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Sunday afternoons. Ah, not at Mr Woodman’s Bible study group for boys. Though one of its youngest members, Ernest’s opinion was often invited, and he could freely share his thoughts on the matters under discussion: the dictates of conscience and the path of duty; God’s judgement, and also His mercy, His constant love and forgiveness – all the things Ernest had to keep to himself at school. He was especially devoted to Paul Woodman, the elder son, aged about eighteen and intending to train for ordination. Paul’sconversation was precious to Ernest, for he could tell him almost anything without being made to look foolish; the jeers and taunts of the boys at Everham Council School were mere pinpricks when placed against the thoughtful, courteous words of Paul Woodman.
    With his mentor’s face in mind, Ernest smiled and drifted peacefully to sleep.

C HAPTER T WO
1911
    ‘Old Mr Cox hasn’t been in for his money today, Miss Munday. Have you seen him at all?’
    ‘No, Mr Teasdale, nor his daughter,’ answered Isabel, looking up briefly from counting stamps.
    ‘And he wasn’t in with the others yesterday, though he’s usually outside waiting for me to open up on pension days!’
    And the other old people aren’t far behind, thought Isabel, for the ten shilling weekly pension introduced two years ago was an enormous help to the elderly and their relatives. She closed the folder of unsold stamps. ‘Shall I make a cup of tea, Mr Teasdale? It’s nearly four o’clock.’
    ‘That would be very nice, Miss Munday, thank you.’ He shot her a look of fatherly concern. ‘You’re rather pale today, if I may say so, MissMunday. Are you not feeling so well?’
    ‘Yes…I mean no, I’m quite well, thank you, Mr Teasdale,’ she answered, not quite truthfully, for she had developed a cramp-like pain at the bottom of her tummy – her mother disliked the word belly – and felt slightly sick. A cup of tea might do her good, she thought, and set about putting the kettle on to boil in the little kitchenette behind the office. The door pinged as a lady customer came in, and Mr Teasdale put on his usual polite smile to attend to her.
    While she waited for the tea to brew, Isabel sat down on the hard wooden chair, feeling peculiar in a way she could not understand. She wished she was at home; Mr Teasdale was a pleasant enough man who always addressed her properly as Miss Munday, but he was still a man, and Isabel felt the need for a woman’s reassurance. As she sat there, she was suddenly and alarmingly aware that something was happening: she was leaking! She jumped to her feet and hurried out to the lavatory which, like the Mundays’ own, had to be entered from outside. Something felt wet and warm between her legs, and she pulled up her long skirt and petticoat; when she took down her drawers, she nearly fainted with shock at seeing the blood on them, and…oh, heavens, it had leaked through to her skirt while she’d sat on the chair. In utter dismay she realised that this must be the start of her
periods
, which her mother had never mentioned to her, but Betty Goddard and Phyllis Bird had whispered abouttheir own experiences, so Isabel was not entirely unprepared for this first visitation. Whatever was she to do? She must go home at once, but how to explain to Mr Teasdale?
    Pulling up her soiled clothes with trembling hands, she smoothed down her skirt and returned to the post office.
    ‘Mr Teasdale, I’m sorry, but—’ she began, thankful at least that there were no customers in at present.
    ‘Why, Miss Munday, whatever is the matter?’
    ‘I shall have to go home straight away, Mr Teasdale. I-I…’ And poor Isabel burst into tears in her shame and humiliation; she dared not turn round because of the stain on the back of her skirt.
    This put the postmaster in a dilemma. He felt fairly sure of the reason for his young assistant’s distress, and that this was an emergency. The only thing he could do was to take her