I’ll be livin’ my own life round here pretty soon. Take what I fancy for me room, and set it up the way I want it. Mightn’t be able to get the pianner in, but any decent bits that I can manage—

She nods, a relinquishment of her domain.

After that, the rest of it is their lookout.

OLIVE enters from the hallway, bearing two small plates of savouries.

OLIVE: Titbits for starters.

EMMA: [with determined generosity] I’ve decided. You can have me good green dinner service for your party. And I’ll open up the Sheffield case of cutlery—

OLIVE: What’s this? Lashin’ out, aren’t you, all of a—

EMMA is prepared to explain, but OLIVE’s enquiry is not a serious one. Having placed the savouries on the sideboard, she turns with gusto to welcome NANCY, carrying in a large decorated cake with some ceremony.

Stand back, everyone—the big surprise!

BUBBA: Saw it last night.

OLIVE: Aaah, but that was ’fore the finishin’ touches—hang on, get this outta the way.

OLIVE swoops to remove the epergne from its pride of place and to shove it carelessly aside somewhere.

NANCY: [carrying the cake to the table] Ought to have a fanfare. Or a roll of drums.

She sets the cake on the table as a new centrepiece. OLIVE brings BUBBA forward to admire it.

OLIVE: A colour patch in red and white—

BUBBA: [delightedly] Goes with my banner.

OLIVE: —and a couple of soldiers standin’ guard.

BUBBA: Looks just like them.

OLIVE: Well, at least it makes a nice splash. [She casts a happy look around, checking arrangements.] Any luck, we’ll have the rest of it set up before they— [A chance sighing of EMMA reminds her] What was that about the plates and cutlery?

EMMA: Doesn’t matter.

She returns to her music tidying. OLIVE, unaware of anything amiss, moves for the kitchen.

OLIVE: Tidy up, and get this apron off. Then—tell you what we’re missing—party hats.

BUBBA: [following eagerly] I know. I know where they are—

A brief scurry of laughter and jostling for position, as the two of them head for the kitchen. NANCY, left alone with EMMA, and instinctively aware of some hurt in her attitude, tries to make amends.

NANCY: You really have to go out? Good to have you stay and help us celebrate.

EMMA hunches a scornful shoulder and places a pile of rejected music on the piano.

Please the boys, I know.

EMMA: Too bad.

She collects her handbag and the music case of selected song sheets.

Might have to put up with your goin’s-on but there’s no law says I got to join in.

They are interrupted by a confused outburst from the rear of the house: ROO’s voice in a series of yahoo’s and Ninth-Division ho-ho-ho’s, overlapped with BARNEY’s agonised attempt to silence him: ‘Okay, okay, hold your fire’.