The worst times came in the wee small hours, when misery and despair engulfed her, and would not be denied. She would lie in her bed in the hut, willing the hours to pass, even wishing that the alarm would sound, that raiders would cross the coast, so that she would have something other than regrets to think about.

Other girls, she knew, were also probably lying awake in the dark, fighting their own particular demons: a boyfriend who had not returned from a raid on Germany; a relative seriously ill, perhaps needing her; or even something as trivial as a kit inspection next day when she had laddered her last pair of lisle stockings and would be in for a wigging from the section leader.

And I have no right to torture myself by imagining Sam’s ship being torpedoed, Sam sinking into the black waters, reaching for a spar, too proud to call for help . . . by now he probably has some natty little Wren to worry over him. But the children . . .

She was sure they would be mixing with evacuated kids from a dozen different backgrounds; she had no fear for Mo, who made friends easily, but she was worried about Jimmy. Suppose he did something foolish? She knew the merchant navy recruited young boys, and ever since arriving at the farm Jimmy had flourished, gaining not only height but also muscular development. He could easily pass for fifteen, and immediately the picture in her mind of Sam struggling in a dark sea was replaced by one of Jimmy, in that same dark sea, frightened and alone, trying to swim to safety when there was no safety to be had.

For the thousandth time, Glenys choked back tears. What nonsense this was! For all she knew, Sam and Jimmy were still both working on the farm and probably enjoying every minute. If they thought about her at all, it would probably only be when one of her letters arrived, and she could not deny that the weekly epistles to Weathercock Farm were a thing of the past. In fact, she was lucky if she managed to find time to scrawl a couple of pages every other month.

The trouble was, of course, that because she did not want them to know where she was or what she was doing, her correspondence lacked a certain sparkle. She never once admitted that she was a driver, but when she mentioned a journey let it appear that she was travelling as a passenger. She had not even told them to which service she belonged, because if Sam knew and did not come looking for her, then she would really feel that her cup of unhappiness overflowed. At least this way she saved herself from the ultimate humiliation of not even getting a reply, however brief, from Sam, or Nain, or even Taid. After all, it had been eighteen months since she saw them last; why should they think twice about her?