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m’lord, thank you, m’lord, carry on, m’lord,’ said Polly.
    Today, she was motoring back to her wartime home in the village of Corfe Castle after spending three days with her parents in Dulwich, London now being free of air raids. On no account would Polly have taken her precious twins to the Empire’s battered capital if there was still a threat from the skies . Her main family visits were to Rosie and Felicity, who weren’t all that far from her.
    The car wasn’t short of petrol. Her versatile brother-in-law, Sammy, kept her supplied with coupons without disclosing how he acquired them. Polly always expressed thanks, but asked no questions, knowing that among Sammy’s useful wartime connections were a spiv or two. Polly was far too sophisticated to feel guilty.
    Gemma and James were sitting together on the passenger seat, where she could keep an eye on the little darlings. While they were inseparable, they weren’t identical. Gemma was fair-haired, hazel-eyed and round-faced. James had the dark brown hair, grey eyes and leaner features of his father. They were arguing about who was the first to see the squirrel that had crossed the road a little way back. Arguments alternated with agreements in their existence as twins.
    A few miles from Corfe Castle, Polly approached a cross-roads and came to a stop. Passing by was a long line of trudging American Army troops. Dorset and Devon had been swarming with men of the American divisions for a year and more. Thousands of GIs had conducted regular countryside manoeuvres, bestowing on the land a host of muddy footprints, gouged earth and large dents, and leaving chalked messages such as ‘Kilroy was here, OK?’ Lately, however, Polly’s impression was that they were thinning out, that an exodus from the West Country was taking place for some reason or another, and she made her guesses about that.
    She sat there in Boots’s old Riley, its hood down on this bright day, and the foot-slogging GIs eyed her as they went by, rifles slung, packs on their backs.
    ‘Room there for me, lady?’
    Polly smiled.
    ‘Here, kids.’ One man, diving a hand into his fatigues, brought out a wrapped candy bar and tossed it into the car. Gemma and James fought for its possession. Polly thanked the GI with a smile and a little hand gesture. He slowed as if he had it in mind to ask her for a date.
    ‘Move it, Private Brewster!’ bawled a sergeant, and the GI picked up his feet and went on. It didn’t prevent another man from trying his luck.
    ‘Could I meet ya somewheres, lady?’ he asked, giving Polly a wink. Polly was only a few months short of forty-eight, but with every assistance from herself, the passing years had been kind to her. She still looked very much like Colleen Moore, piquant-faced Hollywood film star of the Thirties. Her natural elegance and her Mayfair accent intrigued Americans with whom she had come into contact. They cast her as a typically fascinating upper-crust Englishwoman by no means middle-aged. Wearing a light brown hat and dark brown costume, she watched the American soldiers trudging by. It made her think of how she had watched British Tommies going up the line to the trenches of the ’14–18 war. Even now, those memories were quick to come back. There was, thank God, no trench warfare in this present conflict, although death from mighty machines was no less hideous.
    The rearguard passed. An officer gave her a friendly salute.
    ‘Thanks, ma’am,’ he said in appreciation of her patience. She had made no attempt to disrupt the column.
    ‘Goodbye, mister,’ called little Gemma.
    ‘Goodbye,’ echoed young James.
    Polly crossed then, and the twins began to argue again over the candy bar. Gemma glanced at her mother. So did James. Polly took no notice. She rarely took any notice of arguments, yells and friction, and that seemed to shorten their duration. She always gave attention to the twins’ sweeter moods, which let them know that that was how she