The tea came. ‘Looks like rain,’ the woman said as she placed it on the table.

Shelly nodded, smiled weakly, she didn’t want a conversation. She got DJ’s letter out of her bag and studied the writing again. There was nothing sharp or jagged about it, not that she knew anything about analysing a person’s handwriting. Not many people actually wrote letters these days, did they? She couldn’t believe he’d found her after all these years.

Four o’clock, he’d written, then confirmed when she’d phoned him. Shelly glanced at the fly-speckled clock: three fifty-five. Would she recognise him after so long? She was holding her breath. ‘Breathe!’ she told herself. Nice and steady. Calm thoughts.

She stared out at the street. A sudden spatter of rain, then the storm clouds parted and shafts of sunlight speared through the trees and glinted off the wet pavement. Her eyes darted up the empty street, then at the clock. Two minutes to four – yes, she would leave! She jumped to her feet. Her thigh caught the table, her teacup rocked, then toppled. Tea splashed over DJ’s letter. His handwriting blurred. In a desperate effort to rescue it, she pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed the paper.

The waitress rushed over. ‘Aye, don’t worry, love. I’ll see to it.’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s from someone important, very important . . . all I have are his letters!’ She heard hysteria in her own voice, and with those final words her tears raced for release and the clarity she’d sought smacked her hard in the heart.

Of course she had to see him!

In a time-stopping moment that would stay with her forever, DJ was at her side.

Recognising those wide blue eyes immediately, a knot in her throat became so painful she couldn’t speak. Her pulse raced and tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She shoved the damp letter into her pocket. DJ cupped her elbow and led her to a clean table. He sat opposite her and reached for her hand.

She stared at the big fist that covered hers and remembered the baby that had gripped her little finger, before they took him away.

From under his mop of sandy hair, DJ peered at her and hesitated. She recognised the tension in his eyes, and perhaps anger. She hoped not. Then, finally, she saw tenderness.

He leaned slightly towards her, squeezing her hand gently, his voice little more than a whisper.

‘Hello, Mum.’

Shelly gasped. ‘Oh, DJ.’ She placed her hand over her mouth for a moment. ‘You’re the absolute double of your father. If only David could be here too.’

Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

GERTIE

Syros, Greece, 1916.