The peculiar chemical smell that pervaded the shop was revolting, and she wasn’t too thrilled about being drawn into the gossip being avidly exchanged between the rest of the customers. Especially since the most strident of the voices belonged to her archenemy, Rita Crumm.

Rita had always made her voice heard in the tiny village of Sitting Marsh. Since the advent of the Second World War, however, Rita had come into her own. She had made the war effort her own personal crusade and had rounded up enough gullible followers among the housewives in the village to form a sizable group, most of whom followed her orders with ill-advised enthusiasm.

Elizabeth was well aware that Rita was more intent on basking in the glory of her supervision than of actually achieving any worthwhile war effort. Not only that, she was using her self-appointed position of authority to usurp the lady of the manor, whom she considered unworthy of the title. It was no secret in Sitting Marsh that Elizabeth’s mother had been a kitchen maid until she’d caught the eye of the Earl of Wellsborough and married him. Adding fuel to the flames was the fact that Sitting Marsh’s new landlady belonged to that much maligned species, the divorcée.

Elizabeth winced as Rita’s harsh tones effectively cut off the voice of the timid woman seated next to her. “Did you hear about the big fight down at the Tudor Arms last night? Alfie said they broke dozens of bottles and glasses. It’s a wonder someone didn’t get really hurt. Bloody Yanks should go back where they came from, that’s what I say.”

Marlene wound Rita’s mousy brown hair around the last metal curler and securely fastened it. “I don’t know why everyone complains about the Yanks so much. Now that they’ve taken over the airdrome here, there’s been more money spent in the village than in all the years I’ve been around. Look at the business Ted Wilkins is doing down at the pub! I bet he’s not complaining about the Yanks. The Tudor Arms never had it so good.”