Alastair Macleod 
Illegal 

’A fantasy – the cycle of their days and weeks locked them in – they never met any young British men.
At the farm they collected on trailers and were tractored out to the fields. The ground was wet, slimy, so when the field workers got down their boots were soon clogged and heavy with thick clay. A drizzle had set in.
As she bent and stretched Irene recalled yesterday morning.
It had been bright and sunny.
A young man heading for the train station had smiled at her as she tried to look invisible. She regretted that. At home she would have smiled, flashed her eyelashes. She smiled now at the thought of it. Ilona caught her look saying “And what are you thinking of.” Irena laughed, “Guess.”
“Men of course, ” replied Ilona, stooping to cut a stalk. “Of course, ” said Irena.
The gang boss couldn’t stop them from dreaming’