Frank laughed. ‘Believe me, it will be no trouble. She always cooks enough to feed an army. I’m the one who’ll be in trouble if I don’t invite you.’ His eyes danced. ‘Pop will get out the rum that my brotherin-law Jack brought back when he had leave a few weeks ago; all the neighbours will be over. Then Pop’ll get out his accordion and we’ll sing the place down.’

Sylvia sighed and leant back against the wall. ‘Frank, that sounds lovely, but I don’t know if I can come. Best if I say I won’t.’

Frank shook his head. ‘Let’s see what happens nearer the time,’ he suggested. ‘You shouldn’t decide now, not when you’re all upset. You can come over if you feel like it, we don’t need advance notice. You’ll be very welcome, you know that.’

Sylvia looked close to tears again but then recovered. ‘Aye, Frank. I do know that and I’m right grateful. You tell your mum that.’

Frank nodded soberly. ‘All right. Can’t say fairer than that. You let me know how things are going and what you feel up to doing. It’s no fun feeling miserable when everyone around you is having a party. But in the meantime shall we make a date to go for a quick drink, even if you don’t feel you can go to the flicks? A trip to the Phil?’

Sylvia smiled ruefully. ‘Better not, or at least not right now.’ She turned to go. ‘Thanks, Frank.’

Frank made his way back to his pile of agendas. Poor Sylvia, she was obviously preparing for the news that her father had died. If times had been different she could have gone home and helped make his final days, or weeks, or whatever it turned out to be, more comfortable, sharing the burden with her mother. If he’d been a different sort of man he might have felt she was deliberately being cool with him but he reassured himself he had no need for such suspicions. War made everything so much more difficult and complicated.

He knew Dolly wouldn’t see it as a rejection of her hospitality. As long as she knew Frank had invited the girl, she would be happy either way. Frank knew half of Empire Street would be crushed into the parlour and kitchen. He was looking forward to it in some ways; Danny would be back, or that was the word in his unit. He’d be bound to want a tot or two of rum. And if Danny came, then so would Kitty, singing carols in that beautiful voice of hers. Frank thought there might be some advantage after all if Sylvia didn’t come, and then admonished himself for even conceiving of such a thing. There was no denying it, though – few could sing a carol as movingly as Kitty Callaghan.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE