Polly’s voice was concerned and he quickly smoothed his face clear of all expression. ‘Touch of stomach ache,’ he said briefly. ‘Just the old injuries playing up now and again.’

Polly squeezed his hand. He was so brave, so wonderful, so different to the lads of her own age who seemed gormless in comparison. She didn’t know what her mam and da would say about him being a bit older when she introduced him to them once he was ready, but she wouldn’t give him up. Not for anything. She would never meet someone like him again.

It was Christmas Eve afternoon, and Edward was sitting staring into the crackling flames in the drawing room’s huge fireplace. Outside the house was a cold, hushed world and more snow was falling to add to the previous day’s although by northern standards it still wasn’t thick, being merely an inch or two, but inside there was warmth and the smell of Christmas cooking wafting from the kitchens now and again. He had a plate of mince pies to the side of him, which Clarissa’s cook had sent with the maid with strict instructions he was to eat the lot or she would want to know the reason why, and a glass of – as yet untouched – sherry. Clarissa and Godfrey were out on a duty Christmas visit to the Rochdales and expected back shortly, whereupon the three of them were going to enjoy a ‘nice peaceful Christmas together’, as Clarissa had put it. He felt guilty that they hadn’t accepted the numerous invitations that had come their way, or invited guests here to Foreburn, but Clarissa had insisted that a quiet Christmas was their choice, regardless of him. Believe that, believe anything, he thought morosely, and then chided himself on his churlishness. He was an ungrateful so-and-so and how Clarissa and Godfrey had put up with him he didn’t know, but come the New Year he would send out feelers about his future with both the RAF and the Civil Service and see what transpired.

He heard a car outside, and thinking it was Clarissa and Godfrey hastily crammed a mince pie into his mouth. The whole household was on a mission to fatten him up, and although he appreciated the sentiment behind it, he found it tiresome in the extreme. Breakfast was no sooner over than he was being pressed to take elevenses, and after lunch it was the same. He would have to leave here soon or he’d be a walking barrel, although he had to admit the good food and rest over the last three weeks had begun to make him feel more like himself in the last couple of days. For three afternoons running he hadn’t felt the need to take a nap.