Marjie was shocked at this. Madame really must be quite a big cog in the organization. She made a note to ask Arnie the next time they saw him, as it was disconcerting to have someone who hadn’t been introduced as a Resistance member clearly knowing vital information.

Within a few days, life settled down to a normal pace and the routine of the shop took precedence over everything else. With a few hours off, the girls were taking a walk by the riverside when Sibbie finally gave voice to the concerns that Marjie had been harbouring. ‘I keep thinking that all is not well at home. And I wonder if my mother is getting letters from me, just as Aunt Flors was promised she would get ones from you.’

‘Yes, they told us, didn’t they, when we were training, that we mustn’t worry about not being able to communicate with our families, because our families will think that we are writing to them?’

‘I know. Yes, of course they did, but I think my mother will see through those fake letters and worry all the more.’

‘Try not to think about it, Sibbie. Though why I’m saying that, I don’t know. I understand how you feel, as I so wanted to send a letter with Ella. I did give her a verbal message to take my love to my mama.’

‘I did, too. But I had to ask Ella to tell Aunt Mags, and not to let my mum know that she’d heard from me. That would have been disastrous. Aunt Betsy would have marched to the War Office, waving a banner or something, and demanding that I be brought home immediately.’

They both laughed.

‘Come on. I’ll race you to that post there. The last one there has to wash the potatoes and bag them tonight.’

‘Ha! It’s your turn, Sibbie. You’re just trying to duck out of it, knowing you’re a faster runner than me.’

Sibbie took off all the same, laughing as she went as if she hadn’t a care in the world. This lifted Marjie’s spirits, and even though she hadn’t a hope of winning, her giggles joined those of Sibbie.

Back at the shop, they tackled the potatoes together. Their mood had settled. ‘Well, if you won’t race me over who should do which chore, how about we see who fills the most bags of potatoes then?’

‘And what’s the prize this time?’

‘Not a prize; the loser gets to take Monsieur Passat’s grocery order.’

‘Sibbie, you can’t get out of every turn you have at the rotten jobs by challenging me.’

‘He is horrible, though, isn’t he? He seems to leer at you and has a way of taking the bags off you as if he is . . . Ugh! I hate going near him.’