Peggy lost track of time as she huddled on the bed in abject misery; mourning the loss of her dreams for his homecoming, and raging silently against the army for keeping him from her. It was only the sound of the three little girls running about excitedly in the hall that reminded her she was needed elsewhere and couldn’t hide in here no matter how much she yearned for solitude.

Glancing at the clock, she took a trembling breath, dried her eyes and put the photograph back on the bedside table. ‘Oh, Jim,’ she sighed. ‘What more do they want of you? Why must you stay on? It’s so unfair.’

He couldn’t answer her, of course, and was no doubt just as upset about being kept back in Burma, for she knew from his letters how depressed he’d become of late, and how he’d longed for home and family. Realising he didn’t have the luxury of giving in to self-indulgent tears and useless raging against the army, she dragged herself off the bed, determined to get a grip on her emotions.

She realised she was still holding the telegram in her tightly bunched fist, and that it was now crumpled and smudged by her tears. Smoothing out the creases, she avoided reading it again and swiftly shut it away in the shoe box where she kept his latest letters.

The sight of so many boxes stacked in the bottom of her wardrobe threatened her resolve to keep the tears at bay, and she had to blink them back, closing off the rising swell of emotion and refusing to yield. Those boxes of letters were testament to the length of time he’d been away, and traced not only the history of his war in the Far East, but the lonely years she’d kept the home fires burning along with the absolute faith that he’d come through it, and return to her the minute it was all over.

Peggy closed the wardrobe door and turned her back on it to regard her tear-streaked face in the dressing-table mirror. Had it only been half an hour since she’d been happily getting ready for the party and excitedly looking forward to Rita’s wedding the following day? The telegraph boy’s unexpected arrival had swept away all her joy in the instant he’d handed her that brown envelope, and there was little sign of cheerfulness and expectation in her face now – in fact she looked drawn and older than her forty-five years – utterly weary from the toll that this war had demanded of her. The very last thing she wanted or needed was to take part in a celebration.

Peggy glared at her reflection, then squared her shoulders and reached for the cotton wool and a jar of cold cream. Vigorously applying the cream to wipe away all evidence of her tears, she rallied herself as she’d done repeatedly throughout the war, reminding herself that she had responsibilities to deal with, and must get on with the needs of the day.