Peggy’s heart missed a beat, and she prayed fervently that the invasion meant neither of her sons would ever have to fight – let alone be sent to a jungle. Her hands trembled as she held the letters to her heart. Where had the time gone? How was it that Bob was now on the brink of manhood, and Charlie was racing towards it when all the memories she had of them were of impish little boys?

The knowledge that they’d grown and matured far from home and without her guidance lay heavily on her heart, for they had dreams and ambitions she’d known nothing about, and if they’d had worries or fears, they’d have turned to Anne or Aunty Violet for comfort and counsel instead of being able to come to her.

The tears rolled unheeded down her cheeks at the realisation that her little boys would virtually be strangers when they came home. If they came home. What if Charlie decided he preferred tinkering with farm machinery to having to start again at a new school where he’d know no one and couldn’t play rugby? What if Bob stayed in Somerset to help Violet run the farm? Reaching for Jim’s photograph, she held it close and curled onto the bed to sob quietly into her pillow as Daisy slept on, unaware of her mother’s anguish.

Peggy had little idea of how long she’d lain there, but as the tears dried, she kissed Jim’s photograph and fought to find an inner calm to sustain her before she read through his all too brief note.

The lined and rather grubby paper had been torn from a notebook as before; the pencil he’d used was faint, making the words he’d scrawled difficult to read. He missed her, fretted when there was no mail and was overjoyed when a great bundle of letters arrived all at once. He hoped his father was well and behaving himself, that Daisy was thriving and Cissy not too badly affected by what she must be experiencing at the airfield – for although they were isolated, the forces broadcasts were keeping everyone up to date on what was happening back home.

He sent his love to Cordelia and the girls, promising to write to everyone when he had time, but every day was busy and at night he was too tired to concentrate on anything but sleep.

Jim wrote briefly about the skilful and daring exploits of the glider pilots and the heroic Americans who could throw their planes about as if they were toys, using them to cut telegraph wires, pick up gliders, and land on the most makeshift of runways to deliver mail and supplies and airlift out the wounded.