‘Oh, dear God,’ she muttered as she looked towards the study door. John was in there with Sunday enjoying a cup of tea; should she fetch him? Deciding to answer the door herself she took a deep breath and flung it open.

‘Telegram for Mr John Willerby,’ the boy said and Cissie nodded, her heart in her mouth.

‘I’ll see that he gets it, son … thank you.’

The boy handed it over and flew off down the drive like the wind as Cissie stared numbly down at the brown envelope. Eventually she squared her shoulders, took a deep, shuddering breath and went to tap on the door.

‘Cissie, how many times have I told you, you don’t have to knock,’ John scolded gently, but then as he saw the envelope in her hand the colour drained from his face.

‘I’m afraid it’s for you.’ Cissie held it out to him and for a moment it was as if he was frozen to the spot, but then he reached out and once he had taken it, he stared at it numbly.

‘Would you like me to open it for you?’ Sunday asked in a small voice and he nodded as he handed it over.

Shaking, she slit the envelope with her thumb and after hastily scanning the contents she looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘It … it says that Giles is missing in action, presumed dead … I’m so sorry, John.’

John nodded as his hand rose to his heart and then to their horror he dropped to the floor like a stone.

‘Cissie, run into the hall and call the doctor,’ Sunday said urgently as she fell to her knees beside John’s prone figure.

Cissie raced away and minutes later she was back with George close behind her.

‘Let’s get him through to the drawing room and onto the settee,’ George said, taking control of the situation. The women were obviously in such a tizz that they barely knew if they were coming or going.

With George holding John beneath his arms and Sunday and Cissie taking a leg each they somehow managed to carry John to the sofa and then Edith dashed away to fetch blankets and a pillow.

‘He’s still breathing,’ George told them. ‘I reckon the shock might have caused him to have a heart attack, but we’ll know soon enough when the doctor comes.’

It was twenty minutes before the doctor arrived, by which time John was semi-conscious again although he seemed dis­orientated and was unable to speak. They had all noticed that one side of his mouth had dropped, and George shared his concerns with his wife.

‘I reckon the poor devil has had a stroke; I don’t think it’s a heart attack,’ he whispered and Cissie nodded in agreement as they and Edith looked towards where Sunday was holding John’s hand and talking soothingly to him.