‘Yes, yes … it’s wonderful.’ She struggles with a button. ‘Some people might ask about Daddy, Tom. They might say things – like Nora did – about Daddy coming home.’ Her mind is racing as her tongue twists around the lies she must weave. Tom gazes at her with clear blue innocence. ‘Tom … Even though the war is over … there is no guarantee Daddy will come back. I don’t want you to get your hopes up …’

‘But why not? If the war is over, why can’t he come home?’

‘The war isn’t over for everyone, Tom, not yet. We don’t know exactly where Daddy is right now … And a lot can happen …’

‘But … he will come back … if he can? He will want to see me, won’t he?’

‘Oh Tom, of course, he would want to see you.’ She cups his cheek in her palm. Sensing his sudden vulnerability, she pulls him against her, closing her eyes as she breathes in the scent of his hair, soft against her cheek.

‘I hope my daddy comes home.’

Muffled against her chest, his little wish pierces her heart, and as he pulls free from her embrace, Gwen hates herself a little more.

In her own room, she sheds her work clothes and sloshes water into the bowl from the ewer. She rubs her face with a moistened flannel, roughly wiping away the day’s dirt ingrained in her pores, before running it around her neck and under her arms. It is so much harder to cleanse herself of the guilt evoked by Tom’s wish. She wipes until her skin is red, then throws the flannel back into the water, where it sinks below the surface. She thinks of Muriel’s words of warning, of her father’s disappointment and now of Tom’s hopes, and her stomach roils. She is unsure whether she has the strength to face her neighbours. The thought of their well-meant enquiries terrifies her.

She has no choice, she tells herself. To not go would merely be delaying the inevitable – inescapable questions are bound to come, sooner or later – but she must go prepared. Forewarned is forearmed after all.

She slides a cotton slip over her head, then wrenches open the wardrobe door. The swan-necked coat hangers scrape against the metal pole as she rifles through her sparse selection of clothes. She deliberates over a navy dress. She bought it long before the war, but Nora – who has proven herself to be surprisingly skilled with the Singer – has modified it, nipping in the waist, bringing up the hem, until it is almost in fashion. It will do, she decides.