He bent to smooth back the ears of the tabby cat that was rubbing itself against his ankles.

‘She’s quite infra dig herself, of course.’ The older woman had quietly resumed her conversation with her fellow. ‘Mrs. Redfern, I mean. A thoroughly decent sort.’

‘Mrs?’ The younger woman was surprised.

‘Widow. Her husband died in the campaign against the Boer.’

‘And do you think that she has plans to civilise the notorious Mr. Shuttleworth?’

‘Goodness, no! I hope not, anyhow. If she aims to remarry then I’m sure she must pick a more honourable soul. I have heard that she is linked to Mr. Rocastle, her employer.’

‘The headmaster? He’s a bit stiff.’

‘He doesn’t go up in flying machines carrying piglets, if that’s what you mean.’

The younger woman stared at her, open-mouthed. ‘How did you come to hear of that? I was ever so slightly squiffy, but⁠ —’

‘Piglets!’ called Shuttleworth, standing to his full height once more. ‘Sheep! And even horse skulls have been found in burial mounds. Now, were these animals owned by the incumbents?’

Joan was following his gestures politely sipping at her tea, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Last night she had had a dream. She taught science at Hulton College and she disliked it, all those chemical mixtures, and no idea of anything behind it. Like the world was reductable to simple elements. She wasn’t tremendously fond of the open declamation of ethics and, while watching all those young boys destined to be military officers mixing chemicals, she often associated the two. Two parts this to one part that, God and country and a straight back. No inner knowledge of what made these things elements, no questioning of how God’s goodness translated into things like patriotism and bravery.

Maybe when she met Arthur again in heaven she’d gain an understanding of the greater things, but for now she hated honour and sacrifice, the things that had made him die proudly. She knew the other women linked her and Rocastle. He’d proposed, the foolish man. That had made her life harder. But she had her dream. She’d dreamt of the constellations, of Orion hunting the animals. Amongst them was a new one, a group made up of stars from here and there, with two red nebulous hearts. A man had stood looking, staring up at Orion with a mixture of awe and whimsy on his face; a very British expression. He seemed also to be looking down at the spring of 1914.

What had made this dream memorable was that the constellation was in some way associated⁠ — this was the unique thing about dreams, that they could suggest the feeling of association without any real connection⁠ — with Dr. John Smith, Joan’s new colleague at the school, the history teacher. Joan had woken up from that sleep feeling quite flushed but refreshed, as if something pure and distant had come to her like a falling star.