Whisper on the Wind. Elizabeth Elgin

And the kissing and cuddling had come to an end on their wedding night. From that night on he had merely taken her, grunting into a darkness for which she had been grateful.

      Then why, suddenly, did she feel this way? Did she feel cheated or was this emotion one of envy? Was she jealous of Roz out there in Paul’s arms? Did she, Kathleen Allen, want to snatch at love as Roz did; snatch carelessly, knowing only the need to belong? And why didn’t she ache for Barney as Roz ached for Paul? Was gratitude a poor substitute for love, or did it outlast passion? She folded her clothes with deliberate care, angry with herself for harbouring such thoughts, shocked she could even think them.

      Take a long, smug look in a mirror. You could have married any man you wanted …

      Mouth set tightly she walked past the wall mirror and taking her husband’s photograph from the chest of drawers she held it to her.

      I’m sorry. Lord only knows what nonsense is in my head or where it came from. It’s this war, Barney; this terrible war …

      She shrugged into her dressing gown, hugging it around her. There would be a bedtime pot of tea on the kitchen table, and bread and jam. A cup of tea was what she needed, and a comforting jam sandwich.

      I didn’t mean to find fault with you, Barney. And I’m sorry I said those things to Marco – but you don’t know Marco Roselli, do you?

      Oh, damn, damn, damn! She wasn’t going to that dance on Friday, even if she’d promised she would. Asking for trouble, it would be, with herself in this silly mood.

      A pretty dress and gold dancing slippers, indeed! Oh, my word no!

      For the first time since that mid-December morning, they delivered milk in daylight.

      ‘Paul all right?’ Kath asked. ‘Had a good leave, did he?’

      ‘Great. His sister managed to get home, too. Kath, I want you to help me – need you to help me.’

      ‘What’s the matter?’ Kath glanced up sharply from the delivery book.

      ‘Nothing’s the matter. We’re going to York for the night, and I’ll need an alibi.’

      ‘Roz! Good grief!’ Her cheeks flushed pink. ‘All night?’

      ‘All night. I don’t know how to fix it at home, though. What do I tell Gran?’

      ‘You tell me!’ Kath gasped. ‘Now see here, there’s no way I’m going to help you, but I won’t snitch on you, either. You work it out for yourself, then tell me about it. If I’ve got to tell lies, I might as well tell the same lies as you.’

      ‘Oh, don’t go all prissy on me. I thought you’d understand,’ Roz pouted.

      ‘I do understand, only I’ll not be a party to deceit; not deceiving your gran, that is. What did you have in mind?’ she asked grudgingly.

      ‘I thought I could say I was with you; that you’d got a sleeping-out pass and we were going to the last-house flicks.’

      ‘So we’d be too late to catch the last bus back and have to stay the night?’

      ‘Something like that. Or we could be going to a dance, maybe? The girls at the hostel sometimes go to a big dance in York, don’t they?’

      ‘I believe they do – a couple of times a year – but they organize transport to bring them back when it’s over.’

      ‘Damn!’ It wouldn’t be easy, Roz brooded; she’d never thought it would, but somehow she would make it happen, even if she waited until April to do it.

      ‘We might have to hold it back till my birthday. I don’t want to, but it might be our only chance.’

      ‘But wouldn’t you want to have your birthday at Ridings?’

      ‘Don’t see why. I suppose we’ll push the boat out for my twenty-first and have a good do, then – it’ll depend on the way things are. But I don’t think Gran would worry over much if I said one or two of us were making a night of it, on the twenty-fourth.

      ‘By the way, have you heard if Gone with the Wind has come up north, yet? I’m longing to see it. It’s been on in London for over a year. They get all the fun in London.’

      ‘Yes, Roz, and a lot of the bombs.’

      ‘What’s the matter? You are going to help me, aren’t you?’ Roz demanded.

      ‘I said I would, and I will. I won’t connive, though.’

      ‘Because you happen to be wearing your moody hat, this morning? Is that it?’

      ‘Moody?’ Kath snapped. ‘Who’s moody?’ Roz could be a bit much sometimes!

      ‘You are. You’re not still worrying about Marco, are you – about what you said to him? Marco’s all right. I like him. I just hope Gran won’t want Mat to get rid of him once the ploughing’s finished.’

      ‘But she couldn’t do that!’ Not after the way Marco had worked, and on Ridings land, too.

      ‘She could, she would and she probably will. I’d bet on it.’

      ‘But that wouldn’t be fair, Roz.’ Surely she wouldn’t do anything as underhanded as that? Marco had fitted in well – he even spoke good English. ‘Surely she wouldn’t be so petty?’

      ‘All right, all right! Don’t look so pained, Kath. I’m on your side.’

      ‘Pained? On my side? What on earth do you mean?’

      ‘I mean that I think you like him. You always stick up for him.’

      ‘Of course I like him. I like Jonty and Mr Ramsden, too. Don’t try to read meanings into things that aren’t there. That’s how gossip starts.’

      ‘My, but we’re prickly, this morning. Got a headache?’

      ‘No, I haven’t. You can be so infuriating, Roz Fairchild. You’re so darned smug and happy that you make me want to – to weep!’

      And the worst of it was, she thought dejectedly, Roz was right. Something was irritating her. Last night she had carried her thoughts to bed with her and lain awake, brooding on them and the selfish letter Barney had written.

      ‘It’s Barney, then,’ Roz pronounced. ‘He’s written you another snotty letter. If I were you –’

      ‘Well, you’re not me, so you can –’ Oh, it wasn’t any use. ‘You’re right, Roz. Not a nasty letter, but not a nice one. And selfish, too.’

      ‘Well, I’ve told you what to do, haven’t I? Stick up for yourself.’

      Roz pushed wide the creaking lodge gates then picked up Polly’s milk. ‘I told you ages ago,’ she called smugly, over her shoulder.

      Oh, Roz; moody and counting bombers you take some living with, Kath directed her thoughts at the jaunty back that disappeared behind Polly’s woodshed. But happy and cheerfully planning a night in York with Paul, you’re impossible!

      And dammit, Kath decided, all at once having a try at sticking up for herself, she would go to the Friday-night dance, and more would be the pity if she didn’t bring herself to go the whole hog, and flirt like mad.

      ‘Y’know,’ she murmured, watching her friend close the gates behind the milk-float, ‘I think I will write to Aunt Min and ask her to send me a nice dress.’ And her gold dancing shoes!

      Kath Allen could drive a tractor, harness a pony and milk a cow – by machine, anyway – and she had almost learned to cope with rats, too. So if she wanted to go to a dance with the rest of the girls, then go she would! And for two pins she’d write and tell Barney about it. After all, she might just as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

      ‘Come