Netta washed her hair and curled it under in a pageboy style. She wore a gathered skirt with panels of alternate navy blue and white, a white shirt with navy blue cuffs and collar, and her only pair of decent court shoes. She dabbed on perfume behind her ears and made her way to the ballroom to listen to the band striking up with all the Forces favourites. She tried not to think about Rae, taking comfort from the fact that he’d hated two-steps and waltzes and the jitterbugging craze. Dr Stirling looked the sort of guy who would push her round the floor like a sweeping brush but beggars can’t be choosers and one day she would laugh about his antics. There, it was happening again, she thought, I can think funny things, see the funny side of this strange exile. Oh, Ray, Mummy’ll soon be coming home to you.

The ballroom had a sprung floor that bounced in the middle. There was a stage at one end and a gallery at the other. It was the most splendid dancing space she had ever seen. The tea dances were popular with patients and staff alike and everyone mingled in the crush to hear the latest tunes from the hit parade. Park Royal was like being in one big ark: a shelter from the storms outside for a while, a haven for wounded souls. For seven months this had been her home and the thought that she might leave this place of safety soon terrified her. Here was order and dignity; out there would be coldness and chaos.

There had been no word from Stratharvar for months. Netta had written for news about Ray but short formal notes had been the only reply. His photograph was worn and cracked with fingering now.

Drew pounced on her as soon as she wandered to the edge of the dance-floor, introducing her to a bunch of other officers but waltzing her straight out of their reach. As Netta had feared his idea of ballroom dancing was an exuberant exhibition of twirls and turns which made her head spin. Like a demon possessed, he flung her this way and that until she staggered off the floor in a tizzy.

‘Isn’t she just lovely, you guys? So fresh and wholesome, like a buttered scone – and me such a poor haggis. If I’d had someone like you to come home to, perhaps I’d not have returned such a wreck. Come for a stroll in the moonlight, Netta, I’ve something to show you.’

Drew was wild-eyed and earnest as he elbowed her towards the door. Netta hesitated. ‘I promise to behave. Please, I want to show you my special tree.’ His eyes were brilliant, burnished like amber, sparkling mischievously like a child’s. Netta threw caution to the wind. Why ever not?