‘That’s a shame,’ Marion said, and Molly could tell she meant it. ‘You’ve been such a help, and the boys like having you here an’ all.

‘Maybe I’ll be back next winter,’ Molly said. ‘We’ll just have to see.’

But she had enjoyed the boys’ company too. They were friendly little lads, and during that hard winter she knew she had been a real part of the household. ‘Almost like a husband!’ she had joked to Marion, who replied drily, ‘Yeah – but more use!’

By the spring she had been restless again and, as soon as the camp season was about to begin, she decided to head for somewhere new: this time, Butlin’s at Filey. She knew the drill now, so doing it without Liza didn’t feel difficult. Getting on a train at King’s Cross, travelling up the east coast, reminded her of the war, when the length of the coast had bristled with camps and ack-ack batteries and every kind of operation for prediction and security. Now the beaches were innocent again, dotted with holidaymakers. All the urgency and heightened intensity of that time was gone, and Molly knew she mourned it.

I’ll give Filey a few weeks, she promised herself, sitting beside her little holdall on the train. And then see where I might go.

When Ruth came to Bracklesham Bay, Molly had been there for three weeks. She always let Ruth know where she was, dropping her light-hearted postcards in a ‘Guess what I’m up to now!’ sort of tone. She had also sent Em and Cath cards too, ashamed of how long it was since she had been in touch. They always wrote a note back, but they were busy with husbands and children. They lived another sort of life. She could hardly admit to herself how much it meant that Ruth had become such a good friend. In all the dashing here and there and the changes in her life, Ruth had become a fixed point – almost like a sister. Ruth was the one person now who cared enough to take Molly to task.

‘So,’ Ruth demanded, the last evening of her visit as they strolled along the beach, ‘how long are you going to keep this up, Molly?’

‘Keep what up?’ Molly pretended innocence.

‘This life you’re living – shifting here and there with no aim in sight. You’re like some kind of gypsy!’

Molly turned away, looking out across the mauve evening water.

‘You can do better, Molly,’ Ruth insisted.

Tears in her eyes, Molly said, ‘I don’t know. I don’t know how else to do it.’

X

KATIE

Forty-Seven

1948

Over those next days, the household with its new members had to settle in and get used to one another. Everyone was busy, and most conversations took place over the evening meal. They all sat round in Sybil’s dining room – the two Poles, quickly becoming familiar to them, at first peering curiously at the food and sometimes conferring quickly in Polish, as if trying to make out what they were about to eat. (Corned beef – this is same as Bully Beef? Baked beans?) At the sight of green haricot beans their eyes lit up. ‘You grew these on your land? Ah – marvellous!’ They were very polite, making sure everyone had what they needed, passing dishes across the table, Piotr with his strong, beefy hands, Marek long-limbed and long-fingered, the shadows cast by the lamp showing up his sharp cheekbones.