It was worth all the huffing and puffing just to see that arch of colour. Where was God’s rainbow handle on the basket of this war-torn world? Did he care what was happening here? All the Minister’s comforting words rang hollow in her ears when she pressed Rae’s last letter to her heart. Her world was a hell of grey shadows and darkness without hope of his return.

This time last year there had been the colours of love in her life; crimson, gold, emerald to purple under the silken arch of Rae’s protection. Today the sight of a rainbow gave no comfort for, hard as she squinted, Netta could see only a half hoop dipping into the sea and that was never a good omen. She was pushing herself to climb the hill just to share the wonder of this Galloway scenery with ‘Baby Bump’ who squirmed and rolled inside her body. She placed a stone on Mother’s cairn which marked the summit of the hill. A girl needed her mother at such a time but Netta’s was gone.

The shadows fell after Caen and Arnhem when more Galloway sons were slaughtered. The blackness came over her in waves of anguish that Rae had died unaware there was a child on the way. How drab now were the colours of war – mourning, blackouts, khaki and camouflage – against the rainbow colours of their courtship. How could she ever set the heather ablaze without his inspiration?

She would never touch a paintbrush or a dress pattern again even though this long war was coming to an end. Netta believed that ‘Bump’ would get a better start here in fresh air and sea breezes. That was why she was staying put.

Everyone seemed relieved to know that she had something of Rae’s to look forward to but a baby was not some souvenir to dust on a mantelpiece. It must be clothed and fed. Good wishes from friends would butter no parsnips, but at least they made up for the dour faces at Brigg Farm at her news.

Father and Peg carried on at her to sort out her widow’s pension and demanded an explanation as to why stuff was arriving addressed to Miss Nichol and not Mrs Hunter. She fobbed them off as best she could in her grief, her lethargy and morning sickness.

‘You’re entitled to his pension at least now there’ll be another mouth to feed. It should be coming to you automatically.’ Father was all for writing to complain of the insensitivity of the Pensions Ministry in not giving his widowed daughter her dues.