Solly was waiting for her by her machine. He was as wide as he was tall, with dark hair and brown eyes that missed nothing. He wasn’t a handsome man, but he was charismatic, and all the machinists were a little in love with him.

He looked at his gold watch. ‘Oy, vay, Peggy. You’re an hour late, and I was getting worried. Do you have a problem at home that I can help with?’

Peggy quickly explained her lateness as she shrugged off her coat and settled at her machine. ‘I’m sorry, Solly, but I’ll make up the hour.’

His large, soft hand rested lightly on her shoulder, the diamond winking in his gold ring. ‘You don’t have to, Peg,’ he said quietly. ‘I know you work twice as hard as everyone, so you won’t miss out on any pay.’

‘But that isn’t fair on the others,’ she protested. ‘I can’t let you do that.’

He made an expansive gesture with his hands. ‘My Rachel would have my guts for garters if I didn’t,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Now, I must get back to my accounts. We’ll speak later perhaps.’

Peggy smiled as she threaded the machine and picked up the first of what would be many pairs of navy bell-bottoms she’d sew that day. Solly might consider himself to be in charge, but it was Rachel, his wife, who quietly oversaw everything that went on and kept Solly under her delicate but very firm thumb.

Ron stood on the top of the hill, the fresh, salty wind blowing in his face from the sea, and watched the bombers and fighters take off and land at Cliffe aerodrome. They’d been busy since before dawn now the fog had lifted.

He lit his pipe and idly watched Harvey darting in and out of the gorse and through the long grass, tail windmilling, nose to the ground in search of who knew what. Ron’s mood was lighter today, for Flora and Dora were safely at home, and there was real hope that Rosie had forgiven him – although it was odd that she hadn’t brought the ferrets herself, and Bert had been very cagey about it all.

Ron saluted the fresh batch of planes which screamed overhead, and decided not to go to Tamarisk Bay this morning to check on Frank and Pauline. He had enough problems of his own, and the last thing he needed was Pauline moaning and wailing and making his Frank’s life a misery. He turned for home, planning to get changed, see Stan about his roses and then go to the Anchor.

‘Come on, ye heathen beast,’ he rumbled at Harvey. ‘To be sure you’ve watered every blade of grass, and that tank must be empty by now.’