The audience erupted into a round of applause, a few cheers coming from the back. A flash from a camera flickered as newspapermen stood to get a photograph, even though Audrey looked utterly ramshackle. It was hard to see how anyone would want to put her on the front page.

Audrey looked around the room solemnly. A tear appearing in one eye was hastily wiped away with the back of her hand, leaving a small smear of dirt on her cheek. Her eyes looked hollow, as if she didn’t want to win at all. Feeling deeply into her trouser pocket—Who wears slacks to a contest?—she pulled out a large, dirty, man’s handkerchief, and proceeded to blow her nose loudly.

“And let’s not forget our final contestant, Miss Zelda Dupont,” Ambrose said walking down to her. “Although your Coquilles St. Jacques were flawless, the dish wouldn’t be easy for housewives to make at home. Therefore, I am awarding you seven points.”

“Seven points!” Zelda was outraged by the score, pouting menacingly even as the audience clapped.

Spreading his arms wide, gesturing to all those on the stage, Ambrose drew the evening to an end. “I’d like to thank all the contestants, the BBC technicians, the members of the press, and the audience, and remind you all that the next round will be the main course. It will take place next month.”

The sound of shuffling and chattering grew as people made their way to the front to congratulate the competitors.

Journalists had begun to mount the stage, eager for words of wisdom from the winner. “Where did you get the idea?” and “Could you jot down the recipe for me?” came from all directions.

Audrey appeared indifferent. She began tidying her soup bowl and the spoon as if the contest had been just another chore to be done.

Does she even want to win?

A photographer pulled the contestants together for a picture, Lady Gwendoline elbowing her way to be in the middle until Ambrose came along and politely asked her to stand aside.

    All in all, the evening had not been the success that Lady Gwendoline had been expecting. As she got into her waiting car outside the village hall, her polite smile fell like lead into a hardened grimace.

“Fourth place,” she muttered. “I even came in behind my own cook!”

Her husband would force her to abandon the contest if he heard. She’d be put back in her place, an ornament. It struck her that, not unlike Mrs. Quince and the daft maid, she, too, was nothing but a servant to him, one who said and did the right things for him, gave him her loyalty.

A lump of disappointment formed in her throat. How much she’d needed this victory for the capable and dignified woman inside her, desperate for recognition, desperate for some kind of small triumph.

Desperate for a life of her own.

Lady Gwendoline’s Sardine Rolls

Serves 2 to 4

1 can sardines in oil

4 tablespoons flour for every 1 tablespoon oil

1 tablespoon water for every 1 tablespoon oil

Salt

2 tablespoons chopped cooked vegetables

Preheat oven to 400°F/200°C. Drain the sardines, reserving and measuring the oil. Work out how much flour and water you need to use with the oil to make the pastry. Sieve the flour and salt, add the oil, and mix well. Add the water and blend into a pastry.

Roll out the pastry and cut it into oblongs, each long and wide enough to cover a sardine. Make sure you have enough oblongs to cover the number of sardines. Down the long side of each piece of pastry, place a sardine, and then alongside it, spoon some chopped cooked vegetables for extra flavor. Roll each one, sealing it with a little water, and then decorating the top with a few strokes of a sharp knife.

Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until golden. Serve hot or cold with salad.

“It is to you, the housewives of Britain, that I want to talk tonight…We have a job to do, together you and I, an immensely important war job. No uniforms, no parades, no drills, but a job wanting a lot of thinking and a lot of knowledge, too. We are the army that guards the Kitchen Front in this war.”

—Lord Woolton, Minister of Food

Source: Ministry of Food printed materials

Nell

As Nell ran up to the crest of the hill, the July sky was as wide and as blue as the eternal heavens. Her arms spread open wide to capture the breeze, the ecstasy of the day. The sun at its highest peak, nature’s midday, beamed majestically over the fertile green and gold countryside.

“What a joy it is to be alive!” she exclaimed, racing on through the honey-scented pasture.

A bird of prey circled above her, bringing her to a halt to stare in wonderment. How free it looked, how magnificent. It was a hawk, perhaps. Nell didn’t have much of an education. The orphanage had taught them to read and write so that they could find ready employment as soon as they turned fourteen. But there hadn’t been lessons about nature: The birds and the bees were deemed self-explanatory. Politics and the way society was run were among the array of topics never covered. The only thing the orphans needed to know was that their place within the world was a very low one, and that they should be grateful, always grateful.

Nell knew a little about the war, especially now that it was on the wireless every hour of every day. And there was one thing about which she was well aware.

    Italians were the enemy.

The farmyard was empty, so she set down her basket without fear of being seen. She had an excuse to see the farm manager: two ducks needed for Sir Strickland’s dinner party. The farm bred ducks in a large pond for precisely this purpose. Tonight’s ducks were to be served roasted dark and crispy with a honey glaze, accompanied by a sauce made from cherries and red wine. Wine was difficult for most people to get, especially with France taken over by the Nazis. Sir Strickland, however, had premier crus ordered in from, well, somewhere.

Perching on a low wall in the farmyard, she lifted her face toward the sun, closing her eyes, feeling her worries slip away as she soaked up the heat. A lone fighter plane zoomed low through the air, the little plane banking to one side, soaring like a seagull toward the coastline.

A few minutes later, the rumble of the tractor carried through from the field, a stream of Italian POWs coming behind.

Among them was Paolo. Through the crowded farmyard, their eyes met, and she bit her lip to stop the smile spreading across her face.

Barlow switched off the engine. “Back again? I thought we sent down everything on Mrs. Quince’s list. What do you want this time?”

“Sir Strickland has a minister coming to dinner, and we need two ducks for the main course.”

He huffed, tugged up his trousers, then went in search of someone else who could do it for him, as per usual.

Paolo stepped forward. “I can get them,” he said. “There are some hanging in the old shooting hut in the woods.”

Barlow eyed him, then Nell. He shrugged. “All right, but be quick.”

Together, they walked briskly out of the farmyard, neither daring to speak until they were out of sight.

Paolo looked around, checking that no one was watching, and picked up her hand, kissing the back of it. “Do you mind?”

“No, of course not!” She was surprised. No one had ever wanted to kiss her—even if it was just the back of her hand—let alone asked if it was all right. “I like it.”

    The words came out clumsily, more forthright than she meant.

“I didn’t mean—no one’s ever kissed me before, well, my hand.”

“No? I hope I don’t embarrass you if I say that you are beautiful.”

Blood rushed to her face. For her entire life, people always said that she was plain—almost immemorable in her blandness. She felt the heat of his hand through hers, the softness of his skin, the strange feeling of togetherness, and she felt herself walking a little taller, feeling more at peace with the world.

As if she had a right to be there.

“Come.” Paolo pulled her into a slow trot. “The old shooting hut is just inside the wood. This way.”

Sunlight sparkled through the tall elm trees as they scampered through the wheat field, plunging into the wood, darting in and out of the trees, until he drew to a halt in a clearing beside an old wooden hut. He unbolted the door, and she paused momentarily before going inside, remembering that he was the enemy.

“It is all right,” he said, sensing her hesitation. “I am not here to hurt you. I hope we can become friends.” He grinned. “In any case, you must know that I don’t want to make trouble here.”

The air was sweet with woody fragrance, birdsong the only sound, and she suddenly knew that this was what it was all about. Life was about taking chances, stepping outside the ordinary and throwing dice to see the outcome: good or bad.

She took a deep breath and followed him inside.

The smell of gamey meat lingered in the cool darkness, as row upon row of dead birds hung from a series of hooks, golden pheasants, white Aylesbury ducks, small brown pigeons.

“But it’s not the gaming season,” Nell whispered. “Where did these come from?”