When he grew chilled he continued his walk, noticing with pleasure as he crossed the kitchen garden that the old vegetable beds were now pressed into full use: sprouts and kale being cropped, other areas tilled and ready for planting. Emerging from the gate at the southern end, he turned towards the entrance to the Cliff Path, only to discover that it had been blocked by an ugly concrete pillbox housing a heavy gun. He remembered now that Kath had written about this, but even so, the disappointment of being barred from his – their – special place came as a shock. He sighed and retraced his steps, heading back to the Manor through the tunnel that led to the Round Garden.

He was striding with purpose now, hoping to find coffee being served back at the Manor, but as he emerged into the dell his feet stopped in their tracks. The usually deserted garden was already occupied by a figure sitting on one of the benches: a WAAF with her back to him, capped head in her hands. He paused in the shadows, unwilling to disturb her.

Just as he turned away to retrace his steps the girl sat up and pulled off her cap, running her fingers through curls that caught a stray ray of sunshine with the unmistakeable glow of red.

Kath.

Scarcely daring to breathe, he began to move slowly forward. At the crunch of his footstep on the gravel she turned, registering her recognition with a weak smile. Her eyes were dark smudges, her face grey with exhaustion.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said flatly. ‘I heard you were here.’

‘Yes, it’s me. May I join you?’

‘Of course.’

He sat at the other end of the bench. The gap seemed as wide as an ocean. ‘It’s nice to see you.’

‘It was certainly a surprise to learn you were here,’ she said, a touch of acid in her voice. ‘You never replied to any of my letters.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me, after . . .’ he hesitated. Why poison this moment, now?

‘Go on, say it, Vic. After what?’

‘After I saw you at Martlesham with that American, I realised how stupid I’d been ever to imagine you’d be interested in me.’

‘Oh, hell, Marcia was right,’ she groaned, dropping her head into her hands once more. ‘I didn’t believe her. You hate dances. And anyway, I didn’t even know you were posted there.’ When she turned to face him her cheeks were wet with tears. ‘It didn’t mean anything, Vic. Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she repeated more firmly. ‘You have to believe me. Those cocktails had gone to my head and I had no idea what I was doing. I hated myself later for being such an idiot.’

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I was an idiot too, not writing back because of my silly wounded pride.’ He moved closer, took her hand and squeezed it.

She squeezed back. ‘Am I forgiven?’