‘Indeed.’ Dolly eased her hand from her clasp and headed for the door. She couldn’t get out of here soon enough. ‘Thank you for the sherry, Doris,’ she said, reaching for the latch. ‘If ever you’re in Bournemouth, do drop in so I can return your hospitality.’

Dolly was aware that Doris was watching her as she hurried across the gravel, to the freedom of the deserted pavement and then the sanctuary of the car. Her hands were shaking as she turned the key and crunched the gears.

‘One of these days, Doris Williams,’ she growled, ‘you’ll feel the back of my hand right across that snooty face.’

Taking the little car into a screeching turn at the end of the cul-de-sac, she roared back towards the town, catching a glimpse of Doris standing at her gateway, her hand limply raised in mid-wave.

Dolly had quickly realised that it would do no good at all to go storming up to the station to confront Ethel. It would cause trouble for poor Stan, and probably make things very difficult between him and his sly wife. Yet she still didn’t see what Ethel would have to gain by keeping that letter. Was it out of curiosity to see where Rosie was going and why – or was it spite?

She drew the little car to a halt outside the Nissen hut which had replaced the booking hall and left-luggage store after it had been flattened in a bombing raid which had also destroyed an entire estate of houses. Climbing out of the car, she poked her head through the makeshift counter that had been cut out of the corrugated iron, and caught Stan eating a biscuit.

She grinned. ‘Hello, Stan. I hope that biscuit’s part of your diet.’

He started and placed a meaty hand over his heart. ‘You gave me a fright, and no mistake, Dolly. I thought you were Ethel come to check up on me.’

Dolly laughed and submitted willingly to his bear hug. She’d known Stan almost as long as she’d been friends with Ron, and could still see the boyish delight in life in his smile that she remembered so well. She stepped back from the embrace and patted his chest. ‘There’s a lot less of you to hold onto,’ she teased. ‘But you’re looking very well, Stan.’

‘I’m half-starved,’ he said mournfully. ‘Ethel keeps a tight rein on what I’m allowed to eat.’ He glanced worriedly over her shoulder. ‘You won’t tell her about the biscuit, will you?’

‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ she promised. ‘I’m so glad you’ve recovered, Stan. Everyone was so terribly worried about you.’

‘My Ethel has seen me through,’ he said, reaching for a small framed photograph he kept on the counter. ‘She’s a wonderful woman, and I don’t know how I would have managed without her.’