‘I am for now.’

‘In that case, you can call me Joy. He goes by Charlie.’

‘I’ll make a note of it,’ she said, tapping the plate of her forehead. ‘Welcome to our little patch of nowhere. You must’ve brought the sunshine with you – absolutely chucked it down last night.’ It was only when she offered them her hand that she spotted its condition: engine oil encrusted so deep underneath the fingernails she’d have to take a scrubbing brush and Epsom salts to them when she got back. ‘Excuse the state of me. I was working on the tractor when you rang, but – well, let’s just say it won’t be moving for a while.’

‘What’s up with it?’ Joyce said, gripping her hand indelicately.

‘Transmission.’

‘Oh. That’s going to cost you.’

‘Maybe so.’ She smiled back at the pair of them. ‘I haven’t given up yet.’

Charlie straightened out his posture, shook her hand. ‘They had me doing motor mechanics all last year at Huntercombe. If you want, I’ll take a look at it. Tractors can’t be that much different.’

‘Better take him up on that,’ Joyce said, amused at something. ‘He’s always had a knack for getting engines running, even when he’s not supposed to.’

‘Leave it out,’ said Charlie, and for a short time afterwards, his confidence appeared to drain. He went back to kicking his suitcase, eyeing the tracks.

‘Well, I’d appreciate you pitching in,’ she told them. ‘Mr Mayhood has a lot of talents, but he’s no use in a garage.’

Joyce sniffed. ‘Must be hard in his condition.’

‘Oh, he’s never let that set him back. It’s just he’s never had much interest in machines.’ She gestured to their meagre luggage: two brown cases, shabby at the edges, no doubt issued to them on their discharge. ‘Are these your only bags?’

They nodded.

‘Good. The car’s just at the front. Let’s go.’

She turned and led the way. Above the iron footbridge, the sun was giving off its white and formless shimmer, permeating like a headache; she could feel one brewing. Their footsteps clomped and scraped behind her.

‘What about you, miss?’ Charlie’s voice rang out, but she didn’t stop or turn; and even though the honorific made her feel like a schoolteacher, she let it go unchecked. It would do no good to keep instructing them to use her given name. They would need to think her worthy of that trust. Give it time and it would happen. ‘Where’d you learn to fix an engine?’

‘I took classes when the war was on,’ she answered, pushing through the station door and holding it ajar. ‘But they might’ve been a waste of time.’

‘Ha ha.’ Joyce had a chugging, low-pitched laugh that was quite endearing.

‘We had a fella teaching us who’d let us take his motorbike apart, and –’

‘Give it a rest, will you, mouse?’ Joyce said. ‘Let the lady have some peace.’ And, taking the weight of the door, she added, ‘Sorry about him. He’s not always such a moaner.’