June offered the baby her breast and closed her eyes. Sleep pounced, pulling her back to the Air Force and uniform, to sailing her bike over the hills of St. Davids, singing with the band, laughing with the girls, and freedom.
“Wake up, love!”
She blinked at her husband.
“We had a customer.”
From the distant hills, June hadn’t heard the jangling shop bell.
“I’m tired, Bill. It’s all work; the whole war wasn’t this tiring. The band, it went touring, after we demobbed. I…”
“What? You wish you’d gone with them?”
Wearily, Bill gestured around the stockpiled living room, “You wanted this, marriage, building a business together. You said…”
“I know.”
Holding the baby, she knelt to price another cold, white dinner plate with a chinagraph pencil, then clattered it over to its new pile. “I just never knew it would be like this.”

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