He opened the door to let Harvey out, and then put a match to the note and watched it burn to ash in the scullery sink. Washing it away, he went back to his bedroom to get dressed and see to his ferrets. In a strange way, he felt perversely glad that he had Danuta to worry about as a distraction from his fears about Rosie and Major Radwell. In the grand scheme of this war, his falling-out with Rosie was a very minor event, even though it broke his heart. There was little he could do about it but keep faith in Rosie and take each day as it came until she returned home. He could dedicate himself to being around for Danuta, when he so clearly hadn’t been around for Rosie.

Going outside to feed the chickens and gather up the eggs, Ron dodged the vicious cockerel which had taken a great dislike to him, and firmly shut the gate on the pen. ‘To be sure, Adolf, you need to mind your manners, or you’ll be next for the pot,’ he warned.

Upstairs in the kitchen, he found Sarah waiting for the kettle to boil, dressed in her WTC uniform of jodhpurs, green sweater and sturdy shoes. ‘Good morning, Ron. Lovely day, isn’t it?’ she said cheerfully.

‘Aye, it is that, especially when the hens have laid so well.’ He carefully put the bowl of precious eggs on the wooden draining board. ‘Are you sure your ankle will take that long walk, wee girl?’ he asked in concern, eyeing the heavy strapping.

‘It’s much better today, thanks, Ron, so I thought I’d give it a go. If it’s too painful, then I’ll try and get a lift back this evening, but the work will be piling up and it isn’t fair to leave it all to someone else.’

‘I’ll walk up there with you,’ he said, slapping a couple of slices of the gritty mess that passed as bread these days onto the hot plate, and setting a pan of water to boil the eggs beside them. Rationing meant they were allowed one egg a week if they were lucky enough to find any in the shops, and he was eternally grateful to those young Australians who’d brought them the stolen hens on that Christmas Day at the beginning of the war.

‘Ivy told me about Rita and the Australian chap who fixed her motorbike,’ said Sarah, pouring out the tea. She grinned. ‘I think Ivy was rather bowled over by him, but I’m glad Rita’s got the bike back in one piece – I know how much she treasures it.’