All her pride and excitement in her progress suddenly evaporated with these cool words. Was she always to be punished for her mistakes? Would her own needs and desires ever be respected by them? It seemed not, but Netta would keep on trying whatever it took. One day she would be a success despite them and then nothing would stop her from being a mother to Gus.

The Texas Rangers, Autumn 1947

Each night Netta stood wearily at the bus stop, sheltering from the downpour in a shop doorway. One evening she saw the poster announcing: ‘Come Scottish Dancing’. Memories of jigging it down the Memorial Hall at Stratharvar flooded her with nostalgia and homesickness. ‘Find your own’ the doctor had suggested. If she stayed on after work and caught a later bus back to her rooms she might enjoy the music and the company. It was a warm thought on a cold night and cheered her all the way home.

The windows of St Andrew’s church hall were steaming, the parquet floor groaning under the thunder of the dancers who swirled around the room until the gramophone jerked its needle, throwing everyone into confusion. They were mostly young women and a few older men who were shared out fairly to learn their steps. Netta was welcomed with open arms because it was obvious she didn’t have two left feet. St Andrew’s Night was fast approaching and the troupe were hoping to lead the Yorkshire Scotia at the annual bash in the Royal Hotel.

All those years pounding the Memorial Hall dragging reluctant pupils came in useful and she sent for her black leather lace-up pumps from Brigg Farm. They were a friendly bunch of nurses and teachers, butchers and housewives, and her own partner was the matron of some Cottage Homes close by. It was good to hear familiar accents en masse, not just a stray Scots voice on a bus. The Scotia Club members who were turning up to polish their steps were a different breed, mostly second-hand by marriage with a sentimental attraction to tartan and pipe bands.

The late influx of official members was dominated by a loud horsy set of snappy dressers who roared up to the church hall in flash MGs: the sort Netta surmised who had wealthy parents or husbands who shelled out petrol coupons, fodder bills and clothing allowances. Here were her future customers: youngish, many still single, an untapped source of wedding dress potential perhaps. She was going to stick close to them and observe.

The leader of the gang was Ginnie Mackeever. Jean, the matron, whispered that the girl was the daughter of the biggest builder’s merchant in the district. He had started out his career as a humble Glasgow brickie but now lived in some grey stone villa on the outskirts of Ilkley with his own stable of hunters.