Rosamund called the horse to a stop, leaning against it to manoeuvre it sideways onto the grass verge, placing herself between it and the oncoming car.
The camouflaged car, driven by a woman sergeant, slowed to a crawl and Rosamund held up a hand in thanks.
‘All right, old man.’ She patted the neck of the huge shire horse. ‘Walk on, then.’
That, she thought, would be the group captain and the colonel, ten minutes early. She was glad that by the time she returned they would probably be gone.
She’d got up early and had started milking by the time her father walked into the shippon. She’d smiled, nodding briefly, then looked down at the pail of milk. She hoped he wouldn’t want to talk. There was big trouble ahead, she knew it, but not just yet; not until the men had been and gone.
She had been sick again this morning; had run, hand on mouth, head down, to the corner of the cow pasture and vomited into the hedge bottom. Three months, didn’t they say it lasted?
‘Will you take the horse back to Hawkhill after we’ve had breakfast, lass?’ Her father was standing at her side in the shippon. ‘Your mother isn’t very well; says she’s stopping in bed and wants nothing to do with those men from the RAF.’
Nor with me, either, Rosamund thought, though she had the sense not to say it.
‘You’ll need breakfast, Dad. I’ll make you some before I leave. Will something cold be all right?’ She couldn’t face the frying pan.
‘Something cold will do nicely.’
‘When I get back, I’ll go straight to Wolfen – start turning the hay, will I?’
‘If that’s what you want, lass. Are you all right?’
‘As right as I’ll ever be, Dad.’ She stopped pulling and looked into his face; his kind, bewildered face. ‘And I’m not going to act up, make any bother. I know we did wrong, Jon and me, and I know there’ll be things said at chapel and in the village when it all comes out, and I’m sorry.’
‘You aren’t the first and you won’t be the last,’ Bart sighed. ‘But one thing at a time, eh? Happen when your mother’s feeling better and those men have gone, we’ll all of us sit down, civilized, and see what’s to be done.’
‘Yes. It’ll have to be talked about and I’ll go away somewhere if that’s what you think best, so there’s as little gossip as possible. But if the baby isn’t welcome, then neither am I. I’m keeping her.’
‘Aye, lass. You said. Though how you’ll manage, I don’t know.’
‘Nor me. But one thing at a time, eh, Dad?’
‘You’re right.’ Briefly he had touched her shoulder, then shrugged into his milking coat and no more had been said between them.
When she had taken the churns to the standing, Rosamund was surprised to see her mother, washed and dressed and wearing a clean apron.
‘Do you want breakfast?’ she’d asked, arranging knives and forks without looking up.
‘No thanks. I’ll just have a slice of bread – dry, if you don’t mind, then I’ll take the horse back.’
‘It’ll want feeding, first …’
‘Yes. I’ll see to it.’ But even so, she would be well out of the way before half-past ten. And maybe, when They had been and gone there might be other, more urgent things to talk about than what to do about a girl who’d got herself pregnant out of wedlock, and didn’t have a man to marry her and make it decent. Because those men weren’t on the lookout for billets. She had given it quite a bit of thought and couldn’t believe that it took two fairly high-ranking officers to tout for accommodation, personnel for the use of, when lesser ranks could have done it every bit as well. Trouble was, she didn’t care what they wanted. All she worried about was when they left, because that would be when hell would be let loose, over the baby. Her mother would want her pound of flesh!
She passed six oaks with her head held high, then took the fork that branched left, and up a steep incline to Hawkhill, a farm more isolated than their own.
‘All right, old lad?’ Just a steady, half-mile climb to the farmhouse, then straight to Wolfen meadow with a hay fork so she needn’t come face to face with her mother again until it was time to eat.
Why wasn’t Jon here? Why did They send him on that last op? And how was she to face life without him?
She squared her shoulders, then laid a hand on her abdomen. They would make it, she and Sprog. Somehow.
If she had thought to slip away to the hayfield unnoticed, it hadn’t worked, Rosamund thought as her father waved to her from the kitchen doorway.
‘I was going to Wolfen, Dad.’
‘No! Leave it! Come and talk to your mother.’
‘Won’t it wait? Isn’t the hay more important?’
‘Come inside.’ He took her arm, urging her to follow him.
‘Your mother’s in a right tizzy. I’m not right sure what I’m to do with her!’
‘Go to Wolfen, Dad. It’s me she wants to talk to. We’ll thrash it out between us.’
‘No! Not you! It was those men did it!’
‘But what happened? What did they say to upset her?’ Her mother did indeed look ill. She lay in the kitchen chair, eyes closed, her face ashen.
‘Mother! What has happened?’
But Mildred Kenton was past speaking and turned her head from side to side. She looked, Rosamund thought, like a helpless, newborn kitten, eyes still blind, mewling for its mother.
‘You’d better sit down, lass – if you want it in a nutshell and straight between the eyes, like they gave it to us, that is! They want Laburnum, Rosamund! We’ve got a month to get out!’
‘Dad!’ Her cry was one of disbelief. ‘They can’t! Haven’t they taken enough?’
‘It isn’t the house; it’s the land. The kettle’s boiling. Make us a mashing of tea? Happen a drink might help your mother.’
Like an automaton, Rosamund reached for china mugs, the brown teapot, the caddy. Taking Laburnum Farm? But what could They want it for? She poured water into the pot as carefully as her shaking hand would allow. And where were they to go? What would become of the livestock? And the hay! They’d only cut it yesterday!
‘I don’t believe any of this.’ She stirred the teapot noisily. ‘I mean – this morning we had a home and land. Then two men come and tell us to get out! Where will we live? Where will you work, Dad?’
‘They can put us in the workhouse as far as I’m concerned!’ Mildred found her voice. ‘If I can’t live here, I’d be better off dead!’
‘No you wouldn’t, Mildred! Pull yourself together! It isn’t the end of the world. They’ll give us Laburnum back when they’ve finished with it.’
‘I won’t let them take my house, Bart Kenton!’
‘You can’t stop them! They can do exactly as They please. We’ve got four weeks, that’s all, and we’ll have to be rid of the livestock a week before that. All those years,’ Bart choked, ‘building up a pedigree herd for it to end up in the cattle market!’
‘Stop it! I can’t stand any more!’
‘Tea, Mother? Tea will help. Sit up straight, and drink it.’ Rosamund wrapped her mother’s fingers around the mug, guiding it to her mouth.
‘Nothing will help!’ She pushed aside the mug and hot tea slopped on Rosamund’s arm. ‘All I want is to wake up and for someone to tell me none of this has happened; that my daughter hasn’t got herself into trouble and those men aren’t going to turn us out of Laburnum!’
Yes. She would go along with that, Rosamund thought bitterly; would like nothing better than to awaken to a dragonfly morning, and Jon at her side.
‘Your tea is beside you, Mother. Don’t knock it over.’ She placed the mug on the hearth. ‘Come outside, Dad? We’ve got to talk.’
Taking a mug in either hand, she pushed open the door with her foot, crossing the yard to the pump trough, indicating with a nod of her head for her father to sit beside her.
‘Tell me? Right from the start!’
‘Your mother – she’ll be all right on her own?’
‘She’ll do. What I want is to hear about it without all the drama. Drink your tea, then tell me. And I’m sorry, Dad, that you’ve got all this to put up with on top of everything else.’ She touched his hand as she gave him the mug, lingering her fingers on it briefly. ‘There must be someone we can appeal to?’
‘There isn’t. No appeal. They want the keys in four weeks. I wish I’d had the shotgun handy. I don’t know who’d have got it first: me, or them!’
‘Please tell me?’ She was shaking, and all at once cold.
‘Well, they arrived – polite enough …’ The American had been almost friendly, offering his hand. The RAF officer, Bart remembered, had merely nodded and said they wouldn’t come in, thanks. They had merely come to deliver – this.
‘This was a requisition, lass! Laburnum Farm, it amounted to; but you can read it for yourself later.’
‘But didn’t they say why? Surely it was a bit more than “Get out. We want your place”?’
‘They didn’t stop long – ten minutes – and most of that went in calming your mother down. What it amounts to, as far as I can see – and I was asked, told, to say nothing yet – is that the RAF is clearing out.’
‘Leaving Laceby Green!’
‘Aye. And the Americans are taking over the aerodrome. The colonel called it an airfield; said there’d be those big ones coming. B-17s or B-24s.’
‘Flying Fortresses and Liberators …’ Rosamund’s mouth was making clicking sounds when she spoke.
‘Something like that. Anyway, they need longer runways, so –’
‘So when they’ve extended them, the north/south one will end up at our cow pasture gate!’ The thought hit her like cold water thrown in her face and she said, hoarsely, ‘Oh God! They won’t pull Laburnum down? It won’t go the same way as Fellstead Farm did?’
‘They told me not. The house is much higher than the cow pasture, the land rises all the way to the paddock, but you don’t need me to tell you that.’
‘No.’
‘That particular runway is to be extended at the other end. Laburnum won’t cop it. It’s the east/west one they’ll be concentrating on, if you ask me. But our house’ll still be too near to big bombers that could overshoot …’
‘So we’re to be cleared out for our own good?’
‘Our safety the American said. Happen they’ll find a use for the house, but I don’t reckon it’ll be knocked down. I hope not, lass. Would drive your mother out of her mind if that happened.’ He rose to his feet, agitated. ‘I’d better go to her.’
‘No, Dad. I’ll stay. Likely she’ll want to talk to me about – well, other things, too. Just drink your tea, then get off to Wolfen. At least They’ve given us time to get the hay dried and stacked. But just tell me, so I’ve got everything straight before I go inside, where are we to go and what will you do? They couldn’t make you work in a factory; all you know about is farming.’
‘They left me a name and phone number I’m to ring if there are any queries or if I need help of any kind. And we won’t be thrown onto the street. They’ll find us somewhere to live – requisition it, he said, if they have to.’
‘Another farm?’
‘No. When I’ve got fixed up with a job they’ll find us a place somewhere near, or that was how it sounded to me. But I wouldn’t mind seeing to the hay, Rosamund.’ He could think quietly whilst lifting and turning the fallen grass. ‘Are you sure you can cope with your mother?’
‘I’ll do my best. Try not to worry too much?’
She watched him walk away, shoulders sagging, a man who had been pushed to the edge. Where was he to find work? A farm labourer again? Her mother would never live in a labourer’s tied cottage. Hell! What a mess! At the kitchen door she touched her abdomen gently, and it gave her the courage to lift the latch.
‘Mother! What on earth!’
Mildred Kenton stood at the sinkstone, washing dishes. Flushed cheeks apart, there seemed no trace of the shocked, helpless woman huddled in a chair, ten minutes ago. But for the redness on her arm, Rosamund might have believed that none of it had happened.
‘Give me those mugs. I’ll wash them. Then you’d better get to Wolfen, give your father a hand. I’ll see to the dinner.’
Fear and bewilderment both took Rosamund as she tried to make sense of it all.
‘Mother! It doesn’t matter any longer about the hay,’ she whispered. ‘You know it doesn’t!’
‘It’s the best crop we’ve had in years! Hay is scarce. We’ll have no bother selling it! It’ll fetch good money!’
‘Look at me!’ She didn’t want to touch her but for all that, Rosamund placed her hands on her mother’s shoulders, turning her about so they stood face to face.
‘All right!’ Suds dripped from Mildred’s fingers and she made no effort to dry her hands. ‘If I must.’
‘Listen! Your daughter is having a baby! They want Laburnum Farm! Dad must find work and we’ll have to move to only God knows where! What has got into you? You’re acting as if nothing has happened!’
‘Am I? Thought I was helpless with shock, did you? Well I’m not! I’m over it now, because when you and him went outside to whisper, it struck me that you thought you’d got the better of me – and you haven’t. It was my money bought this house, my name is on the deeds, and because of it I can do as I want! So that lot can take Laburnum Farm. I can wait till I get it back! I’ll leave, like they want us to and I’ll make sure we’re given the house that I want; somewhere well away from Laceby Green!’
‘Oh, why must you always have your own way? Don’t you think Dad and me might have a say in the matter?’
‘No, I don’t! You, Rosamund Kenton, have thrown away any rights you might have had to an opinion. You’ve got yourself into trouble and you’ll do as I say! And so will your father!’
‘You shouldn’t be talking like this!’ Rosamund’s words were little more than a whisper. ‘You’re in shock. Dad and me don’t know which way to turn we’re so upset, yet all at once you don’t seem to care!’
‘Nor do I! I’ll make sure I get what I want out of those Americans and I’ll bide my time till this war is over and we can move back here again. It can’t last all that much longer.’
‘Not even though rockets are coming thick and fast? Aren’t you afraid of them any more?’
Rockets, secret weapons, V-ls, call them what you like, were devastating London and little could be done against them, so difficult were they to shoot down.
‘Afraid? No! The invasion troops will soon take the launching sites – it said so on the news. They’re all near the coast. They’ll soon be put out of action.’
Bewildered, Rosamund shook her head. For two years the secret weapon had haunted her mother, yet now it had become a terrible reality she was suddenly scornful of it! Her mother was unbalanced! She was mad!
‘So what do you think we should do?’ she asked, picking her words carefully, all at once afraid.
‘Do? We’ll do as I say! I’m not sure yet, but I’ll think it out. Maybe all this has happened for the best. We can go further afield, where no one knows us and there’ll be none to smirk over your condition. There’ll be places you can go to have it, and women willing to adopt it, I shouldn’t wonder. They say some are so desperate for a child in their arms they’ll take anything!’
‘Dad will want drinkings.’ Rosamund was shaking so much she could hardly speak. ‘You haven’t emptied the teapot, have you?’
‘No. Strain it off, and put some cold water to it. Turning hay is thirsty work. Take it to him, then stay there; give him a hand. Dinner’s at twelve thirty sharp!’
As she left for Wolfen Meadow, Rosamund turned in the doorway. One last effort; one more attempt to make sense of what was happening in this kitchen.
‘I’ll tell Dad you’re a bit better, shall I, and that you’re accepting it? But will you tell me, Mother, what has really made you change your mind?’
‘Very well – if I must! I can wait. Like I said, the war is nearly over. I shall think of Laburnum every night when I go to bed and every morning when I get up. And I shall wish harm to everybody in it and every plane that takes off from over yonder. I can do it. When you want very much for something to happen, there are ways. I’ll send ill wishes to this place. They’ll be sorry they ever set foot in my house. I’ll see to it they are!’
Rosamund turned and ran, feet pounding. Her mother wasn’t mad! She was evil! She had ill-wished before, hadn’t she? I hope his plane crashes, and serve him right! Dear God! Margaret Dacre and her mother, both!
She stopped, doubling up, gasping for breath, willing herself to be calm, to think of the baby. Her mother must not be allowed to harm it. And she couldn’t, wouldn’t, tell her father what had happened, what madness had taken place in the kitchen. Her father had had enough; his back wouldn’t take another straw!
She sucked in gulps of air, holding them, letting them go in little huffs and all the time gentling her child, sending her love to it. Then, calmer, she picked up the bottle of cold tea and walked to the hayfield.
‘I’ve come to give you a hand.’ She shaped her lips into a smile.
‘Why have you left your mother?’
‘Because she told me to come here. All at once she’s – she’s fighting mad. Says the war will soon be over and we’ll all be back again. I – I think she intends to get all she can out of the colonel.’
‘Then all I can say is that it’s a rum do!’ He closed his eyes and gulped at the bottle neck. ‘You said she was all right?’
‘She said dinner at twelve thirty sharp.’
‘Well, I suppose we must be grateful for small mercies, though I don’t understand her. I’ve been married to your mother all this time and I’m still no nearer to knowing what goes on inside that head of hers! I hadn’t expected such an about-turn. She’s up to something! She’s got to be!’
‘No, Dad. She’s met her match; knows she’s got to give in so she’s trying to do it gracefully – and is going to make sure the Americans pay through the nose for taking her house! Even Mother knows when she’s beaten!’
She went in search of a fork, using the time to think. But nothing made sense except the thought that stood out clearly in her troubled mind.
Her mother was wicked. Her mother could ill wish. Already Jon was dead. Was it to be the turn of his child next? Was her mother so evil she could harm her own grandchild?
Yes. She could, and would, and will try her damnedest to …
‘Help me, Jon?’ She looked towards the fells. ‘Wherever you are, we need you. Desperately …’
‘I’m going out,’ Rosamund said flatly when supper had been eaten and the table cleared. ‘To Bessie’s.’
‘I see.’ Mildred took the iron kettle from the hob, pouring boiling water into the enamelled bowl in the sinkstone. ‘Is all done?’
‘The churns are in the cooling shed. I’ll take them to the standing in the morning. And the hens are fed and the eggs wiped. Dad has seen to the pigs, and there’s nothing more we can do in Wolfen until morning.’
‘I suppose you’re going to blab your head off about what happened this morning; give them something to gloat over in the village. Because once you tell the Drake woman, you might as well tell it to the town crier!’
On the surface, Rosamund thought, her mother looked ordinary; like any other middle-aged farmer’s wife busy in her kitchen. But her movements were jerky and her eyes were anything but ordinary. They blazed bright blue, their lids lowered almost to a slit, as if no one must look into them for fear of what they saw.
‘I won’t be late. Is there nothing more I can do? Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. Get yourself off, but watch your tongue!’
‘Don’t worry. They probably know more about it than we do!’
Her father was bent over the pump trough, soaping his arms and chest, lathering his hair, and she stood until he had dried his face and blinked open his eyes.
‘Going out for a ride?’
‘Only down to the village. There’s nothing to do, Dad. Why don’t you have a sleep?’
‘I’d thought to walk over to Hawkhill, settle up for the horse.’
The walk was too far for him, Rosamund frowned, after a day in the blazing sun, tossing hay, and milking cows and all the other jobs that happened every day on a farm; some of them twice a day. Maybe losing Laburnum would be a blessing; maybe to go out to work, get away from her mother more, would do him good – give him the company of other men, too.
But she knew he would be sad to leave. Laburnum Farm had been run down and neglected when they bought it. They had wondered, her father once told her, where first to begin, so much needed doing.
They had had three cows to start with. One in calf, and two milking. And they’d had a breeding sow, half a dozen piglets and a dozen hens. Times had not been bad though they had been lean, and sometimes hungry.
Now, when the herd was one to be proud of and their fields – those left to them – were productive, they must leave Laburnum Farm to fall into a decline again, and only heaven knew the liberties They might take with the farmhouse!
‘Pass my clean shirt, will you?’
She took it from the door sneck on which it hung, unfastening the buttons, smiling.
‘I don’t know what’s got into your mother.’ Bart lowered his voice.
‘Nor me. But I think we should take each day as it comes, and be thankful for small mercies.’
‘Did she say anything about –’ He stopped, embarrassed.
‘About the baby? No,’ she lied. ‘You see, there’s nothing can be done about that either. We’ll work something out. You’re not to fret.’
‘Y’know, lass, it’s times like this I wish I had a fill of baccy.’
‘But you haven’t smoked for years!’
‘I know. Just a fancy. Off with you now, and don’t be over late.’
He watched his daughter go and thought that if she lost any more weight there’d be nothing left of her that a puff of wind wouldn’t blow over, poor little lass.
Then his thoughts returned to his wife, who had hardly been out of them since morning. Mildred storming and weeping and acting up was bad enough; Mildred quiet and brooding was altogether something else. He shivered, despite the warmth of the evening and the glow of his freshly towelled body.
Give him tears and tantrums any day. Those he could deal with, or ride out. But Mildred with a grudge he could well do without!
Rosamund turned her head as she rode past six oaks. She wasn’t ready to remember anything about the place yet; good or bad.
She looked forward to seeing Bessie and her mother, though she hoped Mrs Drake would be out, or in the garden, because there were things to be said. Her friend must be told, had a right to know, about the baby. Pity she coudn’t tell her about the Americans coming to the aerodrome, and the bombers, bigger than Lancasters. But they had been asked not to, so she must keep that bit quiet.
How it would be, though, when finally she said goodbye to Bessie, she dreaded to think. No matter where they went or how nice their new house was – even if it had electric lights, and hot and cold water in taps, and a telephone already installed – nothing could make up for leaving Bessie.
‘Ooooh! Am I glad to see you, Rosamund! I’ve got such news that I’d almost decided to come to Laburnum – brave the old witch – to tell you!’ Bessie laughed, holding wide the back door. ‘Dad is on lates and Mum is at the WI, so there’ll be no one to hear us. Come on in!’
‘I’ve got news for you, too, Bess.’
‘Right! Mine first,’ Bessie laughed, when they had settled themselves on cushions on the front doorstep. ‘I struck lucky in two queues this lunchtime. I got a lipstick, and five ciggies for Dad. And promise you won’t tell a soul about what I’m going to tell you?’ She dropped her voice, glancing round to make sure no spies skulked in the bushes.
‘Promise,’ Rosamund whispered back.
‘The RAF is shoving off from the aerodrome! We’re getting Yanks! How about that, then? Gum and Hershey bars and silk stockings! And you’re not to tell a soul!’
‘B-but how did you know? Who told you?’
‘Dad’s drinking pal at the pub. And he’ll lose his stripes if it gets out he’s told anybody, so keep it shut, all right?’
‘I – I don’t believe it!’ Rosamund didn’t. It should have been the last thing she’d have thought to tell Bessie, and now she knew she couldn’t tell her about the baby; she really couldn’t. All at once a voice warned her not to. Not just yet.
‘So what’s your news, Rosamund?’
‘Exactly the same, would you believe!’ Sorry, Bessie! ‘And it’s true, because we were told this morning. And promise you won’t tell a soul –’
‘But I know, idiot!’
‘No. About us having to leave, I mean. Two officers came, this morning. It’s how I know about the Americans. We’ve got to be out of Laburnum in four weeks!’
‘Whaaaat! Flaming ruddy Norah! I don’t believe it!’
‘It’s true.’ Rosamund dashed tears from her eyes.
‘But where will you go? And They can’t move you out. Farming is war work. What will you do with all the animals?’
‘Sell them. And Lord knows where we’ll go. Don’t tell, will you, Bess – about us leaving, I mean? Not a soul. Not even your mother just yet?’
‘Oh, Rosamund!’ Bessie was weeping, too. ‘You might be ages getting the farm back! We mightn’t see each other for years!’
‘I don’t think we’ll be going far – just far enough so that when people gloat, my mother won’t be around to see it, or hear it.’
‘But people won’t gloat! Oh, I know your mother keeps herself to herself and lives in a gentleman’s house, but no woman will be glad They’ve taken her home. They’ll be sorry for her, especially as it’s such a lovely old place.’
‘Mother doesn’t think that. When first they told her, she almost collapsed; then she pulled herself together and you’d think it had never happened! She’s gone all quiet inside, and determined, sort of. But she frightens me. It’s as if she’s going to explode any minute.’
‘A walking time bomb, eh? But what about you, Rosamund? Are things getting any better? You look so – so – poorly. You mustn’t make yourself ill.’
‘I’m all right.’ That had been the time to tell Bessie about the baby, but instead she said, ‘I’m not the only one it’s happened to. I’ve got to learn to be without him.’
‘I wish we were blokes,’ Bessie whispered. ‘We could go to the White Hart and get drunk!’
‘Dry your eyes.’ Rosamund dabbed her own. ‘Your mother will want to know what we’ve been crying about when she gets back, and I’m not to tell anyone we’re leaving, you see.’
‘Your mother is barmy. Are you sure it’s not her age?’
‘Yes. And she isn’t off her head, either. She’s just plain wicked.’
‘Well, I always said she was a witch, only there’s no such thing.’
‘Even though women around these parts were hanged for witchcraft?’
That was three hundred years ago. We’ve got penicillin now, and fighters without propellers.’
‘And flying bombs. Very civilized.’ Rosamund sighed. ‘But set me home, Bess? Walk as far as six oaks with me? I’m tired and I have to be up at five for milking.’
At six oaks they hugged and said good night. Rosamund closed her eyes, and when she opened them, Jon wasn’t there. He would never come to six oaks again. Stupid to think he would, or could.
‘Do you think, Bess, that if I stopped eating, I could fade away, sort of …?’
‘Rosamund Kenton! Don’t ever dare say such a thing again! Don’t even think it! And I’m coming home with you. Someone needs to tell your mother you aren’t well!’
‘No, Bess! No! I didn’t mean it! I’m tired, that’s all. Haymaking, y’see, on top of everything else. I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.’
Of course she couldn’t fade away; there was the baby to think of now, nurture inside her and in February, give life to. Jon’s child was all that mattered – and keeping it safe from evil eyes.
‘You’ll always be my friend, won’t you, Bessie? Even though we have to go away and no matter what you might hear, we’ll still be close?’
‘Of course we will, you daft hap’ orth! And stop saying things like that or I’ll start crying again!’
So Rosamund smiled, and whispered good night, and Bessie stood beside the oak trees and watched her friend out of sight.
Then she began to weep again and for the life of her, she didn’t know why. Perhaps something had walked over her grave? Or Rosamund’s?
‘Oh, damn this war,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m sick, sick, sick of it!’