Oh! Now look like I wee my selv. Embarrass!

No, no, ye canna hardly notice with that colour, I said.

Comforting murmurs from the others.

It’ll be dry by the time we get back, pet, Lois assured her.

Enzia looked doubtful but flounced the skirt of her dress in both hands. Flap, flap, like a scarlet bird, up and down the beach.

The rest of us staggered up through sand and pigface to the lifesavers’ shed near Marine Terrace, where we’d left our shoes. We flopped onto the stubble of grass.

Vi squinted at a puckered thread on her dress, easing it with her thumb.

Wonder what they’ll look like in uniform? she said, all dreamy.

Who?

Our boys—who do ya think! Jack and Clarrie in Baking, Micky and Bob. They’re all talking about enlisting when the time comes. Even Bruce and Mr Prentice, and they’d be in their forties if they’re a day, I reckon.

Don’t say such things! There’s not a war yet, an’ some are saying there will never be one. All that trouble in Europe—that’s nothing to do with us here.

Vi looked at me, scandalised. Of course it’s to do with us! If England steps in, then we’re in too. We’re with the Mother Country.

YOUR country, Lois added pointedly.

Your husband will be going?

Course he will. Ollie spoke for Magnus without so much as a glance at me. Every good man will be going as soon as the call is out.

I pulled on my shoes, quiet.

Vi sighed. It was the kind of sigh she usually reserved for chocolate sponge. Well, I think Clarrie will cut quite the dash as a soldier.

Ollie and Lois glanced at each other and giggled.

The dinner break was nearly over. I stood and brushed myself down, desperate to think about something other than the thing no-one could stop thinking about.

Enzia flew past, kicking up sand. Come, hurry, or we late!

~

Magnus was already home by the time I pushed open the door. His bicycle leaned against the wall, the leather seat still warm with the yeasty, malty smell that was on his clothes, his skin, his hair, even after he lathered it away in the tub. I never minded it, that smell.

Sometimes I recognised something like it on his breath, but it was sour, like rotten beet. The stale remains of Penguin Stout. That I never liked.