With exquisite tenderness, keeping his body away from hers so that it wouldn’t even brush her hand, he lowered his head to hers.

She gave a small sigh and as his tongue slid past hers, her uninjured hand moved up to caress his neck, her fingers tightening in the coarseness of his hair.

From somewhere in the distance there came the sound of an early morning tram traversing Potsdamer Platz. Much nearer to them a pigeon squawked. It had been the most terrible night of her life and now it was the most wonderful morning she had ever known.

As he finally raised his head from hers, he said huskily, ‘We can make love for the rest of our lives, sweetheart, but we need to get your fingers into splints as fast as possible.’

Despite the agonizing pain she was in she smiled loving agreement, her heart bursting with happiness as he slid his arm around her shoulders and led her gently towards the car.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Yorkshire, May 1942

Nestled next to Adam in their vast, brass-headed bed, Vicky woke early. She lay for a few moments, savouring the closeness and comfort Adam’s body gave her. He was breathing deeply, still fast asleep. She moved away from him a little in order to look at the bedside clock, doing so carefully so as not to disturb him.

It was 5.30. There were no sounds from other parts of the house. Her evacuee children were, thank goodness, still sleeping as deeply as Adam. She wondered what had woken her so early and then realized it was the sound of a blackbird singing its heart out down by the river.

Aware now that sleep wasn’t going to return she swung her legs from the bed and dressed, pulling on a hand-knitted Fair Isle jersey and a well-worn tweed skirt. Being so early it was still very chilly, but she didn’t put on any stockings. Nylons were now nearly impossible to come by and not an item of clothing she regarded as essential.

Slipping her feet into a pair of comfortable flat shoes she let herself quietly out of the room and walked along the corridor to her father’s room. At eighty-three, he was virtually bed-bound and often didn’t sleep well.

‘Are you all right, Dad? Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Not just yet, dear. Perhaps after you’ve taken Tinker for a walk. That is what you are about to do, isn’t it?’

She nodded, blew him a kiss and continued on her way. At the foot of the stairs Tinker padded to meet her from his sleeping place by the Aga. The kitchen was the one room in the house that was always pleasantly warm and Tinker no longer cared for climbing stairs.

‘Morning, Tink,’ she said, as he waited to be scratched beneath his chin. ‘Have we time to walk down to the river and through the woods?’

His tail wagged eagerly. The walks she took him on were always gentle-paced and he wasn’t so old that he’d given up all hope of catching a rabbit or some other poor, unsuspecting creature when out on them.