He reaches up to rip down the banner.

—makes it seem it wasn’t all a five-year waste of bloody time.

He carries it off through the French windows, and we hear him being hailed in the backyard by an anticipatory whoop from BARNEY.

The women are left with a situation between them that could be dangerous. A pause broken by OLIVE, with an immediate and instinctive defence of her world.

OLIVE: It’s the war. You know that, don’t you? People saying that they want to change their lives, and make a fresh start—all it means is that they’re tired of the war.

NANCY: Sorry, Ol. I’m sorry.

OLIVE: [rising] Tired of making do and never knowing what is coming next, and how they’ll manage when it does—

NANCY: More than that, it’s more—

OLIVE: Alright, then. Maybe you’re right. For some of us it’s more—

She moves swiftly to the French windows and closes them, intent now on some long-withheld home truths.

It’s wantin’ to get away from all the mess they’ve made of things these last few years. Parties and the carry-on, the running round the town with Yanks and anything else in uniform—somebody the likes of you.

NANCY tries to avoid this by turning away, but OLIVE continues the attack:

Gettin’ yourself soused up with a taste for whisky. Making such a welter of it that you hardly know now what day of the week it is. Who you are, or what it is you’re up to—

There is a sudden whoosh and flash from outside the French windows, followed by the light of leaping flames and an outburst of sustained cheering.

BARNEY: There she gooees—!

ROO: Five bloody yeeaars!

BARNEY: Uuuupp the aaarrmmmy!

ROO: Yaaaaaaaaaahooooooooo!

The rising hysteria of OLIVE’s denunciation of NANCY is lost before this fierce interruption. She turns towards the French windows, lit by the growing force of the fire, and her complaint dies away in a protest of bewilderment.

OLIVE: Still the war. ’S nothing else. The stupid rotten war.

She has no further defences. NANCY, aware of this, looks at her despairing figure, and is moved to pity.

NANCY: Alright, Olly. Alright—it’s the war.

There is another explosive burst from outside that takes their attention, and we lose the two of them in the shifting lurid glow of the bonfire, and the accompanying sound of male celebration from the backyard.

SCENE TWO

Time: sunny morning, the following day.

The party cake has been removed and EMMA, working with grim efficiency, is packing the untouched crockery and cutlery on a tray, clearing away the failed party of the night before.

BARNEY, in casual civilian clothing, comes from the street to cross the front verandah and enter the house. He has one morning newspaper under his arm, and is leafing his way through another in some irritation.

He pauses to complain, at the entrance to the living room.