‘Why are you crying, Auntie Netta? Do you want my hankie?’ Gus whispered, holding out a crumpled square. ‘Are you like that lady on the rainbow bridge?’ He watched her sniff and wipe her hand over her nose, just like he had when the old sheep dog was shot.

‘I suppose so… It was just seeing the helmet that made me sad. It belonged to someone very precious to me. He didn’t come back from the war. You can have it, if you like. I’m sure he would want you to have it.’

‘What was his name? Was he a pilot?’

‘Rae Hunter… He was a soldier and a war artist. I have his sketches on my wall in Griseley. Some of his sketches are in the War Museum. We were going to get married but…’ Her voice went all croaky.

‘Did he get deaded?’

‘Yes. In the battle for the Orne river, near Caen, with hundreds of other brave men from his battalion. It was a terrible campaign. That’s where Dougie Mackay, the Minister’s son, lost his arm. He came back to England and brought back all my letters and Rae’s belongings too. He told me what had happened and brought me a special letter that Rae had given him, just in case.’

‘What did the letter in the case say?’ Gus was curious. Netta shook her head.

‘I can recite every word of it like a poem but it’s so special and so private, Gus, no one’s ever going to see it but me. Wasn’t he kind to think of such a thing? It gave me the courage to go on. You would have liked him and he would have loved you…’

Gus looked down at his aunt. She was sitting there looking hurt like the girls in the nursery class when they played rough houses and fell down, snivelling for their mammies. He cooried into her side and said nothing.

August 1944

It took weeks for Netta to pluck up courage to read Rae’s last letter properly. She had folded it and put it in a metal tin, sticking it tight into a stone dyke by the shore. On bad days, when the dagger of grief in her ribs was unbearable, she walked down to Carrick Sands to meet him by the sea, took the letter from its hidey-hole and read his words for comfort, drawing strength from his belief in her. There, sitting on the rocks, recalling that first meeting, she pored over each sentence, hearing his voice in the wind: