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to consume yet more fudge: these people are pushers and enablers and should be avoided. Fudge should also be eaten in private, as the ideal method of consumption (inserting three large pieces into the left-hand, right-hand and central areas of the mouth simultaneously, then allowing them to warm and melt there) is considered impolite in many societies.
Here are the acceptable flavourings for fudge: none. Are you talking nonsense? Fudge as a flavour is one of the most divine creations in the pantheon of human endeavour. Would you colour in a Picasso? Would you add a disco beat to Fauré’s Requiem? No? So keep out the vanilla and, heaven help us, raisins. There is a time and a place for a raisin. It is called ‘in the bin’. As for liqueur fudge, it is an aberration of a level undreamed of …

    1942
    Lilian Hopkins charged over the meadow slightly nervously, past shadows lengthening from the golden haystacks on the other side, and the gently waving avenue of elms. She wasn’t sure if young Isitt’s bull was in his shed or not, and didn’t want anyone to see her running. He was an easygoing old thing, everyone said so. She just didn’t like the way he blew smoke out of his nose and swerved unpredictably, that was all .
    Her heart sank as she saw a familiar outline sitting on the stile smoking and openly staring at her, and she picked up her skirts crossly. He didn’t put out an arm to help her up, which was annoying, because if he had she could have made a remark about his impertinence. This was actually rather more impertinent, but she certainly wasn’t going to point that out .
    ‘Excuse me,’ she said, lifting the pail. ‘I need to get on.’
    Henry didn’t budge an inch .
    ‘I think I’d like to watch you climb over the stile.’
    ‘You will do nothing of the sort,’ said Lilian, flushing .
    ‘Why were you walking so strangely out there anyway?’
    ‘I was not.’
    ‘You was. I saw you.’
    ‘Well, stop spying on folks then.’
    ‘I don’t spy on folks,’ said Henry infuriatingly. ‘Anyone walks that strangely over a field, half the place is going to notice. You’re not scared of young Isitt’s bull?’
    ‘No!’
    Henry smiled, then his face changed to sudden shock. ‘Oh here he comes now, right galloping fury.’
    Lilian leapt up on to the stile and spilled half the contents of her pail. ‘Where?’
    But Henry had nearly toppled back off the stile with glee, and, chuckling, headed off down the lane towards the village, leaving her in the empty field, crossly climbing the stile alone and muttering to herself about rude herd boys all the way to the shop .

    He was in on Saturday too, while she was serving. The children were in with their ration cards and tightly clutched tuppences. They liked to take their time to choose, marvelling at the glass jars reflecting the light through the small windows, the colours of the humbugs and the twisted golden barley sugar. The young farm men would come in, sleeves rolled up to show off brown arms and ruddy necks, scrubbed and shaved for the village dance, spending their wages on the velvet-trimmed heart-shaped boxes for their sweethearts. At sixteen, Lilian felt it was well past time for her to find a sweetheart. Not one of the village boys though, with their mucky boots and teasing. Hugo Stirling, the largest farmer’s son, perhaps, when he came back from college. He was the handsomest boy in the village. She smiled wryly. By the time he got back from York, it wasn’t very likely he’d be looking for a shop girl. More likely Margaret Millar, whose father owned the next farm over. It would make much more sense to join up the land, even if Margaret had one eye that looked at you and one that looked at the floor, and had even worn a pair of spectacles that hadn’t improved a thing, and was always trying to put her hand on her forehead like you wouldn’t notice anything. She wore the most expensive dresses and told everyone how much they cost and how her