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few hours away from their usual drudgery. Their husbands – hatless for once and pressed into wearing their best smocks – seemed to prefer to stand or lean, replete of body and relaxed of mind, their conversations altogether more rowdy. But those she found most fascinating to watch were the young girls. In their eagerness to attract a particular pair of eyes, limited means apparently presented no boundary. Their hair was pinned high, their bodices drawn in tight, and wearing the necklines of their blouses as low as they dared, they swished their skirts and preened like broody hens.
    ‘An’ I say he’s watching you,’ she overheard one girl hiss to another, the latter turning to hide scarlet cheeks and whisper back, ‘An’ I say he is not !’
    She followed the direction of their snatched glances. In the far corner, downing cider and pretending indifference to the charms being paraded for their benefit, a group of lads seemed nevertheless enthralled.
    ‘Well if that look weren’t intended for you , Peter Lunn, I’ll eat my cap,’ was the gist of a nearby conversation.
    ‘Don’t be daft, Dickie Tait; I told you afore, I ain’t the least chance with her ,’ the bones of the reply.
    She smiled. There had been young people like that in her own village. She had grown up knowing them by sight and by name; knowing their parents, their brothers and sisters, their homes. They had been the same age as her or near enough. The difference, though, was that by and large, they were the younger children in their families and so had grown up unfettered by the constraints and the burdens to which their elder siblings had been born. And as a result, they were lighter of spirit. Bolder. She had certainly never gambolled as they did tonight. No, she was the one who would have washed them, fed them, watched over them. It was simply, she realised then, what the first-born daughter did. It had been expected of her just as it had been of her mother, also an eldest daughter. And whilst other youngsters around her had spent last summer frolicking and flirting, she had been courted by George – sedately and distantly – such that she was now wed; it being just the way of these things, she supposed.
    It was hearing strains of music that brought her contemplations to an end and made her turn to the corner where the musicians were warming up. Sporting floor-length smocks the colour of wheat-chaff, they were more easily picked out by their neckerchiefs in a shade of scarlet so vibrant as to rival field poppies. This time, a longer snatch of a familiar refrain hushed the chatter; the final stave hanging tantalisingly until the fiddler called the first dance. All around her, guests scrabbled to their feet and dragged partners into a line in the centre of the dusty floor. Couples shuffled for space, the flute player blew a single, introductory note and then barely a full second later, the features of the individual dancers were lost to a swirl of colour and movement. She tapped her foot; the melody swept along by the wistful flute, the harmony scraped robustly by the fiddle and both urged onward by the relentless beat of the tabor.
    Refrains came and went; countless and identical, the rhythm and the participants never letting up. And then, with a flourish, it was over. Many of those who had danced left the floor. New couples appeared among those who remained. Would George want to join in? Seated next to her, he gave no sign. Should she suggest it? It looked like fun. And although it was an age since she had danced, once she heard a familiar tune she would probably remember the steps. Did George even dance, though? It wasn’t something they had ever talked about. Perhaps she should wait and see; after all, the last thing she wanted was to make a fool of herself. Yes, she would take her lead from him; that would be the sensible thing to do.
    Back along the table, she noticed that Annie was getting to her feet, her unsteady progress bringing her