The morning of the twelfth of July was one of those Galloway glory days: ink blue sky above rolling hills as green as emeralds, and blossoms on the hedgerows as far as the eye could see. Netta kept peering out of the windows of the bedrooms as she went about her chores, trying not to worry that Rae’s letters kept coming out of sequence. She had numbers 28 and 30 but not 29. The Borderers were rumoured to be in some big push eastwards and from the news she knew everything was still bogged down near the French port of Caen. She was following every step of the way in her heart but the dizzy spells and weakness in her stomach, the sheer exhaustion she was feeling just trying to sweep under the beds, made her head spin.

When she stood up Father was framed in the doorway, his face grey and his hand shaking as he held out an envelope. ‘It’s addressed to you – Miss Nichol.’ Netta saw what it was immediately, collapsing on to the bed as she tore open the telegram.

10th JULY. REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR FIANCÉ CORPL. R.F. HUNTER. K.O.S.B. KILLED IN ACTION STOP LETTER TO FOLLOW STOP NO INFORMATION TO BE GIVEN TO PRESS STOP.

Peg heard a scream like the howl of a tortured animal and rushed in from the yard.

‘No! No! Not Rae! God help me!’ Netta rushed past her on the stairs and fled down the track. The dogs chased after her hopefully.

‘Come back!’ yelled Peg, suddenly alarmed.

‘Leave her be,’ answered Angus, touching her shoulder.

It was such a warm balmy beach day, white puffs of fluffy clouds floating across the sky, the breeze soothing. But for Netta sitting on Carrick Sands it was the dead of winter. Her eyes glinted like ice, her limbs felt stiff as she looked out over a gun-metal sea. Somewhere over the water Rae lay cold, unseeing in his shroud. He would make no more footprints in the sand, set no heather afire with his landscapes and portraits, nor warm her body with his loving. She felt the crumpled telegram in her palm and flattened it open again, poring over each word in disbelief. He could still be alive? Perhaps they had the wrong name, perhaps he was a prisoner or in hiding. But, no. Deep in her gut was the certainty that he had fallen and been identified.

She tore the telegram in half in quarters, then fed it bit by bit into the silver-grey sea. The pieces floated away like petals, like confetti… the confetti that would never be showered over her. All that would be poured over her head now was shame.

May 1949, Friday