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feel?’
    Norman’s irritation grew. ‘How would I know?’ he asked unkindly. ‘I’ve never had anything to feel jealous about.’

    He was lying, of course. He was jealous of any man who could bring a smile to Bessie Coldicott’s face. She was a dressmaker in Crowborough and he took to hanging around outside the shop where she worked.
    She teased him about it. ‘How come you go down my street so often? The nearest butcher’s two roads away.’
    ‘It’s a short cut.’
    ‘Fibber!’ She tapped him lightly on the wrist. ‘You’ll get me in trouble if you do it too often. Mrs Smith’s a nice lady but she doesn’t like men peering through the window. It upsets the clients.’
    ‘I just want to say hello sometimes.’
    She laughed. ‘But not when I’m working, Norman. I like my job and I don’t want to lose it. You can meet me at the back when I finish of an evening. Then walk me home afterwards.’

    As the summer passed, he spent more and more time with her. He asked her repeatedly to visit the farm but she always refused. ‘You live on your own, Norman. What would people say?’
    ‘Who’s going to see you? It’s in the middle of nowhere.’
    ‘Someone will. Bored old ladies peep through their curtains to spy on their neighbours. Everyone talks in a place like this.’
    He wondered if she knew about Elsie. ‘What do they say?’
    ‘That you had a girl visit a few times. Is that true?’
    He’d always known it would come out in the end. He took a deep breath. ‘Yes, but there was nothing wrong about it, Bessie. She never stayed in the shack. It was all above board and proper.’
    ‘Who is she?’
    ‘Someone I know from London. I was keen on her once but not any more. The trouble is—’ He broke off. ‘She’s a bit of a loony. Acts weird all the time . . . shouting and yelling one minute, crying the next. She keeps being given the sack because of it.’
    Bessie pulled a face. ‘There’s a woman like that in our street. She bursts into tears if anyone speaks to her. Dad says it’s because she lost two sons in the war, but Mum says she was born weird. She used to do it before they died.’
    ‘Elsie’s always been strange.’
    ‘Is that her name?’
    Norman nodded. ‘Elsie Cameron. It was mostly her parents’ idea that she came to visit. I reckon they hoped I’d marry her and take her off their hands. She’s a lot older than me and they’re fed up with looking after her.’
    ‘That’s horrible.’
    Yes, thought Norman. It was horrible. Why should he be expected to make Mr and Mrs Cameron’s life easier by marrying their mad daughter? He hadn’t given birth to her. He hadn’t spoilt her.
    He reached for Bessie’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, pet. It’s not going to happen. I’ve loads of plans for the future . . . and none of them includes Elsie.’
    ‘What about me? Am I in your plans?’
    ‘Maybe.’
    She gave his fingers a sharp pinch. ‘Then don’t call me “pet”, Norman. I’m not a fluffy chick to be kissed and stroked when you’re in the mood. I’m me – and I don’t belong to anyone.’

 

    Wesley Poultry Farm, Blackness Road – autumn 1924

    B ESSIE CAME TO TEA at the beginning of September. She gave Norman twenty-four hours’ notice and he spent the night and morning cleaning the shack. He couldn’t believe how filthy it was. The floor was covered in chicken shit from his boots, and dust lay everywhere.
    Appalled at the state of his sheets, he went into town and bought new ones. It left him short of money but he didn’t think Bessie would sit on a bed that stank of sweat and grime. He folded the dirty sheets and hid them in an empty nesting box. He planned to swap them back before Elsie’s next visit in case she guessed that another woman had visited.
    His hard work paid off. Bessie was impressed by the hut. ‘It’s quite cosy. How long have you been living here?’
    ‘Two years.’
    ‘Don’t you get cold?’
    ‘I do in the winter.’
    She looked at the