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know what it’s like being away from you. I get so depressed. I get so jealous .’
    He gave her an awkward hug. ‘There’s nothing to be jealous about.’
    ‘But I don’t know that,’ she said, wrapping her thin arms round his waist. ‘I keep thinking of you doing to other girls what you do to me. It’s nice, darling. I like it.’ She pulled him against her. ‘You like it, too. See .’
    She tried to guide his hand towards her breast, but he pulled away sharply as if she’d given him an electric shock. ‘Don’t,’ he said harshly.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘It’s not right.’
    Her eyes glittered angrily behind her glasses. ‘You were happy to do it last year. You can’t mess with me then pretend it didn’t happen, Norman. I’m not some cheap tart you can throw over when you get bored. I’m the woman you’re going to marry.’
    He headed for the door. ‘I have to clean the chicken sheds,’ he muttered. ‘We’ll talk later.’
    Norman threw himself into work as a way to avoid contact. Elsie watched listlessly from the shack doorway. He couldn’t decide what to do. Tell her outright that it was over? Or keep hoping that she would take the hint herself? Surely even Elsie – despite her strangeness – must see there was nothing to be gained by marrying a man who didn’t love her?

    But when the evening came, she behaved as if nothing had happened. The bed was re-made, and Norman was her ‘own dear darling’ again. It was as if she had spent the whole day working out how to win back his favour. No angry looks. No stamping. No touching. Just healthy cooking and lots of light laugher . . . plus an endless stream of fond words.
    In an odd sort of way it made Norman feel more abused than if she had forced herself on him. For it suggested that he was shallow and uncaring. Did she really believe that all he thought about was his stomach? And that food should be served with smiles and silly endearments?
    By the time he walked her to the station on Sunday afternoon, he was close to strangling her. Why couldn’t she see how much she repulsed him? More than anything he hated the feel of her coarse, chewed fingertips against his skin.

 

    Crowborough – summer 1924

    N ORMAN MET B ESSIE C OLDICOTT at a local dance that Whitsun. It was shortly after the weekend with Elsie. Bessie was everything Elsie wasn’t. She was young. She was pretty. She was warm and understanding. And she enjoyed flirting. Best of all, she accepted Norman for what he was. A young man who was struggling to make a living in difficult times.
    He loved the way she made no demands on him. With no fear of being left on the shelf, she was content to chatter about anything that didn’t include wedding bells. Suddenly Norman could be the person he wanted to be. A bit of a lad. A bit of joker.
    It was a rebirth. Instead of the morose silences that had begun to mark his relationship with Elsie, he could be witty and funny with Bessie. They started walking out together within a week of the dance.
    ‘Am I your first girl?’ she asked him one day.
    ‘No.’
    ‘What were the others like?’
    ‘Not a patch on you. The first one looked like a horse.’ He grinned. ‘The second one looked like a horse’s arse.’
    Bessie danced away from him. ‘I don’t believe you. I bet they were pretty and I bet you’ve had more than two. A bloke can have his pick these days.’
    ‘I was a slow starter . . . but I’m catching up now.’ He ran after her and caught her round the waist. ‘Like this.’ He planted a kiss on her full, soft lips.
    Her eyes flashed with mischief. ‘Don’t go getting ideas, Norman Thorne. I’ve plenty of other admirers and there’s some I like just as well as you.’
    He knew it. All men found Bessie attractive. It was part of her appeal for him. The chase. The thrill of trying to win her. If other men had looked at Elsie in the way they looked at Bessie, he might have prized her more. But Elsie had never turned a head in her