‘Taking you for a spin, old chap,’ said Jack, grinning at him as if he knew exactly what Arthur had been doing.

The motorcycle gleamed wet from rain and the lights on the driveway. A knot of onlookers had gathered at the door and on the gravel drive, admiring, as if at some spectacular show. Peter was in the shadow of the bike but Arthur caught his expression as Jack revved the engine. He looked wounded, as if he’d received a punch to the guts.

*

Alone in the trees, the memory of Arthur’s mouth still on her lips, her tongue and her skin, Verity heard the roar of the engine fade into the night. She stayed where she was until she was sure the motorcyclists had disappeared and Peter had gone back inside.

She’d not been aware of the drop in temperature until now. Goosebumps covered her bare arms and her hair was hanging wet about her face. She found her sodden shawl under a bush, shook it out and pulled it, shivering, around her. It was strange to need clothes after so many long weeks of them clinging to her body, wet with perspiration, or flung off and left abandoned and crumpled. She must go back to the dance. The other girls might notice she had gone. Light had drained from the garden, leaving dark shapes and rain dripping off the glass bulbs that draped from the trees, and the sky was deepening into pink and grey streaks. A strong smell of earth rose with steam from the rain-soaked garden. The driveway was deserted, the gravel shining and a fine drizzle lit up sparkling in the hazy glow from the string of lights along it. It was black at the end of the drive. They were out there somewhere, Arthur and Jack, on the motorcycle. There was a kind of thrill at the thought of them roaring through the night, and a thrill at the thought of her hidden in the trees with Arthur’s mouth on hers – but a fear too.