‘Rosie’s living with Beth until after the war and when Danny comes home, the Good Lord willing, the Squire has promised him the tenancy of Rookery Farm, now that poor old Tom has gone. Miss Jenkins has moved into the town – she didn’t want to try to run the farm on her own . . .’

So Kate was kept informed of all the gossip and news from home by her stepfather. Her mother was no letter-writer, but always sent messages via Jonathan. ‘Your mother says . . .’ littered every page and Kate would smile fondly as she read the latest instruction from home.

She sat with the letter in her lap and stared out of the window of the hut. So Danny and Rosie would one day live at Rookery Farm, God willing, as her stepfather said, that Danny came through the war. He would work the land he had once dreamed of farming. He would live there with his wife and he would raise his children; all just as he had planned, just as they had planned together so long ago. Only now, his wife was Rosie and not Kate.

She sighed and got up from her bed. It was time to drive one of the lorries taking the crews out to dispersal. The camp had been buzzing with anticipation all day, and Mavis and Isobel expected to be on duty through the night.

‘It’s something big,’ Mavis had told her. ‘They’re concentrating on the ports and the Rhineland. Night after night, they’ll go on – as long as the weather holds.’

At East Markham, they’d be getting ready too. Maybe at this very moment, Danny was climbing into his aircraft, squeezing himself into the rear-gunner’s turret.

Kate closed her eyes for a brief moment and groaned aloud. Tears squeezed themselves from beneath her eyelids. Despite everything, she loved him still. ‘Dear Father in Heaven, keep him safe,’ she prayed. ‘Bring him back, just bring him back.’

Thirty-One

‘CO wants you – and the car – his office – two minutes.’ ‘I’m on my way.’ Kate scrambled off the bed, pulled her skirt straight and rammed her cap over her long hair, tucking up the stray strands as she ran towards the CO’s office.

As she came breathlessly to attention in front of his desk, she noticed at once that Philip’s handsome face looked almost grey with fatigue – and something more. His jawline seemed hard, clenched almost, as if he were trying to conceal an anger, and yet at the same time there was an infinite sadness in his blue eyes; today there was no sparkle, no hint of mischief in them.

‘I have to go home urgently. Er – family illness,’ he said, his voice tight. ‘Can you drive me to Lincoln to catch the train?’ Suddenly, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk, dropping his head into his hands, his shoulders slumped. ‘Oh Kate – Kate! How I wish . . .’