Down here the great hairy willowherb – Epilobium hirsutium – grows, and marsh valerian, and milk parsley, and sometimes – in the month of May — swallowtail butterflies hover and dance. It was a bright, bright afternoon and it was difficult to feel miserable, but they tried. ‘We’re not going to pass,’ said Laura. ‘We’re going to let Mrs Baker down,’ said Annie. ‘We’ll never get out of here,’ said Carmen. ‘We’ll have to take local jobs and marry local boys.’ ‘That’s if we’re lucky. Who’s ever going to marry me?’ said Annie, and it was true that in those days, when other girls are at their prettiest, a kind of unbearable plainness suffused her, a muddiness of complexion, a puffiness of skin, a lankness of hair. Or perhaps it was just depression. Carmen and Annie stared at their friend and could see that she was indeed a worry. ‘There’s always someone for everyone,’ said Laura comfortingly. ‘You’re okay,’ said Annie. ‘You’ve got Woodie.’ And so it seemed Laura had, one way or another.
