Olive was furious. She leaned over the shop counter and glared at the man in front of her.
‘Absolutely not,’ she said. ‘No.’
She watched with a certain amount of satisfaction as the man took a step backwards away from her steely stare.
‘Mrs Harris,’ he began.
‘Miss Harris.’
The man looked horrified. He glanced down at his clipboard and swallowed. ‘Miss Harris, I’m sure you’ll appreciate we all need to do our bit for the war effort.’
Olive narrowed her eyes. ‘Mr?’
‘Erm, Mr Neal,’ he stammered.
‘Parish councillor and...’ he drew himself up a little, ‘billeting officer.’
Olive nodded. His job titles were of no interest to her. ‘Mr Neal, I’m sure you’ll appreciate that I am already doing my bit for the war effort. I’ve taken in an evacuee, as you know.’
Mr Neal followed her gaze to where Sophie sat in the corner of the shop, long legs propped up on a stack of boxes, and her nose stuck in a book. Olive knew that the girl would be listening to every word that was said, no matter how uninterested she appeared to be.
‘I was led to believe that this is your niece,’ Mr Neal said.
‘She’s my brother’s daughter.’ ‘Your niece.’
‘If you put it like that.’ Mr Neal frowned, studying his clipboard once more. Olive fought the urge to snatch it from his hands and bash him over the head with it. He sighed. ‘Your niece lives with you in your cottage round the corner,’ he said slowly, as though Olive was hard of hearing, which she was not.
‘Yes.’
‘And you have two rooms over this shop, which are empty, and which will be needed for the Americans.’ He stood up straighter again. Olive thought she’d never met anyone so sure of his own importance. ‘I’m afraid if you refuse, then I’ll have to report you.’
It was Olive’s turn to sigh. ‘Does it have to be Americans?’
Mr Neal looked baffled. ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘They’re the ones that are coming to Honeyford. Today in fact. Some of them are already here.’
‘There’s really no one else?’ Olive said. She could hear a hint of desperation in her own voice. ‘No nice ATS women who need a room? A farm inspector? Or a Land Girl?’
‘No,’ Mr Neal said. ‘It’s the Americans who need accommodation. The GIs.’
Olive closed her eyes briefly. ‘I don’t trust them,’ she said.
‘GIs?’
‘Americans.’
Mr Neal looked disappointed. ‘I thought better of you, Mrs Harris.’ ‘Miss Harris.’
‘They’re going to help us win the war, you know.’
Olive snorted. ‘I’d not count on them, if I were you. In my experience the Americans tell you what you want to hear and then let you dow
