Everyone around the table knew full well that the chicken had not died accidentally, but who could prove otherwise? Roz’s mouth had watered as she tasted the delicious fare, with thick gravy, sprouts and chestnut stuffing. The meal had been fit for a king, finished off with Heulwyn’s bara brith, something which Felix and the girls had never tasted before, but all agreed that it was now a new favourite.

In the evening they played rummy, go fish and draughts. And by the time they were all ready to turn in, Felix remarked that it was hard to believe there was a war on, living in such a wonderful part of the country.

‘You don’t get sirens out here, I suppose,’ he said, much to the amusement of Mabel, who advised him that Gulliver the rooster was probably louder than any air raid siren – something which surprised Felix as he hadn’t heard the cockerel since his arrival.

‘It’s all this fresh country air you’ve been getting,’ said Roz. ‘It must be knocking you out like a light.’

They spent the next few days much as they had Christmas Day, working flat out in the morning and taking the afternoons and evenings off to play parlour games, listen to the radio and tell stories. The highlight of Christmas for Mabel was the arrival of a letter from Gethin, telling her all about his life in the RAF and inviting her down to see him as soon as she could find the time, which made her heart sing.

‘I did think he might forget all about me when he saw all those pretty Waafs,’ she confided to Roz. ‘They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but not when you’re surrounded by a bevy of beauties.’

Roz shook her head. ‘He’s like my Felix, loyal.’

Mabel had giggled. ‘You make him sound like Jenson.’

Roz pictured the way the collie looked at her when he wanted fussing, then pictured Felix, and the way he looked at her. She began to giggle. ‘I’ve never thought of it like that before, but now you mention it …’

Mabel slapped the back of Roz’s hand in a playful manner. ‘Don’t tell him that. He might not like it if he thinks he’s got competition when it comes to a dog.’

‘No competition,’ said Roz, ‘Jenson wins every time!’

‘It’s that shaggy coat and those big puppy dog eyes, isn’t it?’ laughed Mabel.

Roz cast her friend a wry glance. ‘Are we talking about Jenson or …?’

Mabel stifled a giggle. ‘Poor Felix, fancy losing to a dog!’

Roz shook her head. ‘I’m only teasing. Of course Felix wins …’ She jumped as a voice spoke from behind.

‘Only ’cos I don’t drool on your lap when you’re eating your supper,’ chuckled Felix.