He heads back along the landing. Unsure where to go, he sits down on the top step of the stairs and waits.

The landlady appears at the bottom. She huffs for breath as she hauls her great weight upwards, a sympathetic smile plumping her cheeks.

‘Everything all right, dear?’

‘Yes, she’s just …’ But words fail him.

‘Don’t you worry about a thing, dear,’ she says, patting him on the shoulder as she passes. ‘It’s a wonderful thing. A wonderful thing.’

He gives Gwen fifteen minutes, just to be sure. He knocks lightly and hears her hushed call.

The lamp glows. She is tucked in bed, the coverlet hiked high to her chin, the empty space beside her a chasm that he cannot cross, though in his dreams he does. A pillow and two folded blankets lie on the floor on top of the eiderdown.

‘I’ll turn out the light, so you can …’ She plunges them into darkness. The blackout curtains prevent even a trim of moonlight. He quickly undresses down to his underwear, then unfolds the bedding by touch alone. He lies upon on the eiderdown. Pulling the blankets over him he tries to get comfortable, but they ruck up each time he moves, exposing his toes to the chilly air. Giving up, he rests his head on the pillow and exhales.

He closes his eyes. He listens to the glug of water in the pipes beneath him; to the gentle patter of rain as it starts to fall against the windowpanes; to Gwen’s steady breaths. In. Out.

From the bed, a rustle of movement.

‘Are you terribly uncomfortable?’

‘It’s not so bad – and I’ll have to get used to worse. This’ll seem like luxury where I’m going.’

The bedstead creaks as she lies back. ‘When will you join up?’

‘As soon as we’re back.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘The day after maybe.’

They absorb the silence.

‘What do you want from me, Jack?’

He stares at the darkness pooling above him.

‘Nothing, Gwen.’

‘Then why are you doing all this for me?’

‘A letter maybe,’ he says, avoiding her question. ‘And a picture of you and the bairn when it’s born.’ He stops to consider his words. ‘I have no one, Gwen. A letter from a friend now and then would be a welcome relief from what is to come – if you could bear to write to me, that is.’ He holds his breath, awaiting her response.

‘I can bear that, Jack.’

He stares into the dark haze, then closes his eyes. And sleeps.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Gwen

September 1945