As the thought entered her mind she turned into the main road and was walking confidently along the verge when she heard a heavy vehicle approaching from the rear. Immediately her heart gave an excited little bump; it would be the old jalopy which Sam and Taid had agreed would ease their lives considerably. Or it might be the tractor, even though Sam said it needed twice the fuel . . .

It was neither. The disappointment Glenys felt when she looked over her shoulder and saw an army lorry behind her was almost overwhelming, but then common sense reasserted itself. She was still a long way from the railway station; if she could flag the driver down . . .

The lorry drew up alongside her, the window was cranked down, and a young voice said cheerfully: ‘Wanna lift, mate?’

‘Yes, please – I’m on my way to the station,’ she began, but was swiftly interrupted.

‘Well, wharra daft thing to do. Trains cost money; that is they do if you ain’t in the forces. You gorra train pass?’

‘No, but I’ve got money for my fare,’ Glenys said defensively. ‘Where are you going?’

The young soldier revved his engine impatiently. ‘All the way there and back agin,’ he said. ‘I deliver all acrost the country, wharrever they’re short of and wherever they’re short of it: Liverpool, Chester, Wrexham . . . Where’s you want to go? Only gerra move on, else I’ll be late for my first delivery.’ He revved the engine again, and almost as though impelled by the roar Glenys hopped up the step and into the passenger seat.

‘Thanks very much,’ she said breathlessly as the young man pushed the gear lever into first and the huge lorry hiccuped, lurched and began to move forward. ‘Did you say your first stop was Liverpool?’

The young man shrugged and swung the wheel, blinking his lights at another vehicle as the two passed. ‘Depends,’ he said airily. ‘I can take you to Liverpool; there’s plenty of work down at the docks for us drivers. Of course, now war’s been declared we’ll be on the go from morning till night, and from night till morning, come to that. What’s your trade, mate? Goin’ to work in one of them factories? I believe you can make uniforms, or parts for aeroplanes, or even guns and that in the factories on Love Lane.’ He chuckled. ‘Odd name for factories doin’ war work, wouldn’t you say? But they pays real well, and of course if you’re a docker you can’t go wrong.’ He glanced sideways at her and grinned ruefully. ‘But they don’t employ women on the docks, worse luck. So if you’re lookin’ for work, well they say the services always put a square peg into a round hole, so you’d best pick the factory you’d like rather than let the authorities choose for you. I tell you one thing: don’t you go suggestin’ that you’ll work in munitions ’cos the stuff them girls handle turns their skin yellow as bloody daffodils. I gorra cousin – Queenie, her name is – what works in munitions, an’ she’s been an’ gone and got allergic to some oil or other what they use.’ He turned to grin at his passenger. ‘Looks as though she’s got the measles, ‘cept she had ’em when she were five. Now the perishin’ government have said she can make parachutes, which is another thing they’ve got women a-doin’. Fancy yourself with a needle and thread?’