Peggy noted that he made no mention of any fighting, or the hardships he must surely be suffering, and had to accept that she didn’t really want to know. The bulletins on the wireless were enough to give her bad dreams; she didn’t need any more details for her vivid imagination to work on and worry about.

Jim finished his letter, as always, with a kiss.

Peggy gathered up the letters and added them to one of the shoeboxes she’d stored in the bottom of her wardrobe. There were three boxes now, every one of them full. They were visible proof of how long she’d been parted from her scattered family, and only served to reinforce her yearning to have them all safely home. Feeling restless, Peggy changed into her nightclothes, wrapped Jim’s dressing gown around her and went to wash her face and tidy her hair before she had to face the others.

She went into the kitchen and, despite her low spirits, had to chuckle. Cordelia and the girls had finished mucking about with gravy browning, and were now sitting round the table, their faces plastered in some sort of gooey paste. ‘What on earth is that?’

‘It’s the latest beauty treatment,’ said Cordelia, the paste cracking on her face as she spoke. ‘Rita assures me I’ll look years younger once it’s washed off.’

Peggy eyed it with some scepticism. ‘What’s it made of?’

‘Flour and water,’ said Rita, trying not to move her mouth too much. ‘It’s supposed to tighten everything up and get rid of wrinkles.’

Peggy giggled. ‘If you believe that, Rita, you’ll believe anything. And at your age you don’t have wrinkles.’

‘Why don’t you give it a go, Aunt Peg?’ said Ivy.

‘I’d rather have a cuppa, dear,’ she replied, reaching for the teapot and still chuckling. ‘Honestly, you’re all as daft as brushes,’ she managed, looking at the four white faces covered in cracked paste. ‘Have you seen yourselves?’

‘It’s just a bit of fun, Aunty Peg,’ said Rita, ‘and it’s not as if anyone can see us.’

‘It’s a good thing Ron’s not here,’ said Peggy dryly. ‘I dread to think what he’d have to say about it.’

‘It wouldn’t do him any harm to give it a go,’ said Cordelia, the paste slowly cracking enough to drop off her face and into her lap. ‘He’s got more wrinkles than a bloodhound.’

Everyone laughed, the paste crumbled to dust and there was a rush to the sink to wash it off before clustering around Cordelia’s compact mirror to see the results. It was agreed that none of them looked any different, but it didn’t really matter.