spiteful slap of wind hit them.

‘Shall we go inside?’

‘Kiss me first, Jon. And there’s something I have to tell you.’

‘Like what?’ His voice was all at once sharp.

‘Ssssh. I haven’t stopped loving you, but –’

‘But we can’t meet again – is that what you’re going to say? Did something happen whilst I was away, Rosie?’

‘That’s just it – nothing at all happened. But I want to tell you I love you and ask you to marry me because it’s 1944 now, and leap year. Mind, you can always turn me down, but it’ll cost you a silken gown!’

‘Then I’d better say thanks a lot, and yes, please, I’d like that very much. Would tomorrow suit you?’ He smiled indulgently, eyes teasing.

‘No, thanks. A week tonight would be much better. I mean it, Jon. We agreed, didn’t we – you still want it to happen for us?’

‘You know I do! Are you sure, darling?’

‘Absolutely. So shall we go inside and find a corner, and talk?’

They pushed, blinking, through the heavy curtain and into the smoke-filled hut, where a conga chain lurched crazily around the floor and the band played loudly and out of tune, sidestepping the heave of bodies to find corner seats. He pulled her close, kissing her, not caring who saw them.

‘So tell me about next Saturday?’ He twined his fingers in hers, moving closer.

‘I’ve found somewhere, darling; a hayloft. Our hayloft …’

‘Your place? You’ve got to be joking! Of all the damn-fool things I ever heard, that’s it!’

‘So you don’t want to?’ Her body went tense with apprehension.

‘You know I do,’ he hissed, ‘but at Laburnum Farm? If you think I’m risking a thing like that – well, it just isn’t on!’

‘I see. Most ungentlemanly, I suppose, even to consider deflowering a wench right under her father’s nose!’

‘Rosie! What’s got into you?’ His voice was rough with disbelief.

‘You mean have I been drinking; reading dirty books …?’

‘You know what I mean.’ He spoke more quietly because the music had stopped and the dancers were returning, red-cheeked and gasping, to their seats.

‘But I don’t know, Jon. I only know I’ve thought it all out – thought about nothing else since Bessie suggested it. I was telling her about us, you see, and how we wanted to be together, especially as there’s no chance of us getting married.’

‘So your father said no – or more to the point, you didn’t tell him about us.’ He said it matter-of-factly, as if he had known all along she would not.

‘That’s right …’

‘Then maybe it’s as well. I’d half expected it, began to think when you hadn’t mentioned it in your letters that something had gone wrong.’

‘It has. I was too scared, decided against it; daren’t risk them stopping me seeing you. I’m sorry, but I realized all at once it’d be like hitting my head against a brick wall – would get me nowhere.’

‘So instead you discussed us and our future with Bessie?’

‘Not exactly. But I did tell her how we both felt about wanting to be married, and that it wasn’t any use asking Dad’s permission. I said the only thing now was for us – well, to be lovers, and she agreed with me; said it wouldn’t be a good idea at all telling them about us, because Mum would put the kibosh on it!’ She stopped, all at once breathless, then whispered, ‘Bessie is right, Jon. She knows what my mother is like. It was why she said it looked like you and me were going to have to find ourselves a haystack. And I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it myself.’

‘So Bessie is au fait with haystacks?’

‘No, but her cousin is …’

‘Oh, darling!’ The tension and disbelief left him and he laughed out loud. ‘You are so – so innocent!’

‘I couldn’t agree more, Jon Hunt! And if you won’t at least let me tell you about the hayloft, innocent is the way I’m going to stay! I love you very much, you see, and I don’t want to wait until I’m old enough to marry you!’

‘You mean it, don’t you?’ He smiled gently, wonderingly, into her eyes. ‘You really want us to!’

‘They’ll never let us get married, so it’s the only way.’

‘Then maybe we better had talk about haylofts?’

‘Talk seriously, Jon?’

‘Very seriously. About what could happen, for a start. Had you thought about what could go wrong? Do you realize you could be left holding the baby?’

‘What do you mean – holding the baby!’ Her voice was shrill with alarm. ‘Are you getting cold feet? Now you can have me, are you suddenly not interested?’

‘Rosie! Ssssh! You know I want you! And I was talking about us, too, to Aunt Lottie; told her how it was between you and me, and she said she and her fiancé were desperately in love too, but decided to wait until his next leave, when they’d have been married.’

‘And he was killed, wasn’t he?’ she said flatly.

‘Just before his leave was due. She said she was sorry they hadn’t been lovers; said she wouldn’t have cared about getting pregnant, nor what an upset it would have caused. That’s what I’m trying to say, I suppose – what if you got pregnant, Rosie?’

‘If something went wrong, you mean? Well, you’d have to marry me then, Jon. I wouldn’t care if people knew we’d had to get married. Come to think of it, my mother would have us down the aisle so fast, our feet wouldn’t touch the ground,’ she giggled nervously.

‘Darling – be serious. What if I got the chop one night, then you found you were having a baby? Could you take it; your parents’ anger, the sneers, having to bring up a child alone – seeing people point a finger at your brat? Because the child would suffer too! Have you thought it all out – the risks?’

‘You won’t get the chop, Jon. You’re going to do your thirty ops and be taken off flying for a year. And by the time you crew-up again, I’ll be of age. But if it happened to us like it did to your Aunt Lottie and her young man, then I’d do exactly as she’d have done. I’d want your child, and no one would make me give it away. I love you. It’s as simple as that’

‘And I love you, Rosie. I always will. And you won’t get pregnant. I’ll take care of it.’

‘Then don’t ever say such a thing again! We’re going to be married one day and have children and grow old together – I promise you we are. Don’t forget I live in the house a witch built! I can see into the future!’

‘Idiot!’

‘Let’s leave now – go back to Laburnum, Jon. We can do a recce along the side path. Let’s try getting to the hayloft – see if Shep hears us, and barks. I don’t think he will, though. It’s quite a way from the house. Surely it’s worth a try?’

‘And if we don’t get away with it …?’

‘Then we’re back to square one again, and I’m stuck with my innocence!’

She thought about it that night, triumph singing through her, making sleep impossible. They had opened the little iron gate, slowly and carefully so it shouldn’t squeak, then walked up the long path, past the backs of the shippon and the cooling shed and the stables, she trailing a hand along the wall to guide them in the darkness. And Shep had not barked, even as they’d lifted the wooden latch of the small side door and crept into the sweetly smelling barn.

‘There are wooden steps at the far end, leading up to the loft,’ she whispered. ‘I should have brought my bike lamp and shown you.’

‘And there are no windows, or anything?’

‘No. Just ventilation bricks in the gable end walls.’

‘So we’d be safe, here?’ He’d kissed her in the darkness.

‘As safe as anywhere.’

‘Next Saturday, then? Here?’

It had been like, she thought hugging the pillow, a problem solved, a worry gone, the way ahead all at once clear for them. A decision made; a coupling agreed. There would be no priest, though, to bless them, make it respectable, acceptable, moral.

But it didn’t seem to matter.

‘So what’s it all about, then?’ Bessie pulled out the chair opposite, sitting down with a dramatic flop. ‘What’s so urgent that it’s life and death?’

‘It isn’t. Not any more. And I know Friday is your busy day, with the wages, an’ all, but I panicked, Bess, and rang you because I was so worried.’

‘What about? Your period late, or something?’

‘No! How can it be? I told Mum I was meeting you at the British Restaurant for lunch and that I had things to buy – you know, personals – so she didn’t make a fuss. I got the eleven o’clock bus from the village and I’ve been waiting here, trying to keep a seat for you.’

‘Then if it isn’t life or death you can pay, Rosamund!’

‘Oh, I will!’ British Restaurants weren’t allowed to make a profit. A fair-to-middling meal could be had for one-and-sevenpence. She could afford it.

‘OK. We’ll go and get our food, then you can tell me what was so urgent.’ Bessie was piqued there was to be no drama. ‘Do you think we’ll be able to get the treacle sponge? Hope it hasn’t all gone! So tell me …?’

They stood in the queue, trays at the ready, taking small soups, shepherd’s pie and carrots and, thanks be, treacle sponge with saccharin-sweetened custard. They refused tea, at a penny a cup, and Rosamund handed over three shillings, smiling at the elderly cashier.

‘Sorry I made it sound urgent, Bess, but I was really worried. Jon didn’t turn up on Sunday night, nor Monday nor Tuesday and when he didn’t come on Wednesday night, I thought I’d blown it.’

‘But they were flying on Wednesday night! You couldn’t miss it.’

‘I know. Jon was at the gate last night and I was so relieved. They’d been on standby for three nights, but the ops were cancelled. He couldn’t get out, though. No one could’ve. I thought I’d gone too far, you see, and he’d decided he’d had enough of me.’

‘But he’s mad about you!’

‘Yes, but when he wasn’t at the gate for four nights, do you blame me? I thought I’d frightened him off.’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re on about,’ Bessie said loftily.

‘Bess! Remember the haystack?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Well, I found one. Our hayloft, actually. That’s why we left the dance early. We went to see if we could get there without the dog barking and –’

‘Your hay barn! You’re out of your tiny mind, Rosamund Kenton!’

‘Sssssh! Keep your voice down. I suggested it, you see, and that’s why I thought he’d had enough – that girls who offer it on a plate are common! And when I got to thinking about it, when he didn’t turn up, I mean – I had to admit that I’d made most of the running. I was frantic with worry, then there he was last night, full of apologies and loving me just as much. And nothing has changed. Officially I’ll be with you tomorrow night, but we’ll be –’

‘In your hayloft,’ Bessie gulped. ‘Oh, Rosamund – are you sure you know what you’re doing?’

‘No I don’t. I shall probably make a mess of it, never having done it before! But if you mean am I sure about, well – that – yes, I am. There isn’t a hope of us getting married so you can’t blame us, can you?’

‘No. If I’d fallen as badly as you have, I think I’d be very tempted myself. But you’ll have to be careful; tell Jon not to go all the way to Preston – get off at Clitheroe, sort of.’

‘Jon will take care of it. Nothing happened to your cousin, did it?’

‘N-no. But she only did it once, I think.’

‘Once is usually enough, Bess.’ It was with animals, anyway. ‘But I’ve got something to show you. Jon gave it to me last night.’

Carefully she took the photograph from her shopping bag, offering it with a tremulous smile.

‘Hm!’ Bessie read the inscription. ‘To my Rosie. Always, Jon. And what is your mother going to say when she sees it?’

‘She won’t. I’m keeping it in a drawer she hardly ever goes in. I pop upstairs whenever I can and look at it.’

‘Your mother has no right to go fishing in your drawers, Rosamund. Serve her right if she went rooting and found it. She’d have a fit!’

‘She won’t find it. I’ll make sure she doesn’t.’

‘And what about the hayloft? Are you sure you can get away with that, too?’

‘We’ll have a darn good try. And it won’t be for ever. The light nights will soon be here and I’ll be able to get out more often. We’ll find somewhere else.’

‘Well, I can only say for Pete’s sake be careful? Promise you will?’

‘I will. The main thing is for us not to get caught!’

‘The main thing,’ Bessie whispered as they got up to leave, ‘is that you don’t end up in trouble, because God help you, girl, if you do!’

‘I know what I’m doing!’

Famous last words, Bessie thought, though she didn’t say it. But she thought about Jon and Rosamund all the way back to the factory, and wished like anything something as mad and mind-boggling and wonderful could happen to her. Because it was awful, when you were touching nineteen and curious, still …

The crew of J-Johnnie sat in their usual places, staring at the curtain that covered the wall map, willing it, as they always did, to have route ribbons stretching to the coast of Holland and back; a diversionary op, flying high out of the reach of enemy fighters, yet drawing them away from the main bomber stream. Or maybe a spot of mine-laying in coastal waters, which was almost a milk run.

‘It’ll be a nasty one,’ Mac said to Tom and Harry.

‘Oh?’ the bomb-aimer Tom shrugged. ‘So where are we going, know-all?’

‘Dunno. But half the squadron will be stuck with a big bastard. I saw six of them being loaded.’

They didn’t carry 22,000 pound bombs for fun; they’d be away to the Ruhr, like as not; to happy valley that was snarling with fighters and searchlights and flak, he thought gloomily.

‘You’re a miserable bastard, MacBain,’ Harry snarled, wishing now he was a father never to have to fly again. He crushed out his cigarette, then lit another.

Tom wound his lucky silk stocking around his neck, knotted it firmly, then said, ‘It’ll be a piece of cake. This one’s our fifteenth – halfway there – and Skip has flown twenty-two, don’t forget. We aren’t exactly a sprog crew!’

Dick had a fair idea of their target. He and Jon had already attended first briefing for pilots and navigators; would know, soon, if their inspired guess was correct.

Sammy, the wireless operator, said nothing, tapping his wedding ring on the edge of the table, because tapping out SOS was a part of the ritual of briefing and takeoff, and the rest of the crew didn’t complain.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke. Smoking too much was also a part of the briefing ritual and almost everyone did it. Cigarettes soothed and steadied, were drawn on as if that particular one was the very last and which, according to the gospel of MacBain, it might turn out to be.

The Station Commander entered the room and there was a sudden hush, then a grating of chairs as everyone stood.

‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ Briefing had begun. ‘Please be seated …’

Gentlemen, Mac thought miserably. They were always gentlemen when being sent to their deaths over the Ruhr.

The curtains were pulled apart, the map of Europe revealed. The tapes stretched to Berlin. Sodding Berlin!

‘Our target for tonight,’ said the Station Commander, ‘is Berlin …’

Dick winked sideways in Jon’s direction. Jon nodded, already having prepared himself for the worst target of all. Sammy, whose left hand had been briefly still, began tapping again. There was the slightest of groans, then lighters flicked furiously and a fresh cloud of smoke rose to the ceiling.

OK! So it was Berlin tonight. They’d been there before, hadn’t they, and made it back all right? They weren’t sprogs. They knew Berlin by night like the backs of their hands!

Harry whispered, ‘Holy shit!’ but no one laughed.

They ate a flying supper – almost always bacon and eggs and bread and butter – and swallowed one mug of sweet tea. No more than one, or you wanted to pee all the way there and back, and using the Elsan toilet in flying kit was more trouble than it was worth.

They drew their parachutes, then, making the same stupid joke. ‘What if this chute doesn’t open, Corporal?’ Answer. ‘Bring it back. We’ll gladly replace it!’ It wouldn’t have been takeoff without the joke, at which the Waaf parachute girls always laughed.

The trucks to drive them to dispersal were waiting outside, and they climbed clumsily in, clutching parachutes. This, Jon thought, was like going to the dentist. Once you’d rung the bell and the door was opened, there was no going back. But it was the walking-up-the-path-to-the-door bit that was the worst, and to Jon, being driven to J-Johnnie was the path; seeing the Lancaster, bombed up and fuelled up, was like ringing the doorbell.

After that, climbing the steps into the belly of the aircraft was less traumatic, almost the point of no return. Placing his parachute on his seat, settling himself down on it, patting Matilda Mint, who hung behind him, was like sitting in the dentist’s chair and opening wide. After that, it was in the lap of the gods, and he tried not to think that no matter how awful a filling was, the dentist never tried to kill you. Staggering a bit, clutching your throbbing cheek, you always walked down the path again! It followed, then, that flying to Berlin and back, carting a bomb load beneath you and wings full of fuel, was not a bit like having a particularly nasty filling. It was a million times worse!

He drew a deep breath, held it as long as he could, then let it go in little huffs. Then he began his checks, switching on the microphone on his helmet, going round the crew in turn, as calmly as he could.

Pilot to navigator … to rear gunner … speaking to all six, always leaving the bomb-aimer until last. Tom was a mad sod and always lay in the nose, face down, at takeoff, giving a commentary as they went.

‘Bomb-aimer to skipper. There’s that little blonde Waaf waving her knickers again!’

Tom always liked to see the Waaf, who stood at the side of the perimeter track near the control tower for every takeoff, waving her knickers for luck. It boded well for the operation, he said, even though they all knew she waved a white scarf.

‘Bomb-aimer to Skipper.’ They were halfway round the perimeter track now, lurching clumsily to takeoff. ‘Just passed your little milkmaid. Did you see her?’

‘I saw her, bomb-aimer.’

Neither of them had, of course, but in the gloom, each glimpsed the white handkerchief she always tied to the fence.

Tom liked to see Skip’s milkmaid, too, all shadowy through the perspex of the window, and ran his forefinger round his neck. It was like touching his girlfriend’s silk-stockinged leg; his own good-luck gesture, made just before the green light flashed and they hurtled, engines snarling, down the runway past the point of no return. The Lancaster tilted slightly as the tail wheel left the ground; then they were airborne with a sickening lurch, and roaring over Laceby Green.

The wheels retracted with a loud clunk, and Jon sent his thoughts to the steel-mesh fence as the Lancaster climbed steadily, sweetly.

I love you, Rosie. So long, sweetheart. See you tomorrow night. At eight …

‘I’ll make the toast, if you like.’

Rosamund padded into the kitchen on stockinged feet, glad that milking was over. Despite the milky warmness of the cows’ bodies, it had been bitterly cold this morning in the shippon, with an east wind blowing viciously through every hole and crack.

The coals in the fire-bottom glowed redly through the bars and she knelt before them, grateful for the heat that would scorch her face long before the plate of bread at her side was toasted.

‘Where is your father?’ Mildred Kenton broke eggs into the frying pan. ‘It’s almost ready.’

‘Coming. He went to let Shep off the chain.’

Rosamund did not want to talk. This morning, until the aching cold that gripped her had gone, she wanted to gaze into the fireglow, dream dreams, think about tonight, at eight.

She was tired; had been awake several times during the night, and as soon as the bombers began to return she had left her bed to stand at the window, peering into the blackness.

Last night, ten bombers took off from RAF Laceby. She had stood at the perimeter fence counting, the handkerchief she had knotted onto the fence blowing in the early evening air.

Her mother never asked her where she had been, now, when she disappeared for almost an hour; knew she would be standing at the fence. She always did, these days, and her mother had got used to the laconic answer, ‘Watching them take off; wishing them luck …’

‘One of those things’ll crash one night, and then where will you be, eh?’

‘Spattered all over the cow pasture, like as not, in very small pieces.’

So no questions were asked, now; no answers given. Doubtless her mother had decided she was either a patriotic little fool, or maybe just curious; it didn’t matter.

Jon could not see her as his Lancaster taxied past the bottom of the pasture, but he knew she was there, wishing him well, loving him, and that she would awaken when he returned, to listen and to count.

Last night, she was particularly anxious, because she had seen the huge bombs some of the planes would carry. She had thought herself lucky, because both parents were out for the afternoon. It rarely happened that she was left alone, but her father was in need of a haircut and it was her mother’s Friday for collecting the grocery and meat rations. Rosamund supposed, as she had waved them off in the pony cart, that now they only had half a farm, she could be trusted with it, and to get the cows into the shippon and make a start on the milking on her own. It also meant she was free to spend more time at the fence; gaze over towards the aerodrome for tell-tale signs of activity.

This afternoon she wished she had not been there, because what she saw made her very afraid. She had never seen those bombs before; not such big ones. She knew about them; their size had been reported in all the newspapers and their terrible powers of destruction. But she had never expected to see one so close to, nor the trailers on which they rested being towed by tractors driven by Waafs. By women! Young women sitting there as calm as you please, with tons of death behind them!

She had not known whether to burst with pride or burst into tears, and chose the latter as she fled for the safety of the kitchen to crouch in front of the fire, all at once glad she had never towed anything more deadly behind their own tractor than milk churns, or a load of hay to feed to the cows in the foldyard. Hay … She and Jon in the hayloft, tonight at eight.

She heard her mother’s meaningful sniff, realized she was burning the toast, and quickly turned the bread on the long brass fork.

Forget tonight at eight, she urged silently. Until then she must live through twelve hours of excitement and worry and fear. Fear would be uppermost in her mind all day because already she was afraid she would make a mess of it; make Jon think she was frigid. And she wasn’t frigid. She loved him, wanted more than anything for them to belong to each other. It was, she supposed, as she scraped the blackened piece of bread to a more acceptable shade and texture, that she was not so much afraid, as apprehensive; fearful of getting it wrong and spoiling it for Jon, and –

‘I think,’ her mother said tartly, ‘that you’d better throw that piece into the swill bucket, and do another!’

Aaaagh! There was nothing like burned toast and acid asides to bring a girl down to earth again!

At a quarter to eight, Rosamund laid aside the stocking she was darning and said, in a voice not a bit like her own, ‘Think I’ll be off now …’

‘Out?’ Her father raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought when it had got to this time, you’d decided to stop in, lass.’

‘Did you? Er – sorry.’ She gave him a surprised half-smile.

‘What your father means,’ said her mother with too much emphasis, ‘is that you are usually away by seven on a Saturday night.’

‘Doesn’t matter if I’m late. We aren’t doing anything special. Bessie will be expecting me when she sees me, I suppose.’

She was so amazed at the glibness with which the lie slipped off her tongue that her heart began to thud and she had to take a deep breath and concentrate hard on her bicycle lamps, switching them on and off with studied care.

She had rehearsed in her mind all day what she would do and say, and at what time; been over it until she was word perfect and everything would seem Saturday-night normal. She would take her handbag as she always did, check her bike lamps, tie a scarf over her hair, then shrug on her short coat. ‘Night, Mum, Dad,’ she would say, like always. ‘Won’t be late and yes, I’ll take care in the dark!’ Yet not once, she realized, had she allowed for the time, though her mother had been on to it like a terrier onto a rat!

‘Well, then,’ she said softly, placing the lamps beside her handbag, reaching for her scarf, ‘I’ll be off’ She buttoned her coat carefully, smiling, ‘Night. Won’t be late!’ closing the kitchen door behind her, leaning briefly against it because she was shaking so.

She took a deep, steadying breath, feeling her way across the dark dairy, opening and shutting the door noisily. And she must remember to bang the door of the small barn in which she kept her bike and do everything exactly as she would have done it had she been going to Bessie’s, even calling to Shep as she passed his kennel.

Then she would turn on her lamps in case her mother decided to go upstairs and watch her, and push the bike slowly and carefully in the direction of the top of the lane.

Downright deceitful? Of course it was, but Jon was worth all the lies, and anyway, what else could she do with such bad-minded parents?

Parent! Dad wasn’t bad-minded nor suspicious; didn’t measure her against his own narrow yardstick. Dad, if he hadn’t let himself be ground down by her mother, might even be master in his own house and say yes, of course she could bring her young man to Sunday tea!

She banged the stable door defiantly, half expecting her mother to call her back, then thought that if she knew where her daughter was going and what she intended doing, that was just what she would do!

It didn’t make her feel any better about her bare-faced lying, but it pleased her when Shep began to bark, that her voice sounded normal as she called, ‘Quiet, boy! It’s only me!’

Calmer now, she pushed her cycle to the top of the lane, then switched off the front and rear lights, turning in her tracks, making for the narrow path that led to the little iron gate, the worst over. All she had to do now was push her cycle out of sight, then walk slowly to where Jon would be waiting – oh, please let him be there?

Then relief and happiness washed over her as she ran, not caring about the darkness, nor the slippiness of the path, into the safety of his arms.

‘Darling! You came!’

‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’ He took her face in his hands, kissing her softly.

‘I’ve been thinking about it all day. I wanted you to be here so much that I was afraid you wouldn’t be!’

‘So you still – want to?’

‘Yes! But I’ve been a bit worried about it.’

‘Why, Rosie?’

‘Because I don’t know how to. I’ve never – we-e-ll – not before …’

‘Well, I do know, because I have.’

‘Jon! You said there was only me!’ Dismay hit her like a slap.

‘I said I’d only ever been in love with you.’

‘So now you tell me there have been other girls in your life!’

‘Best you should know, darling. It’s you and me from now on. The first day of the rest of our lives. Best the slate is clean.’

He searched for her mouth, but she jerked her head back, gasping, ‘Who was she? You must have loved her!’

‘Ssssh! I didn’t, and she didn’t love me. She was a corporal in the ATS, on a gun site outside Cambridge. We met at a dance. She was missing love – her husband was overseas – and I hadn’t a clue. I only knew I was desperate to get a bit of living in, have a taste of what life was all about before I got the chop! I’d already passed the medical and been accepted for aircrew; I was as good as in, though the RAF let me take my finals before they called me up. Have I hurt you, darling?’ he whispered, when she didn’t speak.

‘N-no. It’s a bit of a shock, though I suppose it was stupid of me to think someone as attractive as you hadn’t been around. How many were there?’

‘Just the one. Pamela.’

‘And did it last long between you?’

‘Not long. She was promoted to sergeant and drafted to Scotland. And she wasn’t in love with me, nor me with her, Rosie.’

‘But if she had stayed …?’

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference. She was in love with her husband, and lonely.’

‘I see. And you wanted to lose your virginity. You haven’t forgotten her, though, have you?’

‘I don’t think of her every spare moment I’ve got, like I think of you, darling. I must admit, though, that she was a very nice person to lose my virginity to. I hope you’ll always remember the man who took yours – well, if you still want to?’

‘Hell! You know I do! But are you still in touch? Do you write?’

‘Haven’t heard a word from her in two years. We parted as friends, though.’

‘And it’s me you love now, Jon?’

‘Only you. Ever. You’re the first and the last. I loved you the minute I saw you. Actually, it’s exactly two months ago, give or take a few minutes. Am I allowed to say happy anniversary, Rosie? Am I forgiven?’

‘Oh, yes! And yes!’ She wrapped her arms around him, searching for his lips, loving him, not caring about Pamela who’d been married to someone else, anyway. ‘Clean slates, like you said, though sadly I have nothing to confess!’

‘I didn’t think you would have,’ he laughed softly. ‘Not with the dragon lady around! I suppose I should be grateful to your mother.’

‘Yes, you should!’ She laughed, happy again. ‘Did you bring a torch? Shall we go then?’ She took his hand, walking carefully. ‘I’ve left my bike a bit further along – I’ll take the lamp off the front.’

‘Did you have much trouble getting out?’

‘Not really.’ They were whispering. ‘No more than usual. But we’ll soon have the light nights and I’ll be able to get out more. I could even bike down to the village every night; ring you from the phone box – save you walking all the way here.’

‘Sorry!’ He took her in his arms. ‘The walk is worth it and come summer, you’ll be able to stay out longer, though there’ll be no blackout to hide in – and it’ll be goodbye, hayloft!’

‘First things first!’ Carefully Rosamund lifted the latch; inch by inch she pushed open the small side door of the hay barn. The latch did not snap open, the door did not creak and Shep did not bark. She turned on her lamp, pointing the way ahead. ‘All the hay is used, now. There’s only a bit left in the loft.’

Jon’s torch had a stronger beam and picked out the wide wooden steps that led to the gantry above.

‘Up there?’ he whispered. ‘Shall I go first?’

‘No, better let me.’ She had climbed those steps a thousand times; could have done it in the dark. There were twelve. She had climbed them even before she could count; when they had been forbidden to her because she was too little and might fall. Now she took them one step at a time, slowly and carefully. Her heart thudded, small pulses beat insistently behind her nose and at the hollow in her throat. This, she supposed, was her wedding night and her wedding, all in one; the night she would remember for the rest of her life. When she walked down the twelve wooden steps again she would be a new person, would be Jon’s, and nothing could harm them ever again after tonight, because their love would be special, and sprinkled with stardust.

‘I love you, Jon Hunt.’

‘And I love you, my Rosie; so very much …’

He folded her in his arms, kissing her eyelids, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her mouth; pulling her closer, hands on her buttocks.

She sighed softly, no longer uneasy. Jon would be patient with her, would forgive her gauchness. Jon knew what to do. It was going to be all right.

‘I think,’ she whispered, as he kissed the hollow in her throat, ‘that I ought to be grateful to Pamela.’

‘Me, too.’ His laugh was soft and indulgent. ‘Shall we find somewhere …?’

The hay was soft and sweet-smelling; the scent of the June day on which it was cut reminding them of warm afternoons and high, blue skies and wild flowers and green-cool woods with bluebells for a carpet. All at once, the war was shut out and tomorrows were two a penny; no one would ever again be killed or blinded or maimed. All at once, only being in love mattered, and sharing love.

‘Are you cold, darling?’

‘No.’ She took off her jacket. ‘Are you?’

‘No. Didn’t know hay could be so warm to lie on.’

‘I wish I could see your face, though.’

‘When the light nights come …’ he said softly, unfastening the buttons on her blouse, cupping her breasts in his hands as he had wanted to do since the first night he’d met her and undressed her with his eyes. ‘Y’know, I thought I’d feel rotten about this – about us being here, but I don’t.’

‘Nor me, though I suppose when I come here in the morning for fodder, I won’t ever think of it as the hay barn again. After tonight, it’ll be the most precious place I know.’

‘We’re fools, aren’t we? In a couple of hours you’ll leave me and I’ll go back to the ’drome and we’ll be two separate people again.’

‘After tonight, we’ll never be separate people. And we’ll be together as often as we can, I promise. And if we’ve only got two hours, we’re wasting time!’

Unsteadily, because she still couldn’t believe it was happening for them, she unfastened the brass buttons on his jacket, then slid her arms around him, moving nearer, and he pressed her shoulders into the hay, laying close beside her. Then he took off his tie, his stiff, starched collar and opened his shirt and she laid her head on his chest, her fingertips gentling his body, feeling, exploring.

‘Don’t you wear a bra, Rosie?’

‘Yes, but not tonight.’

She pulled down the zip of her skirt, sinking her heels into the hay, lifting her buttocks so she could slide it off.

‘There, now,’ she whispered, wishing she could see the love in his eyes when he took her.

He pulled her to him again, feeling her skin soft and warm and the flatness of her stomach as she arched towards him, offering, asking silently.

‘You’re sure about us, Rosie?’

‘Very sure.’ She took his face in her hands, her lips a kiss away from his. ‘And I want you now …’

She felt his hardness against her, then relaxed so he took her easily, gently, as if they had been lovers before. And she wondered at the pulsating joy of it, and knew at once that loving was right and decent.

Sinking her fingertips into his back, she strained closer, whispering, ‘Kiss me?’ and that kiss was their wedding vows, the hand raised in blessing, society’s approval. Jon and Rosie, always.

They did not speak again for a long, long time.

‘Do you know where your torch is, Jon?’

‘Mm. In my greatcoat …’

He extended an arm, feeling for it in the darkness, dipping a hand in the pocket. Then he pulled the heavy coat over their nakedness, and switched on the light.

‘Hullo, sweetheart.’

He looked at her face, soft with loving; at eyes that gazed, slightly surprised, into his; at the spread of hair, tangled in the hay.

‘Hullo yourself.’ Her voice was low and husky, as if she were close to tears.

‘You’ll have to comb your hair,’ he said softly, ‘before you go in.’

‘Ssssh.’ She shifted her hand into the pool of light, to look at her watch. ‘It’s only half-past nine.’ She snuggled close, kissing his throat, his chin. ‘Tell me?’

‘I love you, darling.’

‘And I love you, Jon. I wondered if I would still love you – afterwards, I mean – and I do. And I thought I’d feel embarrassed, but I don’t. All I feel is – is –’

‘Married?’

‘Mm.’ Her body ached from loving him. ‘Why can it only be Saturdays?’

‘Soon, it’ll be different – the light nights, remember …’

‘Maybe then we’ll be able to spend a whole day together.’

‘Or a whole night.’

‘Don’t, darling.’ She wanted, all at once, to speak in a whisper so the Fates should not hear and be jealous. Yet for all that she felt strong and sure; a woman. She was Jon’s, and his love was wrapped around her like a warm, shining blanket. Nothing could harm her now; she belonged.

‘Why not? It’s possible. Anything is possible. It’s you and me now. We’ll make things happen for us.’ His hands gentled the rounds of her shoulders and he thought, incredulously, that she was his! All of her! ‘God! I love you!’

‘Oh, I know you do!’ She said it with teasing smugness, laughing softly, sure of herself, of the new creature she had become.

‘I want you again.’

‘Good. Leave the light on, Jon.’

Rosamund squared her shoulders, then opened the kitchen door. She had thought her parents would be in bed; that she would have time to compose herself, to blink the love out of her eyes and tell herself that Jon had gone, and that she was Bart and Mildred Kenton’s daughter again, biddable and obedient.

But they were sitting at either side of a dying fire, and she knew there would be no going back, that they must never call her child, again.

‘What time do you call this?’ her mother said, too softly.

‘It’s late, and I’m sorry. But you shouldn’t have waited up.’

She wondered if her love for Jon was printed large across her forehead or if her eyes would give her away.

‘It’s half-past eleven! Where have you been?’

‘I’m only half an hour late.’

‘I said where – have – you – been?’ The words were thick with innuendo, demanding an answer.

‘I – I’ve been out. You know I have.’

She raised her head to meet her mother’s eyes and saw a face that was bitter; looked across at her father who sat unmoving, hands on the arms of the chair. His eyes bore a look of resignation as if he had tried his best and been overruled by his wife’s anger. And in that moment she felt sudden pity for them both because she knew they had not, never would, know a loving like hers and Jon’s.

‘Where, until this time? And I want the truth!’

‘Very well. I’ve been out with a man; an airman. He’s a pilot at the aerodrome, and he’s called Jon. Jonathan Hunt.’

There was a shaking inside her, but it felt as if her hands were in Jon’s hands and his kisses still on her lips, and a courage she didn’t know she was capable of swept through her.

‘A man! I knew it all along! I told you, didn’t I, Bart Kenton? She’s up to no good, I said, but you did nothing about it!’

Her mother’s eyes gleamed with fury and her mouth was set tight as a steel trap. She looked as if any moment she would burst out screaming, or hit her, Rosamund thought.

‘I’m sorry, Dad. I should have told you.’

‘And what about me, lady? Am I of no consequence in this house? Now I want to know that man’s rank and number – everything you know about him. Then I’m going to ring the aerodrome and speak to the man in charge!’

‘If you do you’ll turn yourself into a laughing stock, Mother. And I shall leave this house!’

‘You can’t! You’re still a minor! And the Ministry of Labour won’t let you, anyway!’

She’s mad, Rosamund thought. She really is mad! And she’s going to have a heart attack!

‘Mother, please calm down? You’re going to be ill!’

‘Ill? And who’ll be to blame for it, eh?’

She collapsed into the chair, shoulders heaving, hands clenched into fists, and in that moment Rosamund believed in reincarnation just as Jon did; knew that if Margaret Dacre’s soul still roamed unshriven, then it was here, now, inside her mother!

‘I think we all get what we deserve. If I have deceived you, then I’ll be punished for it. But some of the blame will lie at your door, Mother, because I didn’t dare tell you. I tried to tell Dad, then knew it was no good; that you wouldn’t let me bring Jon home.’

‘Home! Bring a man into my house who’s been carrying on with my daughter behind my back! How dare you even think such a thing?’

‘How, indeed?’ Rosamund went to stand beside her father’s chair. She wanted to show she cared for him, sympathized with him. Behind her was the little door of the stairs that led to her bedroom, and she wanted its safeness close at hand so that if her new-found courage failed her she could bolt upstairs and lock the door of her room behind her. ‘Crazy of me, wouldn’t it be, to tell you I love him very much, because you don’t know the meaning of the word, Mother! And I was mad to think you’d let us get married! Because I want us to be married. All right – so I’ve known him just two months, but I knew the minute we met that he was right for me!’

‘Ha! Met!’ Mildred Kenton jumped to her feet and began to pace the floor. ‘And where did you meet him? Bessie Drake has a hand in this, hasn’t she?’

‘Bessie had no hand in it. Do you think I’d be stupid enough to involve her? I met Jon in Laceby; bumped into him in the blackout and we got talking. We’ve been meeting ever since.’

No need to go into detail; tell about the aerodrome dances, nor the meetings at the little iron gate. And she must never let her mother find Jon’s photograph, look at it with hatred. Witches ill-wished, and tonight there was such evil about her mother that if she let herself, Rosamund knew she could be very, very afraid.

‘Then it’s going to stop, do you hear me! You are not to leave this house after dark! And you’re to stop seeing that man; forget all about him, because he won’t ever be welcomed into my house! And you can stop your foolish thoughts, an’ all! You’re a child still; don’t know your own mind! Married, indeed!’ She glared at her husband. ‘She’s known him eight weeks, and she wants to be wed! Well, with a bit of luck his plane will crash, and serve him right!’

‘Mother!’ Red flashes of rage blinded Rosamund and hatred took her, shook her into action. She lunged at the woman, the witch who tormented her, pushing her, sending her sprawling into the fireside chair. ‘How could you? How could anyone be so evil as to wish a young man dead?’

‘Rosamund! Mildred! That’s enough!’ Bart Kenton was on his feet, snatching at his daughter’s flailing fists, pulling her away.

‘Stop it, Dad! Don’t get involved. She isn’t worth it! She’s wicked!’ Rosamund tore free of his hands, then turned to face her mother again. ‘Well, you can ill-wish Jon all you like but you won’t harm him, because ill wishes rebound on the sender and it’ll be you who’ll be dead!

‘And I’m going upstairs now, Mother, because I can’t bear to be in the same room as you, but before I do, let me just tell you this. I know it isn’t any use my asking you to meet Jon, much less let us be married, because I know you wouldn’t so much as listen. But I’m not ashamed of deceiving you and I’m not ashamed of loving Jon, only of not telling you about him before now! And I’m sorry, Dad, but I won’t apologize to her, not even if she never speaks to me again! I’m just sorry she’s my mother, though how you both got me, I’ll never know!’

To her mother’s scream of outrage, Rosamund slammed shut the stair door, then flung into her room, turning the key, groping for the candlestick and matches at the bedside.

The candleflame dipped and guttered, then grew, lighting the area around the bed, leaving dark corners. She dropped to her knees, opening a drawer, taking out Jon’s photograph, needing the comfort of his nearness. She folded it in her arms, rocking to and fro, fear surging through her.

‘I’m sorry, Jon,’ she whispered through a choke of tears. ‘They know about us now. I had to tell them and it was stupid of me because now she has ill-wished you!’

Just an hour ago they had been together with everything golden and shining and wonderful beyond believing, yet now it was as if their loving was wrong; that evil had touched it and fouled it.

Below her, she heard raised voices, and tears flowed afresh; not for what she had done nor the upset she had caused, but because her mother’s anger was now being hurled at her father; now it was his turn to suffer.

Doors banged, and she heard footsteps on the staircase, then no more. She drew in her breath and listened, but the argument was not to be continued in that big, double bed. Perhaps, for once, her father had ordered her mother to be quiet!

But it would all be there in the morning, she thought despairingly; her mother’s eyes following her, accusing her silently, ill-wishing her too, maybe. And her mother’s mouth would be button-tight and she would go around with her pained look; her after-all-I-have-done-for-this-family look. And life would not be worth living for Dad.

She fished for her handkerchief and blew her nose as quietly as she could, then drew in a sighing gulp of air, holding it as long as she could, letting it go in little calming puffs. Then she looked at the photograph again, touching it, thinking about their loving, their coupling, and the wonder of it. And all at once she knew she would fight like a hellcat; take on the entire world if she had to, because nothing and no one – not even the force of her mother’s hatred – would keep them apart!

Tomorrow she would tell her parents that nothing would prevent her from seeing Jon, and that if she had to she would go to the Ministry of Labour office and tell them she wanted to change her war work – beg, if that was what it took! And from this night on, she would meet Jon in Laceby, do it openly, be with him as often as the war allowed! And if her mother so much as thought again of getting in touch with his commanding officer, she would be reminded that people who dealt in black-market eggs and clothing coupons, and who churned butter when buttermaking was illegal, should put their own conscience in order before telling other people what to do!

‘I hate you, Mother, and if anything happens to Jon, I shall spend the rest of my life hating you!’ she whispered to the shadowy corners of the room. ‘You spoiled tonight for me, and I’ll never forgive you for it!’

All at once she wished she had gone completely mad and told them that she and Jon were lovers; hurled it at them defiantly, but she knew it would have played into her mother’s hands. And anyway, what did her mother know about loving?

She closed her eyes and shuddered to think of the manner of her getting, and wished with all her heart it need not have been so; that her conceiving had been immaculate, or even that they had found her under a gooseberry bush. Anything but that!

She laid her cheek to the photograph, wondering if Jon were back in camp yet; if he were in bed in the hut they shared with Z-Zebra and if he was thinking about her, wanting her, loving her still.

‘I love you, my darling,’ she whispered to his smiling image. ‘I won’t let anyone spoil it for us; I promise.’

Slowly she undressed, dropping each garment to the floor. Then she carried the candle to the dressing-table mirror and looked at the body Jon had taken; called back his mouth on her shoulders, her breasts, her lips; wondered at the joy of belonging.

Then cold shivered through and she pulled on her pyjamas, debating if she dare go down to the kitchen and take a hot brick out of the fire oven, then defiantly pushed her feet into her slippers.

Of course she dare! She was Jon’s now, and touched with everything that was magic, and even if she were still in the kitchen, her mother could not hurt her!

Quietly she walked down the stairs; carefully she opened the oven door, taking a brick, wrapping it in one of the pieces of blanket that hung, precisely folded, on the wire beneath the mantelshelf.

Then she closed the staircase door behind her and it was as if she were shutting out all the accusations and angry words, and the evil in her mother’s eyes.

Tomorrow was a new day, and she would take it as best she could. But what remained of this night belonged to lovers and all she wanted was to creep into bed, go over it all in her mind, live again every kiss, every touch, every word of love.

‘Good night, my darling. See you. And by the way, I love you …’

Smiling, she placed the photograph beside her bed.

Rosamund awoke with a start and lay quite still, listening. But nothing broke the silence; Shep had not barked; there were no returning bombers.

She lit the candle, then saw Jon’s face smiling at her through the pale, flickering glow, remembering last night, and coming home to the awful things that had been said in anger and malice and spite.

It was five o’clock. Best she should get up; make a start on the milking, collect her thoughts before her father came into the shippon at half-past.

Slowly she dressed, pulling on trousers and warm socks and a sweater. She did it as she did it every morning; automatically and half asleep. She didn’t really come to life, mornings, until her mother brought mugs of tea to the shippon.

Her mother. She stood quite still, eyes closed, demanding of herself if the white-hot hatred she had felt was still inside her, and knew it was.

‘See you,’ she whispered as she laid Jon’s photograph in the bottom of the drawer; said it defiantly, like a promise. Then she ran downstairs on stockinged feet, pulled on gumboots and a thick jacket, jammed a woollen beret on her head.

She gasped as the cold air outside hit her, and hurried to the shippon to find her father already there, lighting hurricane lamps, hanging them on roof hooks. She stood in the doorway, not knowing what to say.

‘Shut the door, lass. We don’t want to be done for the blackout.’

‘Dad?’ she whispered, grateful that he had broken the brittle silence. ‘Last night …’

‘Last night is over and done with. Best leave it.’

His face was pale and tired-looking and she felt ashamed that she had been the cause of his sleepless night.

‘No, Dad, it isn’t. And I can’t – won’t – say sorry to her, because of what she said! It’s a terrible thing to wish someone dead. I won’t ever forgive that. And when she brings the tea, I won’t speak to her!’

‘There’ll be no tea, this morning. The kitchen fire is out and your mother asleep. She was awake a long time, last night. Lass, why did you have to come out with it like you did? Couldn’t you have bided your time?’

‘No, I couldn’t. It had to be said. I tried to tell you about Jon, remember? I was going to ask you to be on my side and persuade Mum he could come to tea. But I couldn’t say it and I asked you about my grandparents instead.’

‘Aye. Well, talking of that, I never got around to telling you I still keep in touch with my father. Only on his birthday, mind, and at Christmas. I slip him a pound or two inside a card, so he’ll know I think of him, even if it’s only twice a year. But I wish you’d told me. Is he a decent lad, then, this pilot?’

‘Like I said last night – I love him. I was going to ask you to let us get married, the day we talked about grandparents, but I knew it would be hopeless. And anyway, how can I know my own mind? To you I’m a child still! But I’ll tell you something! On Friday I was at the fence, watching the aerodrome, and there were some of those big bombs on trolleys, and young Waafs in charge of them! Nobody calls them child, when they’re towing one of those blockbusters behind them! And the Ministry of Labour didn’t call them child when they sent them into the Armed Forces! Why won’t my mother let me grow up? Why does she throw a fit, if she thinks I’ve been within spitting distance of a man?’

‘I don’t know, and that’s a fact, Rosamund. Your mother was never one to share her thoughts with me. But I don’t want a repetition of last night’s behaviour. I’ve said as much to your mother and I’m telling you, an’ all. Your mother was out of order, and so were you. I thought you were going to hit her!’

‘Then it’s a pity you stopped me, because I wanted to! She said she hoped Jon’s bomber would crash! How can anyone be so rotten?’

‘It was said in the heat of the moment, lass. Happen she’s sorry now.’

‘Yes, and happen she isn’t, because she meant it, I know she did! But if I caused trouble for you, Dad, I’m sorry. You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you – not deliberately. But I won’t be kept in! I’m going to see Jon again tonight if he isn’t flying, and Mum had better not try to stop me!’

‘At about nine, maybe? I wondered why you popped off so regular when the news came on.’

‘Well, now you know. Jon walks all the way from the aerodrome just so we can have a few minutes together. And on Saturday nights, I meet him at the aerodrome dance. Bessie does know about him, but I don’t want Mum to know that. She thinks Bessie’s a bad influence, and she isn’t.’

‘And where do you meet this young man every night, then?’

‘Not every night, Dad. Two or three nights he’s flying, but when he isn’t he waits at the little gate. He wanted to come to the house; knock on the door, he said, and introduce himself, but I said he wasn’t to, that I would tell you about him first. He didn’t want for us to seem to be carrying on, as Mum put it, behind her back!’

She stopped abruptly, because her father had been kind to her, tried to understand, and his sympathy brought back last night’s tears. She stood for a moment, fighting them, taking deep breaths, shaking her head because she didn’t know what else to say or to do.

‘There now, lovey. Don’t take on so.’ He gathered her into his arms, patting her back, hushing her as he hadn’t done since she was little. ‘It’s a fine old kettle of fish, and no mistake, but we’ll have to try to sort a bit of sense out of it, see what’s to be done …’

He gave her his handkerchief and she dabbed her eyes and swallowed hard, turning her back on him, because she despised herself for the way she was hurting him.

‘Thanks, Dad. But don’t get involved? This is between me and Mother, and it’s about time I stood up to her. I’m not giving Jon up, no matter what, and if anything happens to him it’ll be her fault! Doesn’t she know that bad wishes can rebound? Can’t she realize she could die instead, or you, or me? How can she pray in chapel? How can she even put a foot over the threshold?’

Her voice rose again to near hysteria and she pulled her sleeve over her eyes.

‘Rosamund!’ Bart Kenton’s voice was harsh as he took his daughter’s arm and pulled her roughly to face him. ‘I have never in all my life lifted a hand to a woman, but if you don’t calm down and get a hold of yourself, I’ll slap you! I will!’

‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Suddenly she felt limp and drained of all feeling. ‘I’ll be all right. Just give me a minute? I – I’ll get the stools, and pails. And I won’t mention Jon again. There won’t be any more trouble, I promise, unless Mother starts it. Only don’t either of you try to stop me seeing Jon!’

She turned, gasping on her breath, willing herself not to weep, wondering what had gone wrong with her world when last night she had been so happy.

‘I love you, Jon Hunt,’ she whispered. ‘Love you, love you.’ And she went on saying it until the pain inside her eased, and she was able to face her father again.