Picking up the empty basket to carry indoors, she took a quavering breath as she thought of her darling Jim who was fighting the Japs in Burma; her nephew, Brendon, who’d be returning to duty with the Royal Naval Reserve tomorrow; and her son-in-law, Martin, who’d been shot down and was now a POW in Stalag III along with many of his fellow RAF officers. They were so brave, every last one of them, and all she could do was pray that this war would soon be over and they could return to their loved ones and enjoy the blessed peace which they’d all been denied for too long.

Her thoughts automatically went to Matthew Champion, Rita’s lovely young pilot who’d lost his life some months ago in that awful raid over Berlin which had seen so many die or taken prisoner. Rita was putting on a brave face, throwing herself into her work as a mechanic at the fire station and spending every spare moment raising money for the local Spitfire fund – but the sadness and awful loss could still be seen in her wan face and haunted dark eyes, and Peggy’s heart ached with the knowledge that there was very little she could do to ease the girl’s suffering, except to mother and console her.

With a tremulous sigh, Peggy stowed the basket away in the scullery, then went up the concrete steps into her deserted kitchen. Ron had done his usual vanishing act with his dog Harvey straight after breakfast; Rita, Ivy and Fran were at work; and Cordelia had gone with Sarah and Peggy’s little Daisy into town to see if there was anything worth queuing for in the shops – a faint hope, but one that sprang eternal regardless of the stark reality of empty shelves.

She bustled about, clearing the last of the dishes from the drainer and tidying away Daisy’s toys. It was a relief to be able to get on without being hindered by her two-year-old daughter, who’d lately become rather demanding when she thought she wasn’t the centre of attention – an unfortunate result of her being so well entertained by Nanny Pringle and her assistants at the factory nursery.

Peggy regarded the shabby kitchen fondly, her gaze drifting over the faded oilcloth on the large table, the mismatched chairs and battered old dresser which was covered in all sorts of clutter and no doubt gathering dust and cobwebs. The wireless was burbling away to itself, but a glance at the clock told Peggy it would be an hour before the twelve o’clock news came on – unless of course there was a special bulletin.