Not that the dockers got a chance to snatch up the bounty descending from above; the armed guards saw to that. Cyril had seen the guards hitting the women with their rifle butts and then ignoring them, leaving them unconscious on the frozen ground for their companions to take away to God alone knew what horrible igloo or whatever their homes were called.

But much of this passed Cyril by. He had hoped for a posting to some delectable spot in the Mediterranean, but they were to be on the Russian run until the war ended, he supposed viciously; just his luck! Only the other day he had received a letter from his mother telling him that his Auntie Letty had a friend who cleaned a couple of the big houses near Princes Park, and had been willing to nose out what she could about the Rathbones to oblige Letty’s sister. The old lady, it seemed, had died in one of the air raids during what was now being spoken of as the Liverpool Blitz, had been found on the landing by her niece without a mark on her, apparently: the doc said it were a heart attack, brung on by fright, he reckoned. Naturally Mrs Huxtable had not disclosed the nature of her interest in the affair, but Letty’s friend hadn’t mentioned any suspicion of foul play, so it looked as though Freddie Cummins hadn’t reported Cyril’s presence at the scene.

By the time he got to this part of the letter Cyril’s anxiety was mounting: what if the house were cleared and sold before he could get back to Liverpool? But Mrs Huxtable’s next words allayed his fears. The old lady’s niece is staying on in the house – old Mrs Rathbone left it to her in her will, they say, and no one can’t force her out, not even if she’s daft as a brush, which by all accounts she is. Come home soon, son.

But Cyril couldn’t go home, or not yet, at least. Lying in his bunk as the feeling gradually returned to his fingers and toes, he started to plan how he would get his hands on the dressing table, and make himself master of that bulging jewellery box . . .

Chapter 20

August 1946

IT WAS A glorious August day and Glenys, looking around her, felt that she was on top of the world. The war was over and Sam had been demobbed at last; he had served continuously in the Mediterranean since their one brief wartime meeting, so Glenys had not seen him for five years.

She and Jane, however, had been fortunate enough to stay together for a good deal of the conflict, but then the postings had come thick and fast. Glenys had spent time in Northern Ireland, gaining in experience and accuracy as she grew accustomed to uprooting herself, piling into a lorry or on to a train, and taking over some site where searchlights and ack-acks were needed, for she was now a lance bombardier and wore her white lanyard with pride. She had spent her leaves at Weathercock Farm when possible and worried about the volume of hard work demanded of the old people, but despite her fears Nain, Taid and even Mo seemed to take everything in their stride.