She reached for the scruffy letters that had arrived earlier, and read the few, hastily scrawled words Jim had written. The ink was blurred from his sweaty fingers, and although he wrote that he loved and missed her and treasured all the letters he’d received from everyone, he gave little hint as to where he was in Burma, or what the conditions were like. Even so, it was clear he had little time to write, that the jungle heat was as bad as ever, and he was probably involved in the skirmishes that the newscaster was now talking about on the wireless.

Peggy folded away the letters and turned up the volume on the wireless as the news continued. The Japanese were retreating at last, forced back by the advancing Allied soldiers at Kohima and Imphal, the imminent monsoon threatening their supply chains and closing off their escape routes. A number of Japanese ships had been sunk in the Pacific and the islands of New Guinea were now under Allied attack.

‘Good,’ breathed Peggy. ‘The sooner they admit defeat, the sooner my Jim can come home.’

The broadcast continued with news that the advancing 5th and 8th armies in Italy had broken through a significant line to take Monte Cassino, and six thousand Germans were now prisoners. There was a new offensive on the beaches of Anzio, and Terracina was expected to fall within hours – and then the Allies would advance on Rome.

Peggy closed her eyes as the newscast came to an end. There was at last hope that the tide was turning – that the Allies were achieving victory after victory. But still there was no hint of an invasion and she burnt with frustration that their leaders seemed intent upon hanging about instead of striking while the iron was hot. She got to her feet, grabbed a duster and set about cleaning the dresser with far more vigour than was necessary. If she didn’t do something to vent her pent-up emotions, she’d explode.

Ron was not a man who cared much about his appearance, and so was wearing his usual ragged shirt, old corduroy trousers held up at the waist with a length of narrow rope, an ancient sweater and his long waterproof poacher’s coat. A greasy cap was pulled over his thick, wayward hair, the peak tipped down almost to his bushy brows, and his feet were shod in a stout pair of boots, the laces of which had been replaced by thick garden twine.

With Harvey loping alongside him, he left the hills and tramped down the steep slope until he reached the High Street. He had two dead rabbits in one of his poacher’s coat pockets, and his sleeping ferrets, Flora and Dora, were curled up in another. It had been a good morning of netting rabbit holes and exercising the ferrets; now he and Harvey were ready for a beer and a sit-down.