December 1952

The car was waiting for her on this lane somewhere, but it was dark by now and there weren’t any street lamps. Just a long, straight, narrow road between a grid of fields that looked the same as all the others. She could tell why Mal had chosen it. Any slight misstep and she would end up face down in the ditch and nobody would find her until morning. She was sweating in her winter coat again and dolled up underneath it. When she’d come up with her plan, she hadn’t thought about the fuss and primping it entailed. Now, all night, she’d have to wear a skirt that bit her waist as soon as she sat down and chafed her knees as she was walking, not to mention the stiff Woolies bra that seemed to shrink a bit each time she washed it. Perfume, too. At least she’d worn a proper pair of shoes. Earlier, as she’d been pulling on her coat to leave, she’d heard a voice behind her say, ‘My goodness, Joyce, don’t you look nice.’ Florence had been in the dining room. She’d come out with a copy of some journal rolled up in her fist. ‘So where’s he taking you, this fellow?’

‘Only to the pub. It’s nothing fancy.’

‘Well, I hope he knows how fortunate he is.’

‘He will, miss, by tomorrow. How’s my hair look?’

‘Very pretty. Except – may I?’ Florence had come over, rearranged her fringe and plumped her curls. ‘There you are. You’re perfect now.’

‘By the time I get there it’ll all be flattened out again.’

‘Why don’t you let me drop you in the village?’

‘No, miss. Thanks. He’s going to pick me up outside the gate – slight change of plan. Besides, a bit of air will calm me down. I’ve got the butterflies.’ These lies had felt no worse than all the others she had told before, but it was never any less than torment, knowing she’d accepted someone else’s kindness without giving back a single honest word. If she’d been asked to open up her handbag then, she would’ve had no explanation for the contents. The packages weren’t heavy, but they bulked the leather at the middle and she’d had to swing the bag low by her knees so it would go unnoticed.

Soon enough, her brother had come down the stairs and leaned one hand upon the newel post, saying, ‘Off already, are you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’ve done your hair up nice,’ he’d said.

‘Thanks, mouse.’

‘All that perfume, too. You must be keen on this one.’

‘Stop it. I’m a bag of nerves.’

‘Which pub is it you’re going to?’

‘The Duke of Wellington, I think.’

‘And then what?’

‘How’d you mean?’

‘No dancing afterwards?’

‘Well, I don’t bloody know. Depends how much he likes me, doesn’t it?’ she’d told him. ‘Shut up now. You’re getting me worked up. My lip’s all sweaty …’

His thick brow had scrunched. ‘All right. Have a good time, then. Don’t talk his ear off.’ And he’d traipsed along the hallway to the draughting room.