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pleasant break from the tedium at home was swiftly quashed.
    â€œNow, girls, settle down please. This term we’re going to be focusing on what we can do to help the war effort.”
    Ellie sat up in her seat, eyes wide with hope.
    â€œWe’re going to be knitting clothes for the troops, to keep our boys warm in the cold months ahead in France.”
    Ellie’s shoulders slumped. Knitting! Of all the pointless tasks school inflicted, knitting was the worst! Not only was it dull, but she had never managed to master it, so it was always incredibly frustrating. Was this really the most useful thing they could do?
    â€œHats, gloves, scarves,” Miss Smith continued, pacing back and forth at the front of the room as though she were reciting poetry. “As many as we can. This is going to be a whole school effort.”
    â€œThe boys too, miss?” Ellie asked.
    Miss Smith sighed, pausing in her march. “I suppose there’s little point in me asking you to raise your hand before you speak, Eleanor?”
    â€œSorry, miss.” Ellie grinned, belatedly raising her hand.
    â€œThe boys may do it too, if they wish. Though I somehow doubt. . .”
    â€œBut they don’t have to, miss?” Ellie insisted, her hand still in the air. She could feel some of the other girls shifting impatiently, rolling their eyes and muttering.
    â€œNo, they don’t have to. They have other work to do.”
    â€œCouldn’t I do the other work, miss? You know I’m no good at knitting. . .”
    â€œEleanor, I don’t know why you always have to be so difficult. I should have thought you would want to do something for the war effort, with your own father over there in France.”
    â€œI do, miss. . .”
    â€œWell, then, please , let’s have no more fuss.”
    â€œYes, miss. I’m sorry,” Ellie mumbled. She knew the other girls saw her as a troublemaker, and she hated it. But she could never quite seem to stop herself. She so desperately wanted to learn about real, interesting things, things that would help her to escape Endstone and the life her mother had planned for her.
    Miss Smith darted about the room, distributing knitting needles and the girls were allowed to select wool and patterns from a collection on the teacher’s desk. The wool, Miss Smith explained, had been kindly salvaged from unwanted clothes or donated by some of the well-to-do ladies of Canterbury, the nearest major city.
    Ellie trudged to the front of the classroom, trying to tell herself that this was her chance to contribute something from the home front, to do something worthwhile. Maybe her father would be the one to receive what she made and it would keep him warm and remind him of home.
    With this in mind, she selected a royal blue, which would match the colour of his eyes. She was idly flicking through the patterns for a pair of mittens when a dainty hand appeared and plucked them from her grasp. She looked up.
    â€œI think it’s probably best if you stick to something simple, like a scarf, don’t you?” Miss Smith said, not unkindly.
    Ellie flushed and nodded, taking the simple pattern the teacher was holding out to her. She returned to her desk, peering at the instructions.
    â€œWhat are you making, then?” asked Anna Scott, leaning over, her hair in a thick braid over one shoulder. Her own needles were already flying away in a blur of scarlet, though she barely glanced at them.
    â€œScarf,” Ellie muttered.
    â€œCoo, surely you don’t need a pattern for a scarf? It’s the simplest thing there is!”
    â€œNot for me.”
    Anna laughed, gaily, returning to her work.
    Ellie picked up her needles. She imagined her father in his garrison in France. She pictured him receiving a package, tearing it open in that hurried way that always made Josephine tut. He would pull out the beautiful blue scarf and immediately wind it round his