‘You’re staying here. Right here!’ Dad said, banging the table again.

There would be no arguing with that. Maggie said nothing; answering back would only make things worse.

‘What kind of man is he anyway, taking young women off to the countryside? What’s he after? Some kind of harem?’

Maggie poured the water off the potatoes into the sink and was immediately enveloped in a cloud of steam. Harem? It was almost comical. If Dad could only see the women from the bank, he’d soon take that back.

She pictured her new colleagues. There were a few women in their thirties, like the feisty redhead who’d turned out to be called Elsie Davenport, and some older, spinster types, such as middle-aged Miss Sharp the supervisor. The other girls, the typists, ledger clerks and secretaries, were mostly a little older than Maggie. Apart from Nancy Fry, who sat next to Maggie, she hadn’t yet learned their names. They were all smartly dressed and well spoken and she felt a little in awe of them, but no one was particularly glamorous.

No, film star status, Maggie thought, was definitely reserved for Lord Ashford himself.

She smiled to herself at the memory, and then shook her head. ‘It ain’t like that, Dad. It’s not only women, he’s taking fellas too. He needs all the staff there to run the bank and help fund the war effort. Besides, he’s a Lord, a proper Lord and a gentleman. And … and he’s married.’

She’d guessed the last part. He was bound to be married, a wealthy, good-looking chap like that.

Dad’s face twisted into a sneer. ‘So what? In any case, what are the men doing, waltzing off to the country? Don’t they know there’s a war on?’

She sighed. ‘Banking’s reserved, Dad. Like dock work.’

He smacked his lips and frowned at her, as she stood at the sink. ‘What about my dinner? Can’t a working man get a decent meal around here?’

There wasn’t much. A bit of cabbage, a few boiled potatoes and a piece of dubious-looking meat. Maggie had joined a queue outside the butcher’s the other day and asked the woman in front of her, ‘What’re we queuing for?’

‘Gawd knows. And by the time we get inside, it might be gone anyway.’

Another woman had tapped Maggie’s shoulder, once they were closer to the shopfront. The window would have been full of refrigerated meat before the war, but was now empty. The woman pointed at the sign: HORSE MEAT.

Maggie sighed. It’d have to do. Dad always wanted meat, as though she could conjure it out of thin air. It might stop him moaning for five minutes if she got a cutlet, but she wouldn’t tell him what it was.