The crowd moves slowly, a little dazed, and insufficiently dressed to protect them from the biting Polish wind. They stumble along the dirt road that leads up through the camp, staring horrified to left and right, taking in the stark barbed wire fences that contain this bleak cold world.

Chimneys rise in rows into the distance, but she knows, she can feel it now in her chilled bones, that the stoves could never be up to the task of heating those tattered huts. How many people must each one be obliged to house? And how often would the population be completely renewed? Even the most na�ve of travellers, from the most sheltered and luxurious of backgrounds, must realise that no-one could survive here for long.

Along the fence, watchtowers stand, glaring austerely at the newcomers, issuing a harsh, unspoken warning. Her throat is dry when she swallows, and her dress is thin. In fact she is wearing all the clothes she has, but still the layers cannot keep her warm. Her shivering is attributable to more than just the cold, and the others must feel the same, but they cannot meet each other�s eyes. They are too weary to comment, barely able to register the crunch of the road beneath their feet.

Beside her she sees railway tracks, making their uncompromising way up a very slight incline to a platform, low grey buildings where the doomed alight. It is not hard to hear the moans of the condemned, to see and smell the thread of smoke in the distance; to feel the fear and know that the air is as densely populated with unhappy ghosts as the land of the dead.

She opens her mouth to grumble about the cold, and her words die in her throat. How can she possibly complain, when she stands free under the pale sky?

It’s hard to know what goes on inside her head, but there must be something happening in there. I knew her fifteen years ago, and now when I see her, she looks the same, or possibly younger. Her hair is a little drier, because she hasn’t stopped dyeing it blonde. That’s the hairdresser’s curse.

She tells me several times that it’s nice to see me, and that she wishes she wasn’t too drunk to talk to me properly. I ask after her son, the elder one, and she says he has a new girlfriend, and they’re spending a year in New Zealand. I’m happy for him, and want to point out that she was wrong about him never loving again, after I broke his heart.

She tells me that the younger son is married, but that she wasn’t invited to the wedding. I don’t need to ask why. This is a small town, and everyone knows someone who heard it from a friend. I feel partly responsible for the fact that she left her husband after 25 years; it would never have occurred to her, before I split up with her son.

In her fairly mindless, inarticulate way, she always seemed to be unhappy. She had all the usual things: a solvent man, two nearly grown-up sons, a modern semi and a golden retriever. Her extensive family approved of all that, without asking too many questions about what she really wanted out of life. I don’t think she questioned it herself, either, but I was always aware of the fact that something was missing.

I left town, forgot about her, didn’t really care much what went on: they were places and people I was happy to forget. One day my dad told me that she had moved in with the bloke from the antique shop down the road.

Her eyes are still vacant, and she still looks unhappy.

Nora hugged her secret to herself as she scuttled along in the wake of her sisters. They had suspected, of course, and teased her cruelly about it, but all the same, Audrey had lent her a pair of shoes and a velvet sash; Ruth had spent some time setting her hair; and diplomatic Marguerite had managed to persuade their father to let her join them. Only Lizzie was left behind, pretending she did not care, claiming that she would rather read than dance.

The pavement was crisp with early frost, its crystal glimmer casting the only light in the blackout gloom. Nora was glad they did not have to walk far to the dance hall. A few hundred yards away, she could see the pale light from the doorway, each time someone went inside. The sounds of music and laughter seemed distant.

No alcohol!Ruth was the eldest, and therefore responsible; her warning superfluous, as Nora was not there to drink.

The room was filled with colour and chatter, like a tropical rainforest. Fashions may have been austere, but the heightened gaiety and the fluttering jazz piano made the crowd sparkle, a thin veneer of desperation visible in their need to have fun while they could. Nora saw Ruth nudge Audrey, muttering, the Americans are in. Audrey grinned somewhat wolfishly, and ran a hand through her short, angry auburn hair.

A moment later, Nora found herself abandoned by her sisters. Marguerite and Ruth were already swept into the throng, twirling in the reasonably respectable grasp of some suitable looking young men. Audrey had turned down a dance and was leaning against the bar, engaged in earnest discussion with a pretty, slim girl.

Flooded with uncertainty, Nora hovered close to the door, scanning for a familiar face, and pressing down on the threatening anxiety inside her. Her eye caught the brief, excited wave of an acquaintance, but as she stepped in that direction, a gentle hand rested momentarily on her arm.

You made it.

A delighted childish smile flashed across her face, and then she reddened, experiencing a new kind of self-consciousness; and she fiddled with her sash, as if there might be some requirement to adjust it.

Perhaps I could get you a drink?

She felt foolish accepting a ginger beer, when he was clearly drinking the real thing. As he fetched it from the bar, she tried to gather herself, thinking that she should at least pretend to be sophisticated. She imagined that she might even have grabbed her sisters� attention, now that she was in the company of this tall, sandy-haired officer.

Do you dance? he asked her, with a rather avuncular smile in his clear blue eyes.

I� er� She attempted to impress him with the lucidity of her response.

Or would you prefer to sit this one out?

He procured for them two wooden chairs, and held her drink while she arranged herself.

I didn�t think they would let me come, she confided, taking the opportunity to glance in Audrey�s direction.

There can�t be much else for you to do around here, he remarked, aware of the fascinated gaze in her pale face; the slight clumsiness of movement as though her clothes were unfamiliar to her. In the train, she had chattered about music, her family, the war, and not been afraid of him.

We�re preparing the house for convalescent soldiers, she said. We�re all very busy. My sisters are usually up in London, nursing; except me and Lizzie, the youngest. We�re going down to Cornwall soon, to work on the land, safe from the bombs.

Won�t be any bombs in this backwater. His firm confidence assured her, and as she began to feel less jittery, she watched the dancers, and thought it might be rather nice to join in.

There was a moment of silence between them, awkward only in its novelty, and as a presage of moments that might come. Their fingers brushed together as they both reached for their drinks, and she swallowed a nervous giggle as he gave her a melting look.

Are you �

Shall we �

Their questions did not have the chance to become untangled, because that was the point at which they were joined by the delicate, somewhat breathless Marguerite, all swishing blue silk and elfin smile.

Nora, darling, do introduce me to your friend, she demanded, with a smile full of sisterly concern to one side, and glittering charm to the other.

Will, may I present my sister Marguerite� Nora felt gauche, charmless in comparison to her sister, and knew that she would have been unable to recapture the thrill of yesterday afternoon�s train journey, when she had dared to be drawn into conversation, allowed herself to be found interesting by a strange young man.

Will was shaking Marguerite�s hand, already ensnared by her gentian eyes.

Marguerite�s flawless white hand was smoothing her skirt, and her head was inclined towards him, absorbing him.

There was a lull in the music, stillness on the dancefloor. I believe this is the ladies� excuse-me, Marguerite said. Would you care to dance?

Temptations? he screamed at her, the moment she walked through the door. Temptations?

He stood at the top of the stairs, holding her diary, open. It was a big A4 book, and she was nearly at the end, so it held the entire record of their relationship, processed through her eyes, and expressed in the utmost privacy. She thought.

He said the word again, a question extracted from something she remembered writing recently; an oblique reference to her utter boredom and her shameful inability to resist responding to any attention she got. The fantasy world in her head was densely populated; and that was all very well, but she was beginning to find that fantasy was only the next door along the hall from reality, especially when she spent so much time on her own.

She wondered if she would have stayed, if he had not pushed her; or if he had just given her the opportunity to do what she wanted to do anyway. Her marriage miscarried, so she never had to decide to terminate it. This did not alleviate the guilt, or the disapproval, or the instant realisation that she had made another mistake.

It was no good pointing out that he had breached her trust by reading her diary, or trying to tell him that she hadn’t written it expecting him to read it. All this was beside the point, once he knew.

He played the role of cuckold well, with uncharacteristic drunkenness, just to emphasise the fact that she had jumped from frying pan to fire; and heartfelt pleas reaching her via the mouths of her friends and family: he wants you to come home.

What was there to go back for? She had broken everything behind her, and hadn’t the skill to mend it. She could only push forward, and hope that he would have been satisfied to know how often she lay awake regretting his dramatic decision, in response to her inexcusable weakness. And finally she had to admit to herself that the worst weakness of all was the one that made her marry him in the first place.

Reverend Furbelow finds that the tea is a little too strong, and doesn’t like to reach a shaky hand across the table for the sugar. He is comforted by the presence of the old lady, whom he had met at the hospital a few days earlier. He had tried to ease her shock and grief with words of prayer; and now she offers in return a grain of security, because she is just the kind of sweet little old parishioner that he prefers: devout, conventional, well-spoken. She knows the routine, and can quote the hymns.

She passes the sugar bowl with an elderly liver-spotted hand, and her gentle enquiry about the organist’s fees is interrupted in tones that strike a stranger as harsh. The elder daughter wants to give him information; she has spent two days planning and haranguing, because that’s how she copes; and she needs to push things to the next level. Action, and taking it all in her stride, make her feel like that’s just what she’s doing.

She dictates the order of service to the vicar, and for once the old lady does not frown at her niece’s manners. None of them feel that they are quite themselves at the moment; but in fact the crisis brings out their strongest features.

The other daughter is quieter than she has been for days, but only because she cannot get a word in edgeways. It’s her house, her table, and her mother has been her responsibility for years. Part of her is reluctant to have it taken away from her like this, but she knows that she can’t manage on her own anymore. As the good reverend says, the funeral is their final gift to their mother; it also marks the shedding of the burden, the end of caring for the parent.

The grand-daughter feels uncomfortably that the vicar is looking into her soul, has identified her godlessness, and enjoys watching her squirm when she is asked to read the 23rd Psalm. He remarks that this is a time when one can renew one’s faith, but she sees returning to the fold as being penned like a sheep. She wonders how many more unmentioned rites of passage there will be, or if her life will consist of one test after another. She wants to curl up somewhere and sleep, and think quietly about her granny; but she knows that everyone else wants it more.

She makes another cup of tea.