‘Sorry, just trying to be encouraging. Some of the stuff in there is awful. Had to get out. Fancy a stroll?’

Netta stared up again with surprise. He looked quite harmless, his face drawn and thin with sunken cheeks. His looks were certainly not the sort to grace any recruiting poster. ‘Just round the block, then. I’ve done enough of this.’

They walked in silence, each kicking up a flurry of dried leaves, pausing now and then at fences and railings to admire the freedom of open hills across the valley.

The fresh air on Netta’s cheeks felt good. Gradually she was coming back into possession of her body again. Even her monthlies had returned and she was beginning to feel normal, less weepy, wrung out and flattened. The officer stopped and lit two cigarettes, handing her one. Netta shook her head. ‘I don’t smoke.’

‘You ought to, it’s good for the old nerves and the waistline. Doctor’s orders. Give it a try.’ She puffed out of politeness but it made the dryness in her mouth even worse and she spat out the tip. ‘No, it’s choking me.’

‘Suit yourself. Just trying to help. What’s a girl like you doing in a joint like this?’ He was trying to mimic Humphrey Bogart’s accent, badly. Netta was instantly on guard.

‘I could ask you the same?’ She smiled sweetly and he shrugged his shoulders.

‘I’m just an old soak… too much of the hard juice. Told me I needed a bit of a rest cure. Getting bored, if you want to know the truth. I’m as dry as a bloody prune now.’

‘Are you staff?’

‘Do I look like staff? You don’t want to know about my escapades. I’m just another washed out soldier of fortune. Black sheep of the teetotal Stirlings, if you must know. There’s always one who takes a dram too many. Andrew Stirling, at your service, ma’am.’ He made a mock bow.

‘This war has sorted a lot of us out, one way or another. I’m Netta Hunter, wed, widowed, babyless in just a year. Been here so long I can’t even remember my own child’s face.’

‘That’s a shame for you. Hubby in the army… What show was he in?’

‘D-Day. He fell at Caen. I’ve not found out where yet.’

‘They got a terrible packet there. I was involved in one of the Forward Stations. I went right though with the poor sods, patched up, rested and sent back into the fire. Takes its toll, sending men to their deaths. No wonder some of us end up in the loony bin. In the end I couldn’t decide if I was GB, B or going BM myself, so they decided for me and sent me to this Ritz to sort out my bad habits.’