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polish and wondered if her shell earrings, for supper, would be going too far.
     
     
    Contrary to her predictions, the object of Prue’s desire was far from beside himself at supper. He sat between his mother and Ag, silently eating chicken stew and mashed potatoes. He seemed not to notice the trouble Prue had taken with her appearance: spotted green bow in her hair, dazzling lipstick to match a crochet jersey, and smelling extravagantly of her Parisian scent. Mrs Lawrence, who as usual sat down at the table last, was the only one to react to all Prue’s efforts. She sniffed, grimacing.
    ‘Janet’s coming, Sunday lunch, Joe,’ she said. ‘She rang while you were out.’
    ‘Oh yes?’
    ‘Janet,’ Mrs Lawrence explained to the girls in general, ‘manages to get here about once a month. It’s a long journey. She’s stationed in Surrey.’
    ‘That’s nice, her being able to get over at all,’ said Prue. ‘Nice for you, Joe.’ A thousand calculations buzzed in her head. She gave Joe a smile he arranged not to see.
    Mrs Lawrence’s news failed to open a lively conversation. The aching girls became sleepier as they ate, only half listened to talk between Joe and Mr Lawrence about problems with the tractor. Supper over, they were invited into the sitting-room to listen to the news, but all volunteered to go to bed.
    As the girls went upstairs – Mrs Lawrence insisted she needed no help with the washing-up – Prue observed Joe slip out of the front door. Where was he going? If her plan was to work, she must find out about his movements. The idea excited her enough to dispel her sleepiness. When the other two were in bed, their lights quickly out, she went to the window, stared moodily down at the farmyard. She saw Joe mount his bicycle by the barn and ride out through the gate. If his beloved Janet was three counties away, who was it he was going to see? Prue remained at the window, intrigued, until eventually she heard a distant church clock strike nine. Cold by now, she went to her bed, but could not sleep for the dancing of her plans.
     
     
    On the stroke of nine from the same church clock, Ratty Tyler, sitting by the range in his small kitchen, knocked out his pipe and rose to make his wife a cup of tea. Edith was ensconced at the kitchen table, a dish of newly iced buns beside her, all ready to cause distress among early customers next morning. The dim light, over-protected by a dark tin shade, was pulled down as far as its iron pulley would go. Edith’s hands, parsnip coloured in its murky beam, concentrated on the darning of a sock.
    ‘So?’ she said.
    ‘So what?’
    Ratty had been waiting for this all evening. He had observed the difficulty Edith had had, holding herself in, all through their soup and bread and cheese.
    ‘What’re they like?’
    ‘What’re who like?’
    ‘You know what I’m saying, Ratty Tyler.’
    ‘That I don’t.’
    Edith sighed, bit off a new length of grey wool with her dun teeth.
    ‘The girls.’
    ‘The land girls?’
    ‘Of course the land girls. What other girls would I be asking about?’
    Ratty gave her question some thought. ‘Just girls, far as I could see,’ he offered eventually. He put a cup of tea on the table. There were more questions to come, he could see that. He must play for time. Anything for time.
    ‘Where’s the sugar?’
    ‘Same place it’s always been for the last thirty years. Your mind must be elsewhere.’
    It was elsewhere, all right. It was always elsewhere when he came home.
    ‘I was thinking about Mrs L., so happens,’ he said. ‘Taking on the girls eases some problems, but makes a lot more work for her.’
    ‘Pah!’ spat Edith, disbelieving. ‘Never known you trouble yourself about Mrs L. before. It’s the girls you were thinking of, I’ve no doubt.’ Her needle, newly charged with wool, dived swift as a kingfisher towards its prey of a hole in a brownish heel. ‘You may as well tell me.’
    Ratty placed the sugar bowl by