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wife.
    One night Stewart rolled into bed at four in the morning. He’d had a hard night. There had been a raid on the Forth Bridge, bombers droning overhead, but, tired as he was, he couldn’t sleep. He’d turned to Nancy to tell her about all he’d seen and done.
    Earlier that day, Nancy had invited Mrs Lowrie, whose husband was at home on leave, into the house for a cup of tea. Mrs Lowrie had complained of being exhausted. ‘Didn’t get much sleep last night. But you know, there’s a war on, men are fighting for their country and us women have to do their bit to keep them happy.’
    In bed, as the first glimmer of dawn seeped round the edges of the curtains and Stewart reached for her breast, Nancy McClusky remembered her neighbour’s words and allowed her husband his first bit of intimacy in years. It lasted only minutes, but he rolled over and slipped into a deep, satisfied sleep. She lay awake watching the day arrive, wondering what all the fuss over sex was about.
    Three months later Nancy went to the doctor. ‘I haven’t had my monthlies for a while,’ she said.
    He asked how old she was.
    ‘Forty-seven.’
    ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think you know what that’s all about. You’re going through the change. Just have a rest if you get all hot and flustered. When it’s over you’ll be right as rain and full of energy.’
    Five months later, Nancy once again went to the doctor. ‘I’ve got terrible heartburn,’ she said. ‘Can’t sleep for it. And I’m putting on weight even though I’m hardly eating.’
    He told her to pop up on the bench while he took a look at her. He checked her blood pressure, pummelled her stomach. And, to her horror, gave her an internal examination before congratulating her. ‘Well done, you’re pregnant.’
    ‘I’m what?’ she said.
    ‘You’re going to have a baby. Bit late, I know. But it happens.’
    Mr McClusky had reacted in the same way as his wife, ‘You’re what?’
    ‘Pregnant,’ she told him again. ‘I haven’t thought about having a baby in years. I’d forgotten I ever wanted one.’
    A month later, Nell was born, red and screaming and bursting with life. And there she was standing now in the kitchen, which was exactly as it had been when Mrs Lowrie had stood in it drinking tea and complaining about how exhausted she was.
    Nell, with her sandals and her painted toenails and her man’s jeans bought from the Army and Navy stores and her jumper that slipped off her left shoulder and showed her perfect young skin and her bra strap and her long hair that hid her lovely face. Who was she? How did she happen? And why was she nothing like the little girl who had worn pink frocks and stood on a chair by the sink helping with the dishes? God, she’d loved that little girl – the feel of her body against hers when she carried her. And how she’d carried her, never wanted to put her down, the soft breathing in her ear, the child’s endless questions, and the little hand in hers. The way that little girl had trusted her completely. Now she was rarely home; a stranger who seemed to disapprove of her.
    ‘Oh, away you go,’ said Nancy now. ‘But don’t come crying to me when you catch double pneumonia after traipsing about the streets in the freezing cold dressed in nothing at all.’
    Nell fled.
*
    Carol’s house smelled of carpets. They’d just been fitted, wall-to-wall, in every room. They even stretched all the way up the stairs, soft under Nell’s feet as she climbed to Carol’s bedroom. She burst in. ‘Well?’
    ‘Didn’t work,’ said Carol. ‘I’m still up the bloody spout.’ She considered Nell. ‘Look at you. Jeans and a long black jumper. Your hair’s all straight and hanging down. You’re hardly you at all these days.’
    ‘I know. I’m more like Juliette Greco.’ Seeing Carol’s baffled face, she explained. ‘A French singer. Sort of bohemian. Anyway, some men find this look very sexy. They ask if I’m French and they think