Grey mist flowed over the field like water.  He was down there in the field.  If she went to him he would take her in his arms.

She was walking now on the highway to Bourton-on-the-Hill.  At the dip after the turn shallow water came out of the grass borders and ran across the road, cold to her naked feet.  She knew that something was happening to John.  He had gone away and she had got to find him and bring him back.  She had got to find the clear hill where the battleship sailed over the field.

Instead of the ship she found the Barrow Farm beeches.  They stood in a thick ring round a clearing of grey grass and grey light.  John was standing there with a woman.  She turned and showed her sharp face, the colour of white clay, her long evil nose, her eyes tilted corner and the thin tail of her mouth, writhing.  That was Miss Lister who had been in Gibson’s office.  She had John now.

Forms without faces, shrouded white women, larvae slipped from the black grooves of the beech trunks; they made a ring round him with their bodies, drew it in tighter and tighter.  The grey light beat like a pulse with the mounting horror.

She cried out his name, and her voice sounded tragic and immense; sharp like a blade of lightning screaming up to the top of the sky.  A black iron curtain crashed down before her and cut off the dream.

Gwinnie looked up over the crook of her knee from the boot she was lacing.

“You made no end of a row in your sleep, Sharlie.”

* * * * *

She had dreamed about him again, the next night.  He was walking with her on the road from the town to the Farm.  By the lime kiln at the turn he disappeared.  He had never been there, really.

She had gone out to look for him.  The road kept on curling round like a snake, bringing her back and back to the white gate of the Farm.

When she got through the gate she stepped off the field on to the low bridge over a black canal.  The long, sharp-pointed road cut straight as a dyke through the flat fields, between two lines of slender trees, tall poles with tufted tops.

She knew she was awake now because the light whitened and the wind moved in the tree tufts and the road felt hard under her feet.  When she came to the village, to the long grey walls with narrow shutters, she knew John was there.  He came down the street towards the canal bridge.  A group of women and children walked with him, dressed in black.  Dutch women.  Dutch babies.  She could see their overalls and high caps and large, upturned shoes very black and distinct in the white light.  This was real.

They pointed their fingers and stared at her with secretive, inimical faces.  Terror crept in over the street, subtle, drifting and penetrating like an odour.

John’s face was happy and excited; that was how she knew him.  His face was real, its happiness and excitement were real.  But as he passed her it changed; it turned on her with a look she didn’t know.  Eyes of hatred, eyes that repudiated and betrayed her.