5

      ‘You can say what you like, it’s getting a lot lighter now, in the mornings,’ Kath remarked, her eyes fixed on the bird that hovered over the churchyard. ‘Is that a kestrel?’

      ‘It is. Out hunting for breakfast; mice or voles, a rat, if it’s lucky.’

      They ate rats? ‘Y’know, I think I like kestrels.’

      ‘Thought you might.’ Roz paused, then said hesitantly, ‘Kath – remember the other day we were talking about – well –’

      ‘About being careful? Not getting pregnant?’

      ‘Yes. And I’m not.’ Her cheeks flushed crimson. ‘Pregnant, I mean. Thought you’d be glad to know.’

      ‘I’m glad if you are,’ Kath said softly.

      ‘What do you think?’ There was relief in her voice. ‘Just think, Kath, in less than three days Paul will be back. I’m an idiot, aren’t I, wishing my life away? I miss him, though.’ They were walking past the little church, eyes still on the bird of prey. ‘My parents are there, in the churchyard.’

      ‘And your grandfather – the one who died in the last war – is he there, too?’

      ‘No. He never came home. He’s with all the other soldiers who died there, but Gran has never been to France to see his grave as some wives have. She had a stone put up here for him. I suppose she likes to think he’s here in Alderby with all the other Fairchilds.’

      ‘That’s sad.’ Kath frowned. ‘I think I’d want to go, if I could, to see where he is. It might have comforted her, if she had.’

      ‘She doesn’t want to be comforted. That’s why she still hates Germans. She finds more comfort doing that.’

      They left the little graveyard behind them, with its moss-covered headstones, its yew trees and the railed-off corner where all the Fairchilds lay. Roz did not agree with those railings; even as a small child she had demanded to know why it should be so.

      ‘Because they’re Fairchilds.’

      ‘Poor things. Aren’t they lonely, cut off from the others?’

      ‘I don’t think so.’ And Gran had said she would understand when she was older, but she hadn’t. She still didn’t.

      ‘I’m sorry for your gran.’ Kath sighed, it’s a long time ago now. Wouldn’t you think she’d have got over it a little?’

      ‘You would, but she hasn’t. I told her about what Marco did, but she just cut the conversation dead; refused to listen. I suppose we should hate Marco, too, come to think of it.’

      ‘We should, but I can’t; not now. He didn’t have to put himself at risk for me, but he did. He didn’t hate me, did he?’

      ‘Nope. It’s a funny old world. By the way, Gran says I’m to ask you to Sunday tea – if you can call egg sandwiches tea, that is. She’d like to meet you and I can show you paintings and photographs of Ridings as it used to be, if you’re interested.’

      ‘Interested? I’d love to come.’ Kath blushed with pleasure. ‘I’ll have to wear my uniform, though. I haven’t any civvy clothes with me. Will she mind?’

      ‘Of course she won’t. Apart from hating Germans – and Italians now, of course – and fussing over Ridings as if it’s something special, Gran’s quite normal and rather a love, most of the time. I’ll tell her you’ll come. Will half-past two suit you, then we can have a walk around the ruins while it’s still light.’

      ‘Any time at all.’ Kath beamed, picking up a milk-crate. Afternoon tea at the big house. Now fancy that.

      ‘I’m getting sick of waiting for it to be summer.’ Arnie Bagley scraped his porridge bowl thoroughly and noisily. ‘When is it going to be sunny again?’

      ‘Soon, lad. Soon.’ Polly longed for warmer days, too. ‘Winter’s more than half over. Afore very much longer we’ll be able to have Sunday tea in the daylight, then we’ll know for sure that spring isn’t far away.’

      Sunday tea in Yorkshire was always taken at five o’clock, just as Sunday dinner was taken at one. They were habits a body didn’t break, Polly considered – well, not around these parts – and it was generally accepted that on the second Sunday in February the days would have drawn out sufficiently to enable tea to be eaten in ‘the light’. High tea, that was. A knife and fork tea, though heaven only knew how a body was to manage with the weekly sugar ration cut to half a pound. And in February, the Government was to cut fats by an ounce – lard, margarine and butter, too, which would put paid to saving up a little for a cake. No more home-made cakes now, and shop cakes so hard to come by that you could queue for half an hour and still not get one.

      ‘Toast?’ she demanded, forking a slice of bread, holding it to the coals.

      And as if that were not enough, what about those Japs invading Burma? So what about the tea ration now? Not that she was at all sure that Burma had tea plantations, but those Japanese soldiers had taken a step nearer to India – which did.

      But before very long there would be American soldiers in Britain which would be a help, she acknowledged, us having been on our own since Dunkirk. It had made a difference in the last war, though they hadn’t got themselves over in time to save Mr Fairchild, nor Tom.

      ‘Spring starts on the twentieth of March, doesn’t it, Aunt Poll?’

      ‘Spring starts when it thinks it will; when there’s no more flowers on that winter jasmine,’ she said, nodding to the window and the creeper, bright with yellow flowers, that grew around it. ‘You can’t say winter’s really gone till the last of those little flowers have fallen, so think on. That’s the day spring starts. Nature don’t have a calendar. And there’s Kath at the door with the milk. Fetch it in, lad, afore those pesky little blue tits start pecking at the top.’

      ‘It was Roz left it, not Kath.’

      ‘And how do you know that, then?’

      ‘’Cos she was whistling. Kath doesn’t whistle. Suppose Roz is happy because her boyfriend –’ He stopped, not at all sure he’d meant to say so much.

      ‘Because her what? Roz hasn’t got a boyfriend – well, maybe Jonty, perhaps.’