Chapter 1: Margot at Work

I stare through the office widow into the bright sunshine and let out a sigh of maternal relief. The tedium of winter through wartime had been endless. It was lonely enough with my husband at war but with my son away too, life had become awfully boring. But with Guy now finishing at boarding collage I was eager for his return.

But my cosy sentiments fade when into my line of vision appear a pair of mongrels; rudely mating together beneath a tree. In union, the dog and bitch form a bizarre two-headed creature. They pant obscenely, oblivious to the world, while frantically copulating.

I turn away, embarrassed that someone may have noticed me watching.

Our corrugated iron huts, the (Allocation of War Work office), have been so cold until recently. Now I'm feeling rather warm in the suite I've worn today.

Having shed my jacket, I feel old Jones's gaze on my figure as I work around him. Then unexpectedly, he make's an offer. "I'm driving past your lane after work today Mrs Chiverton, can I drop you off at all?" he asked. This was uncharacteristically optimistic of Jonesy but I had no reason to deflate him.

I surprise him by cheerfully accepting while fuelling his interest as well.

"Why how kind of you Mr Jones! While the sun's so warm I'll be able to sunbath in my secluded little garden!"

"Mmm..." he mused with twinkling eyes. "you may even need sun cream applied Mrs Chiverton."

It's hot in the little car and Jones's elbow blithely rubs against my breast as he remarks on the rising sap of springtime. Bemused at the old chap's sauce, I ponder on events in my own life ... of Gilbert leaving me for the war over two years ago ... of my unanswered letters to him ... our romance lost in the past ... of Guy leaving me for collage ... and now hiss return within a couple of days.

When I thank Mr Jones at the end of my lane he grins broadly; his pipe clenched in his jaw. "The pleasure was mine Mrs Chiverton ... if I can ever be of service?" he said knowingly.

As I walk down my tranquil lane, I daydream over sunbathing in my garden. A far younger version of Mr Jones kneels attentively, applying sun cream to my naked shoulders. His hands glide across my skin, smooth and slow; his fingers bordering on my breast. Oh Mr Jones! What if my husband walked in now from the war?