Free Orphans of the Storm by Katie Flynn

home from top to bottom. Over Christmas itself, she and Ken had whitewashed all the walls and ceilings and moved what little furniture they owned into place. Ken had ordered coal and logs but said they were not to be delivered until 28 December, for though the neighbours seemed pleasant enough there was a jigger behind the back yard and it would have been easy for anyone who knew the house was vacant to nip over the wall into the yard of No. 4, break open the rickety door of the shed, and help themselves.
    On the evening of the twenty-sixth, tired from the pleasant Christmas they had enjoyed, but excited by the prospect of the wedding next day, Ken and Jess had taken themselves off for a walk through the frosty streets. ‘It’ll be a grand day, because we’ve planned it all so carefully,’ Ken had said contentedly, squeezing her hand. ‘I know Christmas isn’t a good time for flowers but chrysanthemums is real pretty – colourful, like. And Mrs Clarke has done wonders with the money we gave her to get food for the reception. Oh, aye, it’ll all go like clockwork, you’ll see.’
    ‘And after the reception, we’re having a real honeymoon,’ Jess had breathed ecstatically. Ken had booked two whole days in Blackpool, a place she had only ever visited once, and she had never before stayed in a real hotel – a hotel, furthermore, which would provide them with three meals a day. ‘Oh, Ken, it’s going to be wonderful, I know it is.’
    As they had turned and walked back towards her lodgings Jess had thought that, if she were honest, the thought of being married was even more exciting than staying in a hotel. But she could scarcely say so; nice girls never mentioned such things. One was supposed to be nervous, anxious even, not all lit up and longing for the feel of Ken’s arms round her and his body close to hers.
    She had looked up at Ken as they reached the front door, and he had taken her in his arms. Was he worried, or anxious? Would the responsibility of having a wife trouble him? But then their eyes had locked and she saw the smile and the little flame of desire in his, before their lips met. And she had known, suddenly, that it would be all right, that they were meant for each other. Slowly, they had drawn apart and Ken had turned, reluctantly, back towards the tram stop. Jess had waved him out of sight, and slipped into the house.
    It was February and when Nancy woke that morning, it had been to the steady clattering of rain on the iron roof. She lay still for a moment, remembering that Andy lay beside her, that it was Sunday, and that breakfast could be late, for once. There were definite advantages to the wet, though there were disadvantages, too. Lying there, with the sound of the rain deafeningly loud, she considered the day ahead. She ought to seize the opportunity of a quiet day to write to her parents . . . and Jess, too. Her friend had been married to Ken now for . . . goodness, fourteen months . . . and she had only written twice. She really should have a letter-writing session this very afternoon, tell Jess and the Kerris family all her news.
    Moving cautiously, so as not to wake Andy, she rolled on to her back and looked up at the mosquito netting which shrouded the bed and saw, with revulsion, a positively enormous beetle, a scorpion and a number of other ugly and hateful insects suspended in the gauzy material almost directly above her head. Thank God for the netting, she told herself. She had been stung by a scorpion in the previous wet season and Andy had cut the small wound and sucked out the poison, but even so the sting had been horribly painful.
    Beside her, Andy stirred, then woke. Nancy pointed to the scorpion and Andy groaned and sat up. ‘I’ll deal with it,’ he said, knowing that she hated the things so much that even killing them worried her. Not that it stopped her dealing with the creatures when Andy was away, mustering cattle; she and Violet had once killed thirty or forty