‘I believe she did,’ said Cordelia, her mind clearly on something else. ‘Does Jim give any details of how both men died?’ she asked. ‘Only the telegrams they sent were very brief and not at all informative.’

Peggy carefully relayed what Jim had written, and then perched on the arm of the chair to comfort her as she wept once more for the two men she’d never known but for whom she’d prayed would beat the odds and return safely.

Bob Reilly donned his cap and grabbed the two heavy holdalls as the train ground to a stop at Cliffehaven Halt, sighing great clouds of steam and smoke. He climbed out, his chin tucked into his coat and the peak of his cap almost touching his nose to shield him from the rain which was coming from the sea as straight and hard as stair-rods. He could barely see where he was going, for although it was only three in the afternoon, it was already dark, and the weak light of the two platform lamps was shrouded by the gloom.

‘Jim! Jim, is that really you?’

Bob looked up to find the stationmaster beaming back at him. ‘Hello, Uncle Stan,’ he replied. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s me, Bob.’

Stan grabbed his arm and pulled him into the lee of the remains of the old waiting room where a dim light filtered down from a lantern. ‘Well, as I live and breathe,’ he gasped. ‘So it is. My goodness, boy, you’re the very image of your father.’

Bob grinned. ‘So I’ve been told. How are you, Uncle Stan? You’re looking well, but I see the old place took a bit of a battering.’

‘Aye, it did that,’ he said on a sigh. ‘And by the New Year, all of this will be gone.’ He went on to tell him about his enforced retirement. ‘When your father does come home, he’ll have to get off at Willingham and catch the bus.’

‘Yes, I was told it was closing when I bought my return ticket,’ said Bob. ‘But now you’ll have lots of time to work on your allotment, Uncle Stan, and I’m sure you’ll be glad not to have to get up for the milk train every morning.’

‘I’ve been doing it for years, so will probably still be up with the lark anyway,’ he replied gloomily.

Bob could feel the unpleasant iciness of the rain dripping down the back of his collar. ‘I’d better get home. Mum’s expecting me, and I promised Charlie I’d go and watch some of his match.’

Stan shook his head. ‘I don’t know how those rugby boys do it. Out in all weathers, they are.’ He grinned at Bob. ‘But young Charlie seems to thrive on it.’

Bob wished him a happy Christmas, promised to pop by during his stay for a longer chat, and headed down the High Street. He’d always liked Stan, for as a small boy, he had sneaked up here for a rock bun and a cup of tea to listen to the old man’s stories, and wave the flag when the trains left the station. He also had fond memories of Cliffehaven, for he’d been almost thirteen when he’d left, but now he was shocked to see how dilapidated and run-down it looked on this miserable day.