She went to the larder in the corner of the kitchen and took out the bowl of pigeon breasts Ron had prepared the night before. He’d been out on the hills at dusk and lain in wait with his shotgun for the pigeons to return to their regular roosts, and had bagged a dozen or more as they’d flown in low on the buffeting wind coming off the sea. There wasn’t a lot of meat on a pigeon and the shotgun pellets had made a bit of a mess of them, but getting meat of any sort was a minor miracle these days, and as Ron had assured her he’d retrieved all the pellets, they would make a fitting farewell meal for Brendon on his last night home. Peggy had offered to host the dinner, because Frank and Pauline’s cottage over at Tamarisk Bay wouldn’t quite stretch to the occasion.

Brendon had had four short days of leave having recently returned from Devon, and his mother, Pauline, had been ecstatic, fussing over him and hardly letting him out of her sight. Peggy feared the inevitable histrionics which would follow his departure, and could only hope that Frank could keep Pauline calm and focused on the need to carry on and remain positive. And yet, Peggy reasoned, perhaps she was being harsh, for Pauline and Frank had already lost two sons to this war, which made Brendon extra precious – and if she’d been in a similar situation, she would probably have felt just as on edge and terrified.

With all the rumours of an Allied invasion, none of them had a clue as to where Brendon would be posted – and he wouldn’t enlighten them. But Pauline had refused to even contemplate the idea that he might be involved in the fighting again, and was adamant that he’d be sent back to the London docks. Ron, Frank and Peggy didn’t have the heart to disagree with her, even though they thought it was highly unlikely with so many servicemen pouring into every nook and cranny of the south coast.

Peggy also doubted he’d go back to Devon. Something must have happened down there, for she and Ron had noticed how Brendon and his father, Frank, had been grim-faced and tight-lipped on their return. And surely any invasion would leave from Dover, as it was the shortest route to France, and the Pas-de-Calais had been repeatedly bombarded by the Allies recently.

She gave an exasperated sigh at her jumbled thoughts and speculations. The trouble with this war was that no one said anything definite about what was happening, and even the newspapers and frequent radio bulletins couldn’t be relied upon to tell the whole truth in case it affected morale. It seemed that all anyone could do was make an educated guess at the state of things, and try to read between the lines.