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