For the rest of that week, Kitty stayed constantly at Sunday’s side apart from when Sunday went to visit Tom at the hospital. It was as if she was afraid to let her only remaining ‘parent’ out of her sight. Thankfully, the swelling on Tom’s leg had gone down and he appeared to be on the mend although he was still in a great deal of pain and fretting about how Sunday would manage without him at Treetops.

‘Nobody is indispensable,’ she reminded him as she straightened the covers on his bed, and he almost growled with frustration. Tom had never been one to laze about and it was going sorely against the grain. And then on the following day when Sunday entered the ward she was concerned to see that the curtains were drawn about his bed. The ward sister instantly drew her to one side.

‘I’m afraid Mr Branning has developed an infection,’ she told Sunday. ‘The doctor is in with him now.’

Sunday paled. ‘Will they be able to cure it?’ she asked in a wobbly voice.

The woman shook her head, setting her starched white cap swaying on her iron-grey hair. ‘Of course we shall do everything within our power, but now I think you should prepare yourself. If we can’t beat the infection it looks more than likely that the surgeon will have to amputate his leg below the knee.’

‘NO!’ Sunday’s objection echoed down the ward, alarming the other patients. Tom had always been such an active man; she knew how much he would hate being a cripple. ‘You must ensure that doesn’t happen,’ she said with a new-found strength. ‘My husband is only young, and to lose his leg would break him, I know it. Now, I would like to go and see him, if you please – and the doctor!’

The sister, who was not used to having her authority flouted, stared open-mouthed as with her back as stiff as a broom handle, Sunday strode off down the ward.

‘Now, doctor,’ she said, startling the man as she barged through the curtains. ‘I want your assurance that my husband will receive the very best drugs that are available to fight this infection. If you cannot provide them then tell me who can and I will make sure he gets them.’

The doctor peered at her over the top of the tiny gold spectacles that were perched on the end of his nose and smiled grudgingly before barking at a small fair-haired nurse: ‘Go and get me a dish with disinfectant in, nurse. Strong disinfectant! I shall bathe this wound myself throughout the day. And you, young man’ – he smiled grimly at Tom – ‘had better grit your teeth because this is going to hurt like hell. Better than losing your leg though, eh? I shall have this bathed every hour on the hour. There’s nothing so fine as a drop of fine disinfectant, but it’ll sting.’