Delia felt a bit wistful as she stood in Marged's garden and watched Nain walk away without her. She still wanted to go and see the evacuees so badly that she had very nearly forgotten to say 'good morning Mrs Pryce and thank you very much for having me' when Marged's Mam opened the door.

Even now a tiny, rebellious part of her wondered if she could still pretend that there had been a mix up and she wasn't staying to play after all. Then she could sneak after Nain and go to the hall by herself, without anyone ever having to know...

That idea lasted only as long as it took for Mrs Pryce to shout back into the house for her daughter however, because a moment later Marged herself came barrelling down the front steps and threw her arms around Delia, and then there was no more time for mutinous thoughts.

'You're here, you're here! Mam said you were coming over some time this morning but I've been waiting for ages and I thought maybe you changed your mind'.

'Of course I didn't! I had to help Nain build the shelter first, that's all'.

'Oh yes, we have one of those. Well, we will do soon. It's still all in bits in the back garden at the moment. Anyway nevermind that. Come up to my room'!

Marged grabbed her hand and hurried her upstairs, talking excitedly all the time. Her house was bigger than Nain's, but not as interesting, because they didn't have a lovely little attic bedroom with funny slopey walls and beams you could draw on like Delia's. Marged and her brother just had plain, ordinary sorts of rooms, and they weren't allowed into the attic at all because it didn't have any proper floor, and their dad said they might accidentally put a foot right through the ceiling of the room below.

Marged didn't always do as she was told though, and once or twice she had taken Delia up there anyway, when there were no grown ups nearby. It had been brilliant fun, because they had to walk along the beams where the floor was strongest so it was like doing a tightrope, and there were heaps of boxes of old junk to look through (well, the grown ups called it junk - she and Marged called it secret treasure, and some of it made excellent props for games if you didn't get too fussed by the occasional spider).

The attic had been their favourite ever place to play, until Marged's big brother Harri had told them about the Ghost Spot and ruined everything.

The Ghost Spot was a bit of different coloured ceiling in Marged's room, and Harri insisted it was the sign of a troubled spirit who haunted the attic. He said that once upon a time, before their family moved into the house, a little girl used to live there who liked to go up and play in the attic when her parents weren't watching her ('an annoying little frog face girl just like YOU Marged'). One day she had stumbled and fallen half way through the ceiling of the room that now belonged to Marged, and couldn't get out. Her parents tried to pull her free, but she was stuck tight, so she just had to stay there, hanging through the ceiling with her head in the dark, dusty attic until she died.

'They only managed to pull her out once she'd withered away to a sad little skeleton child, nothing but bones dangling through a hole. And they might have taken the bones away now, but the little ghost girl is still here Marged, waiting to float down through that bit of ceiling at night and kill you'.

It had scared them into fits when he had first told them, and they not only never went back into the attic, it was days before Marged would even step inside her bedroom, let alone sleep in there.

Delia looked for the different coloured patch as they went into Marged's room now, but she couldn't see it.

'Where's the Ghost Spot gone?'

'The what?'

Marged answered absently, already rummaging through her drawers in search of something.

'That bit on your ceiling that was a different colour'.

'Oh that. That was just a damp patch from when we had a hole in the roof and it leaked through the ceiling. Mam and Dad painted over it for me ages ago. You didn't really think it was a ghost did you? Aren't you a funny little thing!'

Delia scowled at her friend's back. She didn't like being called a 'funny little thing' - certainly not by another child, even if she was older.

'I didn't say I thought it was a ghost, just that Harri called it that'.

'Did he? I'm afraid it was all so long ago I don't really remember. Anyway, I was still very little at the time. I wouldn't bother about silly ghost stories now I'm ten'.

It hadn't been that long ago - only last Christmas. Marged had been much older then than Delia was now, and yet she had been the most afraid of the ghost girl. She had cried and refused to go back into her bedroom all week.

Their Mam was furious when she found out what all the fuss was about, and made Harri sleep in there instead. She told him it served him right for telling silly stories when he complained bitterly about the lack of space and the girly flowery wallpaper in Marged's room.

Marged might have moved into Harri's room permanently after that, except that by the end of the first week Harri had had enough, and bribed her with half his Christmas chocolate to swap back. She took the chocolate, but still wouldn't budge until he absolutely promised that he had just made up the ghost to tease her.

The next day Marged had claimed she had moved because Harri's room smelled of sweaty socks, and that she hadn't ever really been scared anyway, she was just teasing him back; but Delia had been there when they made the chocolate deal, so she knew the truth.

She very nearly pointed this out (which would inevitably have led to an argument and maybe even to them falling out, because Marged hated anything that might make her look silly); but fortunately it was at that moment that Marged located the thing she had been rummaging for and whirled back around, a huge grin on her face.

'Look what my aunt sent me for my birthday! Aren't they splendid?'

Delia peered into the box eagerly, and then thought Marged must be playing a joke. There was no fabulous new toy in the box – nothing very interesting at all.

'Stockings? But stockings aren't a birthday present, that would be just like getting new school socks'.

Marged pouted, pulling the box back towards her and stroking the stockings lovingly, as if soothing an insulted pet.

'These aren't just any old stockings, silly. They're the very best silk, all the way from Paris. Mam said they must have cost an absolute fortune, but Aunt Rachel said it was only right that I should get a pair now that I'm a woman, and that a girl's first pair of stockings is a right of passage, so they should be something a bit special'.

'But ten isn't a woman. You have to be at least thirteen, or even older'.

'Oh Delia, you're such a little kid still. Being ten isn't what makes me a woman. It's- you know'.

But Delia didn't know.

She tried to think about all the women she knew, and what mysterious thing might have the power to turn a ten year old into one of them. Marged didn't look a bit like Mam, or any of her aunts or teachers or Mam's friends. She looked just like a little girl, the same as always.

She must have seen Delia's baffled expression, because she clapped her hands together and crowed:

'You don't know do you? Oh bless. Well I suppose it's not really your fault. I probably didn't know either when I was your age. But don't worry, you'll learn when you're bigger'.

Delia scowled. Whatever it was that made you a woman, she wished it wouldn't, because it was starting to look as if Marged wasn't going to be much fun anymore. She had always been a bit bossy, but at least she used to play proper games, and had never treated Delia quite so much like a baby before.

'Marged, what? Tell me!'

'Oh alright, I'll let you in on the secret, but you mustn't tell. I've started my monthlies!'

'Your... monthlies?'

'Don't you know what that means?'

'Yes, I do'.

She didn't.

Not really anyway. She had heard Mam use the term before, but she never explained what it actually meant, just said she'd know when she was older.

'No you don't. It's a thing that happens to girls when they turn into women. First you get this pain in your tummy, here'.

She indicated a spot that was much lower than where you got tummy ache if you ate too many sweets, or played the spinning game too much.

'It's the worst pain in the world, worse than getting kicked. Worse than getting caned. And that's not all, because then you start to bleed'.

'Like a nose bleed?'

'Much, much worse than a nose bleed. And it doesn't come from your nose either. You have all this pain and blood so it feels like you've been stabbed, and it lasts for days and days, just hurting and bleeding the whole time, but you aren't allowed to let anyone know when you have it- especially boys, and you still have to go to school and church and do all your normal things. That happens every single month, and that's how you know you're a woman'.

Delia stared at her, appalled. Why had Mam never told her about this? Or Nain? She imagined herself doubled over in pain, blood gushing out of her belly button as if someone had stuck a knife in it.

Being a woman sounded horrible.

'Oh Marged'.

She found she wasn't really angry with Marged anymore. If she was having to go through that every month, it was no wonder she was acting a bit funny now. She couldn't think what to say to make her friend feel better, but she gave her hand a little sympathetic squeeze.

'Yes, it's pretty awful. Until you experience it for yourself you just can't understand how bad it feels or how much it hurts. But us women have to keep our chins up and bear it bravely'.

'Poor, poor you… at least you have your lovely posh stockings though'.

It felt a poor sort of consolation, especially as Delia still didn't think much of stockings as a birthday present, even if they were silk and from Paris, so she added:

'and- and you can have one of my jelly babies if you like. You can have lots. Even the red ones'.

Marged smiled bravely at her.

'Oh thanks Delia. I'd like that'.

She took a handful from the proffered bag, her fingers coming out coated with powdered sugar and crammed with sweets. She'd taken more than half of them, but Delia didn't object. It was a very small thing compared to having to go through Monthlies.

For a while Marged was too absorbed in munching her way through the jelly babies to say anything else. They sat in silence while Marged ate sweet after sweet, and Delia nibbled one or two from what was left in the bag, just to keep her company. Not too many though, because she didn't want to run out so soon.

She waited until Marged was licking the sugar from her fingers before asking the question that was worrying her most.

'Marged?'

'What?'

'Do you think I'll have monthlies when I'm ten?'

Marged had said it was something that happened to girls when they became women, but surely it couldn't happen to all girls. It would be too awful, and someone would have said if it was going to happen to her.

Wouldn't they?

'I doubt it'.

She breathed out, relieved for just a second, until her friend added:

'I'm especially mature for my age – most girls start later. You'll get them eventually though, and my cousin says they're even worse if you start when you're older'.

'Oh'.

'Let's not talk about it anymore. Shall we go out and play? I only wanted to come up here to show you my stockings, but you've seen them now and there's not much to do indoors. Anyway, I think some of the girls from school are meant to be meeting up soon, and Mam said we could take a picnic lunch and stay out'.

Delia was feeling a bit too shaky to want to go out to play. She would rather have Nain come and give her a cuddle and reassure her that she wouldn't have to have monthlies really… But Nain was off at the hall looking after the evacuee children, and who knew what other terrifying revelations Marged might have waiting for her if they stayed in here?

'Alright, lets go...'

Mrs Pryce looked just the same as ever when they entered the kitchen - no tell tale signs of sadness that her daughter had this terrible affliction, just a slightly distracted smile over her bucket of soapy water.

'Don't come in girls, the floor's wet. I've left a packed lunch out on the hall table for you, don't forget to pick it up on your way out. Marged, you make sure you keep an eye on Delia, won't you? And pay attention to the church clock as well. I want you home by six at the latest, do you hear?'

'Yes Mam!'

It took them a while to find the other girls from Marged's class. In fact, there didn't seem to be any children out playing - the streets were quiet and empty. They passed a half drawn hopscotch grid, the chalk left abandoned beside the last unfinished square. It was almost eerie, as if everyone had been snatched suddenly away in the middle of their games. There even seemed to be less grown ups about than usual, just a few ladies scrubbing their doorsteps, or heading in the direction of the shops.

Delia shuddered and hurried past, keeping close to Marged as they wandered along street after street.

At last they turned down a little lane and Marged climbed onto a stile to peer over into the field beyond, then let out a whoop of triumph.

'I found them, look!'

It wasn't just the girls from Marged's class. There was a huge gaggle of children gathered there - all different ages, from a couple of little four and five year olds tagging along with older siblings, all the way up to great big teenagers of thirteen or fourteen. Delia didn't know most of them, but she spotted Harri among the group, and a few girls nearer her own age that she had been friendly with on previous visits. She waved, but they didn't notice her, too absorbed in whatever they were talking about.

'What do you think's going on?'

'Search me, let's go and find out'.

Marged swung herself over the stile and ran towards the others, calling out as she went.

Hi, Nerys! Beca! What's happened?'

'Marged, there you are. We're talking about the evacuees of course. Did you forget they're arriving today?'

Of course! She should have realised it at once. Everyone else was bound to be as excited as Delia was; no wonder they were all gathered to talk about the children that were probably already there in the village hall right that minute.

Such a crowd might have made her feel shy on another day, especially when she didn't know most of them very well, but she couldn't help chipping in with her little bit of news once she heard that.

'My Nain is helping out at the hall where they're all arriving, so she'll get to see them all! I wanted to go too, but I wasn't allowed'.

'Who are you then pipsqueak?'

This was a tall girl of twelve or so, with stubby blonde plaits and a gap between her front teeth. She looked vaguely familiar, but not as someone Delia had ever spoken to – she was a proper big girl, much too old to bother with the likes of her normally.

'I'm Delia Busby, Marged's friend'.

Marged chipped in quickly, talking right over the word 'friend' and saying instead:

'She's just my neighbour's little granddaughter, come to stay for the war. I'm minding her this afternoon as a favour'.

This was such a huge betrayal that Delia's mouth dropped right open, and she couldn't even speak to defend herself as the other big girls nodded along to Marged's version of things.

The blonde one gave a syrupy sort of smile, like the kind a grown up gives to a toddler, and said 'oh, so you're a little evacuee yourself then!'

'I'm not. I'm just staying with my Nain for a bit. I've stayed with her lots of times!'

She looked to Marged for support, but Marged was standing beside the older girls now, nodding along at everything they said and looking up at them with big eyes, like a puppy desperate to be patted. She gave Delia a pitying smile, the mirror image of the one on the blonde girl's face.

'Yes, but this is different. You don't live here properly like we do'.

'Why are you taking her side, Marged? You're being horrid!'

'I'm not being horrid, but Mona's right. You are sort of an evacuee. Don't worry though, I'm sure no one will make you feel bad about it. You're Welsh after all, so it's sort of different'.

'Yeah, don't start boo hooing over it or anything pipsqueak. We know you're not like them'.

Delia decided that she couldn't stand Mona, even though Marged seemed very keen on her. She wished they could stand with Beca and Nerys instead - they were much nicer than these older girls. But as soon as Mona had started talking to her, Marged had sidled away from her old friends and towards the blonde girl and her little gang, and was now fixed determinedly beside them.

Delia scowled up at Mona, and might have said something back, but just then everyone's attention was drawn swiftly away from her as a little trio of boys vaulted over the stile and came running over.

'We've actually seen them. The London kids!'

'You've never!'

'We have! Robert and Dylan and me. We went to hang around outside the hall and got a good look at them all going in, until some old witch chased us away. Dafydd and Mal were there too. They ran off the other way when we started getting chased, but they'll back us up alright'.

'What were they like?'

'Were they as bad as everyone says?'

'Worse'.

'Did you see many fights?'

'Did they have fleas?'

'Did they have scabies?'

'Did they have tails?'

This last was from a girl of about four, who was gazing up at the older boys in scandalised delight.

Delia didn't feel delighted.

She had thought the others were all excited to hear about London, like she was; but they seemed to be thinking of the evacuees as some kind of monsters. It felt horrible, like they were actually talking about a proper friend of hers (about Sara even), and every one of them seemed to agree.

What if they were right, and the evacuees really were awful? The children's questions echoed the kind of things Mam had said to her on the bus (well, not the tails, but being rude and having fleas). Surely they couldn't all be completely wrong about all of it?

Were all her books and stories about life in London just that? Nothing but stories?

She didn't want to listen to the boys anymore, but she couldn't seem to help it.

'We saw heaps of fights. They could hardly go ten seconds without fighting! And the girls are worse than the boys. I saw one of them bite another one until she was bleeding!'

'So did I! I saw lots doing that! And they all have nits, so they have to have all their hair shaved off, only it doesn't work and you can see the nits crawling all over their scalps. It was so gross!'

'Yeah! And the only words they know how to say are swear words! They just shout them all the time, so much that their tongues have gone totally black'.

'What? That doesn't really happen-'

'It does if you swear enough. You don't know, but we saw them. Black like they'd been chewing coal, scout's honour'.

'You're not a scout!'

'Well no, but they were all the same!'

'Yeah Rob's right. And the grown ups couldn't control them at all, they just had to herd them around with sharp sticks, like wild animals!'

'They shouldn't be allowed to come here if they're like that! It's not safe - they'll hurt someone!'

'That's what we thought. We shouted at them to go back to London because we don't want them here, but that's when their old nun lady started throwing rocks at us and we had to run for it'.

'Oh wow, that was so brave'.

It seemed some of the older ones didn't agree with this last remark. A few were frowning and muttering as the stories got wilder and wilder, and at last Beca spoke up.

'I think you're making it all up! A nun would never throw rocks at you, she wouldn't be allowed because it would go against the bible. Anyway, your tongue doesn't go black if you swear. How would that even work?'

Beca's words seemed to break the spell a little, and quite a few children that had been hanging onto every word in slack jawed astonishment began to glance at each other sheepishly, and mutter that they'd known it was rubbish all along.

'You little toe rags! You had half these silly kids believing you!'

Marged's brother Harri shouted, but he was laughing at the same time, and clapping the boys who had been telling the stories on the backs, as if he was congratulating them on having everyone fooled.

'So tell us what it was really like then. If you even went to see them at all'.

The boys shrugged and grinned sheepishly.

'We did go for real, honest injun. But maybe they weren't quite as bad as we said…'

'Very nearly as bad'.

'I did hear one of them swear, and a few of the littler kids had shaved heads. Only the boys though'.

'Didn't you see any fights at all?'

'No… but I bet we would have if we didn't get chased off. There really was a fierce nun who came after us. She came right at the end with all these toffee nosed little girls, and she had a face like an old boot'.

'I bet she didn't throw rocks at you though'.

'She would have! Only we ran away before she had the chance'.

'Yeah sure she would have. You kids are pathetic. Let's leave this lot and do something more interesting. Are you coming Marged?'

'Yes please! Oh, but I have to bring Delia along too. Is that alright?'

Mona glanced at Delia as if she'd forgotten all about her, then shrugged.

'If you must. You'll have to keep up though pipsqueak'.

'I'm not a pip-'

But Mona and Marged and the rest of their little gang were already walking away, and Delia had to hurry to catch up or get left behind.

'What shall we do now?'

'Shall we go to the hall ourselves and see if we can see the evacuees coming out?'

Mona pulled a face.

'Bother the evacuees. I don't see why everyone's so obsessed with them, they're just a lot of stupid city kids. No, let's do something interesting'.

'My sister has a fashion magazine we could borrow. She won't mind as long as I put it back - well, she won't know anyway'.

'Urgh, Bea, your mother's Simplicity Sewing pattern catalogues do not count as a fashion magazine'.

'It isn't! She has a copy of Vogue'.

'She's never!'

'She has too, I've looked at it when she's not home. I know just where she keeps it'.

'You can really get us the latest Vogue?'

'Well, not the latest latest, but it's from last month, so it's practically brand new. You all wait round the back and I'll run in and fetch it'.

Mona nodded assent to this, and Bea looked so delighted that you'd have thought it was her birthday and Christmas and she'd just found ten shillings on the ground, all at once.

The other girls seemed to treat Mona with almost as much deference as Marged did; looking to her at every turn before they expressed approval or disapproval of anything, as if they didn't have any thoughts of their own. It was like they were all little puppets on strings, nodding along at the slightest twitch of Mona's fingers.

Delia wished she could cut Marged's strings so she could have her old friend back and they could go off together, just the two of them, but it was no use. Marged wouldn't even look at her now.

When they reached Bea's house, Mona lounged casually against the garden wall while the others gathered around her in a tight huddle. Marged was on the outer edge, but hanging onto every word and attempting to imitate every look, clearly determined to be included. She seemed to be perfectly happy to be a puppet.

Delia stood off to one side by herself, feeling fed up and forgotten. She scuffed the toe of her shoe idly against the ground and wondered when they could stop talking about clothes and film stars and actually play something. She kept expecting them to get bored of their fashion conversation and start doing whatever mysterious, fascinating things she felt sure older girls must do at some time, but they didn't. They just went on and on and on about the cut of this dress, or the fabric of that shirt.

Was it the monthlies that did this to you? Once you had them, did you stop caring about interesting things like books and playing and adventures, and start thinking just about clothes? Maybe it was because they had to keep buying new things when their old ones got covered in blood, so they became obsessed with it.

It must cost a lot of money, being a woman.

She wanted to ask Marged about it, but there was no way to do that without the others hearing her, and Mona would definitely call her pipsqueak again and probably laugh at her. She tried edging over while the older girls were in deep discussion, tugging on Marged's sleeve and whispering that they should go off together and have lunch soon. Marged just brushed her hands away and hissed at her to eat the picnic now if she was so starving, but not to keep pestering.

'Fine, but you just see if I come to play with you again'.

'Fine'.

The picnic was a welcome distraction from her boredom, but only because it gave her something to do, rather than because she was enjoying the food. Eating on her own made it all seem plainer and more miserable than it normally would have - even the jam tart had lost its savour. Marged didn't seem to care a bit that it was long past lunch time, and her portion stayed untouched in the tea towel Mrs Pryce had wrapped it in that morning. It was tempting to eat that too, just for a few more minutes of activity, but she settled for sipping at the large bottle of lemon barley water in a desultory fashion.

The afternoon dragged on interminably.

Delia played a miserable, gridless version of hopscotch all on her own, trying to imagine Sara hopping alongside her. It was more difficult than normal, because she kept getting interrupted by screeches of laughter and Mona's commanding tones insisting that this or that thing was 'hideous' and whichever girl had dared suggest otherwise had absolutely no taste.

About a hundred years after this, Mona finally closed the magazine with a sigh, handing it back to Bea and stretching. Marged stretched too, giving a great big fake yawn as Mona gave a real one, and Delia gave her a withering look.

It was a very good withering look, with an eye roll and a raised brow (well, it felt raised, she couldn't see if it actually was or not), and it was almost disappointing that no one was looking her way to appreciate it. In her head, Sara laughed and gave Marged a withering look too, although the real Sara might have been too nice a child for that.

For just a moment it seemed that the ordeal might be over, that the group would disperse now, or else start doing something more interesting.

But no.

A pale, pinched looking girl with hair cut to a severe line just below her ears suggested that they should give each other makeovers to look like the ladies in Vogue, and much to Delia's disgust, this idea was met with general enthusiasm. The girl ran home to fetch her 'makeup kit', which turned out to consist of a piece of charcoal that looked as if it had been picked out of a fireplace, a little tin of water colour paints, and a tube of lipstick so nearly empty that they all had to lick their fingers and twist them round inside the casing to get even the slightest smear of pink to come out.

Even so, the lipstick was passed around with great appreciation - first to Mona, then the girl who had brought it out, and then the others, one by one. Marged got it last of all, but she didn't seem to mind a bit and received the tube with all the reverence of a pilgrim handling holy relics in a church. They experimented with the paints next, brushing drippy colour onto their cheeks and over their eyelids, though the colours looked too bright, and the paint was too wet and ran all over the place, not like real makeup at all.

By the time they were drawing wobbly black lines up the backs of their legs and Marged was proclaiming loudly that she had real silk stocking at home - 'and I'll let you try them on one day if you like Mona. Just you though, because they're ever such expensive ones and I'd hate for anything to happen to them' - Delia had given up completely.

She lay down, stretched full length on the scruffy garden lawn, and stared up at the sky. For the first few minutes she tried searching for interesting pictures or patterns in the uncompromisingly shapeless clouds, but even that felt like too much effort now. It was as if sheer boredom had caused her brain to rust and seize up, so her thoughts were sluggish and she couldn't be bothered with anything at all, not even Sara. She just stared unseeingly at the sky and wished six o'clock would hurry up so she could go home.

'What's happened to that kid? Has she died?'

One of the girls whose names Delia didn't know had noticed her lying on the floor at last, and was pointing with a charcoal-smeared finger. Mona glanced over and smirked.

'Yeah, looks like it. Are you dead over there pipsqueak?'

Yes. Only watch out, because I'm about to turn into a vampire any moment, then I'll come over there and get you.

She'd have said it for real, if it had just been Marged there. The old Marged would have squealed and run away, and they'd have had a good game of vampires, ending with Marged getting bitten or Delia getting staked and bursting into a cloud of dust (or both), and they'd forget all about paint box make up, unless it was to draw dribbles of blood from the corners of their mouths… but Mona definitely wasn't the vampire-game sort, and Delia wouldn't have played with her even if she had been, so she didn't say anything.

'Oh dear, maybe you should take the littlie home to her Mamgu, Marged'.

'Oh, but-'

'Yes you push off now Marged. We're going to be talking about grown up things, I don't think you're really old enough either'.

'But Mona-'

Mona frowned, and made a dismissive little waving gesture at Marged.

She looked utterly crushed, as if the older girl had spat right in her face instead of just waving her hand. Even though Marged herself had done almost the exact same thing to Delia earlier, it was still sad to see her shrivel up inside her cardigan like a deflating balloon. Marged had always been the grown up one when they played together before, but now she looked like a miserable little girl, her lip wobbling as she implored plaintively with Mona.

'Alright, we'll go… but I can come and play again another day, can't I? When I don't have Delia along?'

'Mmm. Probably. We'll see. Go on now, the pair of you'.

They went.

Marged stomped off ahead, annoyed at being sent away from the big girls, but Delia didn't care, she was too relieved that it was over to think about anything else and skipped along at Marged's heels.

'Shall we look for Beca and Nerys now?'

Marged gave a big sigh, the kind that was almost a word rather than a breath - 'HUURRRRRR' to show how annoyed she was. But then she relented.

'There isn't really enough time. It's almost five already, and I'm starving anyway. Lets just go home. Give us the rest of that picnic, would you?'

Back in Marged's room, things felt almost back to normal. She still wouldn't play imaginary games ('they're so babyish, I'd feel silly'), but they played several rounds of snap, and then moved on to 'Sorry!', racing each other around the board and keeping up a commentary of their moves as if the game pieces were real people. Delia tried not to feel too pleased when she sent Marged's third piece back home, even though it was tempting to crow over it, with the memory of Marged dismissing her still fresh in her mind.

She was just one good roll of the dice away from winning the whole game, when Mrs Pryce called up the stairs that Nain was here to take Delia home, and suddenly she didn't care about 'Sorry!' anymore.

A rush of gladness overwhelmed her, and it was all Delia could do to say goodbye nicely to Marged and another thank you to her Mam, before she ran to Nain. If they'd been on their own she'd have thrown her arms around her and buried her face into her coat; but Marged was standing right there at the bottom of the stairs. Old-Marged wouldn't have cared, but New-Marged might think her a baby for such a display, so she settled for giving Nain's hand an extra tight squeeze instead.

'I missed you Nain'.

She whispered it very, very quietly, but Nain heard.

'I missed you too, cariad. Come on, let's go home'.