‘It’s not like you to be defeatist,’ Rosie protested. ‘You’re still a young man and I’m sure there are lots of things you could do.’

He shot her a wry smile. ‘Please don’t think I’m courting sympathy, Rosie, but I have to be realistic. The army has been my life since I left university, and it will feel strange not to be a part of something which has provided me with comradeship, work, home and order.’

‘I can understand that,’ she replied. ‘But there must be something you can do. You’re clearly an intelligent man with a good education. What about your family? Can’t they help in any way?’

He twisted the glass between his fingers. ‘I come from a long line of soldiers, Rosie, and was married to the service, which meant my wife left me long ago. My father was a brigadier in India before he passed away, and my brother is out there now fighting with the Chindits. My mother has moved in with her sister to a bungalow in the Cotswolds, and being army widows, both of them are now industriously working for the WI and WVS. I’m afraid there’s no family business to step into.’

Rosie poured some more gin, even though it was difficult to get hold of these days, but she felt sorry for him and rather helpless to offer any sensible advice. ‘I’m sure things will turn out all right,’ she murmured. ‘You have experience of leading men, of making difficult decisions and handling problems. Have you thought about trying some sort of managerial position – or becoming a schoolmaster?’

He grimaced. ‘Perish the thought. I’d rather face the German guns than a room full of inquisitive schoolboys.’ He sipped the gin and then gave a sigh. ‘Those long weeks in the hospital have given me time to really think about what I wanted to do, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I must look at what’s happened to me in a more positive way. See it as an opportunity, not a disaster.’

‘Good for you,’ she encouraged. ‘And what has that inspired you to do?’

His sudden smile made him look younger, wiping away the hospital pallor and smoothing the lines of stress which had been so apparent only moments ago. ‘I’ve always been an avid reader, which was why I got my degree in English Literature at Oxford – and’ – he dipped his chin as if embarrassed – ‘it’s been my long-held dream to write a book.’

‘Goodness,’ breathed a wide-eyed Rosie.

He glanced up at her with a shy smile. ‘I have no idea of whether I’d be any good as a writer, but I do have a story in mind – in fact I have several.’

‘Then you must do it,’ urged Rosie. ‘It sounds a marvellous idea.’

‘But what if I prove to be hopeless at it? What do I do then?’