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all pink and white skin, blue eyes, and the open expression of a boy who had always been loved. Dear Joe, like all his brothers, born and bred at Holly House in Twistleton. His father was the local solicitor, the son of a barrister, the grandson of a lawyer, and the family had connections with the village going back over a hundred years.
    Joe now walked up to the stage and mounted the few steps that brought him up to their level, smiling with all the proud assurance of a young man in an obviously very, very new Royal Air Force uniform.
    Just the sight of Joe in uniform for the first time seemed to give the Twistleton audience a shock, and to add the necessary authenticity to the scene that was about to take place, a scene that suddenly seemed more to be part of some play that they were all re-enacting for the benefit of, say, the renewing of the church roof, or new gymnasium equipment for the school hall, rather than real life. Joe Huggett in his ill-fitting RAF uniform was so very real.
    A question rose instantly in everyone’s minds, and they all started to shift uneasily in their seats, and look around at each other. If Joe was in uniform why not Tom, or Alan over there, or Doctor Blackie’s son Richard Blackie? Why not all of them, come to that? Very well, Joe was young and fit, and the rest of his brothers were already away in the army, but even so? Even so. No state of emergency had been declared as yet, surely? Or hadn’t they heard? Had they not been told? Was there something they should know? Then they stared at the stage in front of them, and started to laugh as Joe made a hash of trying to bandage one of Jean Shaw’s ankles, blushing to the roots of his blond hair as he did so, while Jean – always a bit of an actress was Jean – acted up no end, pretending he was hurting her.
    â€˜Any more volunteers, please?’
    Laura and Freddie both stood up, if only to help out Aunt Jessica, but once on stage Freddie looked back at Laura suddenly, and Laura knew at once what that look meant: ‘Oh Lord, will this really be necessary? Surely not.’
    Laura’s expression set. Who knew? Perhaps not? Perhaps something would happen to save them from a war?
    But first it seemed they had all been corralled into helping out at a local dinner party.
    â€˜Who is the poor soul who owns this house where we are expected to disport ourselves as waitresses?’
    â€˜One Guy Athlone. You may have heard of him?’
    â€˜Heard of him? I worship him, and his plays!’ Aurelia sighed. ‘It can’t be true. Are we really going to his house?’
    â€˜Yes, dear, but not to socialise. We have to help him out, not as guests, as waitresses! He telephoned Aunt Jessica. Been let down. They’ve even sent over the uniforms. Here, they’re here, in this basket.’
    Freddie undid the laundry hamper and started to hand out the statutory black uniform dresses, together with the white aprons, and white cotton headdresses.
    â€˜How do you wear these awful hats without looking like something brought in by the cat?’ asked Laura.
    They took it in turn to cavort in front of the mirror, putting the hats on at comic angles, before finally settling, amid gales of laughter, for putting them at what they imagined to be at an attractive angle, at the back of their heads.
    Aunt Jessica greeted them in the hall.
    â€˜No, no, Freddie, no, Laura, no, Aurelia, no, Daisy, waitresses wear their caps at the front , not the back. At the front, to disguise and cover the hair.’
    â€˜We don’t look very pretty with them at the front, though.’
    â€˜That,’ said Jessica, ‘is, I think, the point. If you look too pretty no one will pay attention to the food and drink, or their fellow guests. As it is, I would advise reinforcement to your derrières: men often see waitresses as fair game – the black stockings, you know, reminds them of their mothers’ maids, I always