‘Ach away in. Is there anything else we should be knowing?’ Peg peered at her intently. ‘Better to know the worst.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You ken fine what I mean, lassie. Why the rush?’

Netta smiled with relief. ‘Nothing like that, I promise. Rae’s not like that.’

‘All soldiers is like that given half the chance,’ glowered her father from the doorway, eyeing her up and down. ‘You’ve an awful lot to answer to my satisfaction, my lady. Yer own mother would turn in her grave to see the way you’ve treated us – running away like thieves in the night and you only knowing him five minutes. I just hope you know what you’ve got yersel’ into. Couldn’t you both have respect for each other, control yourselves and wait until this war’s over like sensible human beings? Not rush to the altar like two dogs on heat! Was it one of they Register Office jobbies then?

Netta bowed her head and said nothing, letting him continue with his assumptions.

‘So off you pop to some little backstreet room. Not very elevating, to marry in some poky corner. Nae music, nae Minister and nae family: a right hole-in-the-wall affair! So where’s your marriage lines then?’ He held out his hand.

‘Give me a minute to dry off, I’m soaked through. This is the two-piece I made and my ring belonged to Rae’s mother, isn’t it lovely? I told you, the wedding band is ordered.’ The girl shoved her left hand in Peg’s face for her to admire the moonstones and diamond chips.

‘Opals is unlucky stones in my book,’ sniffed Peg. ‘They crack awful easy so you’d better leave it off if you want them to last.’ Netta drew back her hand quickly. She was not going to be parted from her ring.

She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, to the familiar bed and tailor’s dummy, the sewing machine, her farm dungarees. She smiled to herself. It had gone better than she’d expected. Lots of puff and smoke but the door was not barred and that was a relief. They had accepted her story. If she was married, however hurriedly, she was decent in everyone’s eyes, and in Stratharvar appearances mattered.

She looked at herself in the dressing-table mirror: a pinched pink face with freckles dotted over her nose and cheeks, damp hair gone into a frizz. Was that a liar’s face looking back at her now? she thought. No! In the eyes of God she was truly married, the blacksmith priest had said as much. The truth lay in their hearts, not on paper. She stared back at herself with a big sigh.

‘Bestir thyself, Nettie Thimble, back to plain clothes and porridge, muck and shovels. Keep them sweet and keep busy.’ Saturday week would soon come around, and as for her marriage lines, she had a plan to scotch that problem.