The word has been scored into the paper, just as the date has been carved into her heart. It has left an indelible scar on both. In the uncharacteristic slapdash scrawl, she feels her father’s unforgiving anger. The seven letters which should have encapsulated his happiness and pride instead betray his disgust and disappointment, and she feels their cut so acutely she catches her breath. She slams the diary shut and tosses it back into the desk. Her eyes sting as she hastily instigates the rolled slats’ unravelling descent. As the top clatters shut, she takes a steadying breath and blinks away her tears.

Closing the door on her father’s contemptuous ghost, she allows the comforting sounds of Tom at play to carry her forward to the sitting room. The door is ajar and she pauses outside, listening. His childish prattle is balm to her troubled soul.

‘Come on, Tom, we’d best get you ready to go out.’

The boy scrabbles to his feet, the die-cast car that Ted gave him for his birthday clutched in his hand. The toy continues to leave Gwen with a sense of disquiet she is at a loss to explain. She had chided her neighbour for giving such an extravagant gift to a child who is too young to understand its value or treat it with the care it deserves. Already, it bears evidence of Tom’s careless play, its fragile epidermis of bright colour chipped away, exposing the drab metal beneath. But Ted had dismissed her reproof, his weathered face brightening at the sight of the boy’s unbridled delight as he ripped away the gaudy wrapping paper to reveal the treasure beneath. Perhaps her discomfort stemmed from the fact the car had made her own gifts – home-made trinkets and hand-knitted jumpers – seem so paltry in comparison. Or perhaps it stemmed from something else entirely.

Pushing the unsettling thoughts from her mind, she holds out her hand but Tom runs past her and up the stairs, each tread protesting his rambunctious ascent.

She follows more sedately, her hand on the bannister, her steps soft on the threadbare runner. By the time she reaches the landing, Tom has disappeared into his bedroom. Nora’s door is closed, but she can still hear the girl singing a popular jazz song, her voice husky and rich.

Tom has already stripped off his jumper and shirt and stands waiting for her in his vest. Gwen dampens a flannel with water from the jug on his washstand. He grumbles as she rubs about his face and neck, before drying him off on the towel that hangs over the rail.

She takes a clean shirt from the drawer of the tallboy and feeds his arms into the sleeves, then perches on the end of the bed to button it for him, Tom standing to attention at her knees.

‘Tom …’ she begins carefully, ‘tonight … people will be very happy … very excited …’

‘Because the war’s over.’