To her horror as she passed him by she found herself whispering, ‘What you staring at?’

Quick as a flash came his reply: ‘Your bones – you’ve got good cheeks. They should last you a lifetime if you don’t run to fat!’

‘Hah!’ Netta stormed off, furious with herself and with him. How dare he look at her bones and not even ask her name! She hung on for the last waltz, watching even Peg and Father shuffling over the floor, feeling like a wallflower, and then left the dance early, trying not to feel slighted by the rude stranger who had spoiled her evening.

Next morning to her relief he was there in the Minister’s pew, sitting meekly with the family, and she tried not to flush as she sat opposite them. Doubtless Dougie had filled him in on all the local gossip: who was fast, who was slow, and who like Netta worked on the family farm, hardly going out, preferring her sewing, knitting stripey lace jumpers from old unravelled wool and demonstrating make do and mend to the Guides and Brownies. What a mundane wartime it was – waiting for her call up, waiting for life to begin outside the confines of Stratharvar.

Later in the afternoon she took the farm dogs for a good stretch across the fields, down to Carrick beach to feel the sharp January breeze on her cheeks and soothe the restlessness inside her. Why did the arrival of one cocky soldier trouble her so? Then she saw him sitting alone on the shore, skimming pebbles into the water, alone with his thoughts. One of her Collie dogs bounded in his direction and he turned and waved at her as she was about to dart for safety behind a thicket of brambles. Instead her feet just walked up to him and the words shot out like bullets from a gun.

‘What did you mean about my bones? What’s wrong with them?’

She stood over him, furious, and he smiled a cheeky child’s grin, showing white teeth and sparky brown eyes with ridiculous lashes wasted on a boy.

‘They’re perfect, Miss Nichol, just perfect. Dougie said you were a spitfire,’ he laughed.

‘What else was he saying then?’ Netta rested her hands on her hips, waiting for the worst.

‘He told me there was only one human subject worth painting hereabouts: a redhead with fingers as sharp as needles who lives by the shore. He wasn’t wrong but I’ve no oils handy, just charcoal and a sketchpad. Shall I do you now?’ He mimicked the ITMA catchphrase. ‘Why did you leave the dance last night?’

Netta shrugged. ‘You get fed up with dancing with the same faces and you didn’t exactly fill up my card.’ She couldn’t resist a dig at him.