Violet tasted the tang of his sweat, yeasty and sour. He was only feet away, inching towards her; a twinge in the small of her back rippled to become a pulse in her neck. He leaned in, right up to her ear and whispered in his reedy voice, 'I've got you under my skin, Violet.'

It was all she could do to sit still, trying to look like she didn't care.

'Get lost, Sidney,' she said, making light of it with a half laugh and a shrug of her shoulders. She didn't want his attention, this daft lad with his baggy pullover, so she kept her eyes on the rack in front of her, filled with spikes and live filaments on which she tested each bulb. The good ones she put in their individual hole in the tray on her left, the duds in a basket by her right knee. It was clean work, the factory was quiet enough to hear the wireless, and it paid better than the Tin Can Works.

Sidney sloped off with a full basket of duds, and Violet settled into her rhythm. She could do it now without thinking, which meant she was able to think about something else. Or somebody else. Clark Gable with his dark hair and eyes and that gorgeous smile in a rugged face was her favourite. He put her in mind of Tommy Hayes; they could be brothers. If anybody accused her of it she would deny it, but she did have her eye on Tommy. He was younger than her, but because of his build he could get away with going with older girls. Not that there was much between them, six months or so. She'd spoken to him once or twice, he'd said something cheeky, and looked her up and down, as if he knew what was on offer. It made her smile, but she'd run a mile if he tried anything.

From across the bench, Myrna asked her if she would be coming out later. It was a free night at Marshall's dance hall. Myrna had made herself a new frock, and asked Violet if she wanted to borrow her old one, if she was stuck for something.

Myrna had to raise her voice to get a response from Violet.

'What do you think, Vi, fancy coming out?'

'Ma's not well.'

'Is she no better?' Myrna did a good sympathy face but had no more to say.

Violet bit her tongue, wishing she hadn't mentioned it. Her poor mother was in her final days, and the doctor said there wasn't long to go now. It was a curse. There was that little bird that had come down the chimney, oh, months ago.

Myrna got up to find a new packing box; Violet tried to set her mind on the task in front of her. Taking a fresh bulb from the rack she placed it over the filament. It stayed dark. She picked it off as she might dead-head a late summer flower. As she moved to throw it in the basket, it crumbled into fine splinters in her hand. She was sad to see the ruined light, dead without ever being lit. Her mother, Peggy, was a warm light. As a little girl, Violet would run in with half the kids from the street, asking for a slice of bread or a twist of sugar. She remembered other times when her mother had read stories to them, lying on the day bed in the parlour, as she recovered from an infection or some other setback. A constant light, but fading now; Violet pictured Peggy's bedroom, the curtains half drawn.

Somebody prodded at her back. Myrna.

'Come for a cig, Vi, ten minutes.'

Glad of the break and the chance to stretch her arms and back, Violet felt drained as if she had worked all day, but it was only halfway through the morning. When they walked out into the yard, the daylight blinded them, until they found a gloomy corner and lit up. Myrna sucked in her cheeks and told Violet she looked like death's door. Violet let out her smoke with a sigh.

'Thanks, Myrna.'

'Well, you do. Sorry about your Ma, an' all that, but when you've got to go ...'

She drew on her cigarette, deep red lipstick staining the tip. Myrna liked to give the impression she was a woman of the world, though she'd never set foot outside Barnsfield. Violet turned towards her with the beginning of a smile on her face.

'You're a right cow, Myrna.'

'Ha! I know. Look, love, I'm sorry, it's awful, but I've had to get used to being without my Ma since I was ten years old. You're not a bairn, Vi. You'll get over it.'

Would she get over it? Drawing on her cigarette, Violet's lips were loose, and a puff of ash shed onto her collar. She tossed her head, letting her dark red curls bounce to hide the shudder that took over her body, and leant back on the wall to steady herself.

'I'm not sure I will, you know, Myrna. I won't know what I'll do with myself when it happens.' Put a good front on, that's what she'd do. She wouldn't want anybody to think she was soft.

'Deep down, I don't think I'll ever get over it. To tell you the truth, my Ma's the only one who knows me. Not even our Daisy can cheer me up like she does or slap me down if I get too full of myself. Do you know what I mean?'

'Yes, I do.' Myrna arched her back and laughed.

Violet pretended offence, raising her eyebrows. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Well, you've a mind of your own, you know, Violet.'

'No more than you have, Myrna.'

They laughed and fell back into their smoke, pulling hard on the cork tips, until the tar reached the bottom of their lungs. They each blew out a long plume, Violet's straight in front, Myrna's disappearing into the air above them, both aware of how they looked, and who might be looking. Violet held herself in a serious pose, hoping it was glamorous enough to impress a handsome lad crossing the yard, trying to push her mother to the back of her mind.

'I needed that.'

Myrna looked at her straight on, 'You know I don't mean everything I say, don't you?

Violet smiled, and Myrna saw her chance. 'Will you come out tonight now?'

'I can't ...'

'You can, Vi, you must. There's all this talk of a war, you can't rely on a toff like Chamberlain to stop it. Folks are saying we could be carrying round gas masks before long. Anyway, there's a chance you might meet somebody, you know, a nice lad. Somebody like Tommy Hayes, mentioning no names. I'll bet he offers to do more than whisper in your ear.'

Few lads had whispered in Violet's ear. Though she did a good job of pretending otherwise. Violet responded with a raw laugh.

'Myrna, you're a scandal!'

'Will you meet me at eight at the Clock? Bring Daisy if she wants to come.'

'She won't.' Her sister wasn't one for going out, and especially not now. Violet did feel guilty, but a night out after a hard week was too much to resist.

'All right, if everything's quiet, I'll come.'

'Good girl, we'll have a bloody good time, won't we?'

* * *

Violet's feet dragged down the cinder path, her shoulders hunched, her head drooping. She had an urge to turn under the bridge at the bottom of the hill and wander off through the last of the uncut barley. She would have hidden in the golden fronds, breathing the dusty dryness of the earth, letting sleep come. Her work wasn't hard, not as hard as other work she'd had, but the idea of what might be waiting at home exhausted her.

She was close now. The estate of miners' cottages sat in a clearing in the woods. Chestnut Avenue, Beechwood Road, Elm Avenue, Oakwood Close. Paths twisted through dark tree canopies where she and her sister had played as children. It felt like Thorndale, and so different. When they came here to Barnsfield, they had a new house with two big bedrooms and a small room for Frank. The toilet had a bath in it (you must call it the bathroom, Violet)....