He had never felt so miserable.

Whatever are we going to do with you, old boy? No coat, no home, no Kath, and not expected back at base for four more days?

At Charing Cross, Johnnie’s question appeared to answer itself. As the destinations flickered round on the departures board, Vic’s eye settled on a familiar place-name. He blinked and looked again. Surely the last time he’d been there, for Johnnie’s funeral, he’d travelled from Waterloo? But yes, the train was certainly stopping at Petersfield, leaving in just seven minutes. Fired with new energy, he ran for the ticket office and leapt on board just as the guard blew his whistle.

There were no seats on this train either. It was packed with navy lads returning to Portsmouth after the Christmas leave. By the time the train arrived at Petersfield Vic was feeling distinctly unwell, aching and shivery, regretting his impetuous decision. The walk from the station seemed longer than ever, and by the time he reached the cottage he was light-headed, almost delirious.

Lizzie stared at him as though she had seen a ghost. ‘Vic? Is it you? Is something wrong? Come in, come in. Quickly, out of the cold.’

‘I’m so sorry . . .’ he managed, before collapsing in the doorway.

‘Chris, Beth – come and help me!’

He became vaguely aware of being supported by many hands into a room bright with candles and firelight. He felt the soft comfort of an armchair, heard Lizzie’s murmurs of concern, offers of tea and biscuits. Then, nothing.

Vic is asleep in his bed in India. The night is dark, but he can hear the chatter of his parents and their visitors on the veranda, the clink of glasses, the creak of the floorboards as the servants go about their tasks, the snuffling of nocturnal animals in the forest and the occasional hoot of a bird. He is comfortable and happy to be home at last, so blissful that he feels almost like crying. He hears a whimper, and realises that it comes from his own mouth. He feels the ayah’s cool hand resting on his forehead. ‘Hush, now,’ she whispers. ‘Everything is all right.’ Then he sinks once more beneath the deep, warm blanket of sleep.

Next time he woke, it was daytime. As he opened his eyes he saw his familiar toy train on the table, a pile of comics beside it. But something was not quite right. The air was surprisingly cold, the sunlight beaming through the window creating sharp-edged shadows. Wherever could he be? Slowly the memories returned: the train, the walk, being helped up the steep stairs; the blackness and the dreams. He was not in India but at Johnnie’s house, and this was Christopher’s bedroom, not his own.

There was a knock at the door, and he half-expected Johnnie to walk in until, with that sinking feeling of loss, he remembered.