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what appears to be an airman on its back straight from the pictures she has seen of the Sopwith Camels during the War – though she was never able to imagine such graceless machines flying like birds. But the War is long over, it cannot be anything to do with the War.
    The airman waves at her and leaps off the bike in one graceful bound. He takes off his goggles and peels away his skin-tight helmet to reveal a face that is one of those most dear to her.
    â€˜Gwydion,’ she cries as she stumbles down the steps, her arms open wide to receive him – for this family, her family, is demonstrative – not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

6
    â€˜So,’ Gwydion says. ‘Where is everybody?’
    â€˜We are everybody,’ Meg says. ‘It’s only the boys who aren’t here.’
    â€˜You’re perfectly right, Meg, The important people are all here.’ Gwydion smiles at her.
    Meg’s face blushes under her freckles – the freckles she is forever dabbing with buttermilk in the hope that they will vanish. But she has a point. Where would the men be without the women? Non remembers a line from a poem her father used to quote to her,
For the hand that rocks the cradle rules the World
. She balances the tray of food on the edge of the table, supporting it with one hand and handing the dishes out with the other. She says, ‘Davey and Wil are at the castle making the seating for tomorrow’s rehearsal for the Music Festival.’
    â€˜Ah, hobnobbing, are they?’ Gwydion says. ‘That’s why I borrowed the bike – I thought there wouldn’t even be standing room on any of the trains.’
    â€˜The real thing’s not for another week and a half,’ Non says. ‘Do you need an excuse to borrow the bike?’
    â€˜They’re building the stage, too, they’re doing all the carpentry,’ Meg says. ‘Is that hobnobbing? I’m in Sam Post’s choir. He told Nain I was the perfect little lady.’
    â€˜Don’t start, Gwydion,’ Non says as Gwydion opens his mouth to reply.
    â€˜But start on the food,’ Meg says.
    Gwydion laughs at her. ‘So you are as clever as Non says.’ Meg preens, the clever young lady, then she wriggles and blushes, the girl child still.
    Gwydion has a way with women Non notices anew. She remembers that it was always so. ‘She’s learning French,’ she says. ‘Fast.’
    â€˜Can you speak French, Gwydion?’ Meg asks.
    â€˜Not fluently,’ he says. ‘Breton, Irish, but not a lot of French.’
    â€˜Tada can,’ Meg says, helping herself to several slices of brawn.
    Gwydion looks enquiringly at Non, and she shrugs. Who knows how much French Davey can speak or understand? He was over there long enough, he was over there for most of the War, languishing in the soil of the country. He could be expected to speak some of the language. But they will probably never know.
    â€˜And what about you, Osian?’ Gwydion looks at the child they have all been ignoring from long habit. ‘Parlez-vous français?’
    â€˜He doesn’t know anything,’ Meg says.
    â€˜What I think,’ Gwydion says, ‘is that Osian may surprise you all one day with what he knows.’
    Meg pouts her disagreement.
    And all this time Osian sits with his hands in his lap, far away from them. Or is he? Non wishes she knew how to reach him, wherever he is. He was the first to make her feel like this so that when it happened a second time, when Davey who is not Davey returned home, she recognised it, that withdrawal from her. But today is Osian’s day whether he is aware of it or not.
    â€˜When you’ve eaten your meat and salad and bread and butter,’ she says, ‘we have a special cake. Because today is a celebration.’
    â€˜Because I’m here?’ Gwydion asks.
    â€˜Don’t be big-headed.’ Meg gives the back of Gwydion’s