‘There’s every chance.’ Sunday personally doubted it but she wouldn’t have hurt Cissie’s feelings for the world. She was still recovering and already it was evident that her arm would never be the same again. Every time Sunday looked at her badly scarred face, anger bubbled inside her, directed towards the person she and Tom were convinced was responsible.

She herself had been very down in the dumps since Tom had been home on embarkation leave before being shipped off. The house wasn’t the same without him and Ben, and now with Cissie unable to do much, a lot of extra work had fallen on her and George’s shoulders.

During the last two weeks, three of the children she had cared for had gone to new homes. One little girl had gone to live with a couple in Leamington, and Bobby and Wilfred had been taken by an elderly couple who owned a farm out Kenilworth way. Now there were only three children left in her care – the youngest, the twins Sarah and Becky, and a girl of eleven, and Tom had requested that until he returned from war, there should be no more. It was too much work for Sunday without him there to help.

Seeing the sense in what he said, Sunday had agreed – but now she was missing the children who had left Treetops as well as Tom and Ben. It seemed to be all very depressing at the minute, the only bright spot being that everyone was still forecasting that the war would be over by Christmas. Sunday prayed that they were right, then perhaps they could all get back to some sort of normality.

The two women were still sitting finishing their elevenses when the postman stuck his head around the kitchen door and gave them a cheeky grin. He usually managed to time his visits to scrounge a nice cup of tea and sometimes a hot buttered scone off Cook, but today he told Sunday, ‘I reckon you’ll give me two cups o’ tea today when you see what I’ve got for yer!’ He waggled an envelope in the air and Sunday’s heart began to beat faster.

‘It’s from the mister if I ain’t very much mistaken,’ he told her. ‘I’m deliverin’ no end o’ these here brown envelopes now.’

Sunday flew across the room so quickly her feet barely touched the floor, and snatching it from his hand in a most unladylike manner she headed for the hall door, telling Cissie over her shoulder, ‘Get Postie a cuppa would you, pet? I want to see what Tom has to say.’

She then went and locked herself away in the drawing room where she joyfully tore the envelope open and withdrew two sheets of thin notepaper. Much of what Tom had written had been crossed out, no doubt by the censor, but she read the rest eagerly.

My darling girl,

I hope you and everyone at Treetops are well. I just wanted to let you know that I have arrived safely in France and we are now on our way to xxxxxxxxxx