Rosie wasn’t about to enlighten him, so she quickly made her way back to the Anchor, locked the door behind her and glanced at the clock. The time had flown and now there was no chance of getting any sleep before she had to leave again.

With a weary sigh she plodded back upstairs, released a howling Monty from the kitchen and sat down to write a short note to her most reliable barmaid, Brenda, in the hope she’d run the pub during her absence. Slipping the front door key into the envelope, she sealed it and set it aside to deliver later. The letter to Ron was far harder to write, for she knew it would be difficult for him to read, no matter how she penned it – but she owed him an explanation, and wasn’t about to simply disappear without a word. To avoid any confrontation, she would give it to Stan to pass on after she’d gone. She could rely on Stan.

It was barely five in the morning when Rosie hurried down Camden Road to slip the note with the key through Brenda’s letter box in the certain knowledge that if Brenda was still not well enough to take over the pub, she’d organise someone else reliable to stand in.

She had just returned to the Anchor to pick up her case when the chauffeur-driven car purred to a halt at the kerb. Not waiting to be handed in, she climbed into the back where Henry Radwell was waiting for her, and ordered Monty to sit on the floor. She smiled at Henry, who was looking very smart in a beautifully tailored civilian suit, and far too chipper for this unsociable hour.

‘I see you’re embracing your first day as a civilian,’ she said lightly. ‘How does it feel?’

‘Rather strange,’ he admitted ‘But now I have your company, I’m coping remarkably well.’ He eyed her affectionately. ‘More to the point, Rosie, how are you?’

‘I’ve had better nights,’ she replied with a wry smile. ‘I’ll tell you all about it on the way. But would you ask the driver to stop at the station for a minute? I need to speak to Stan before we leave.’

The driver duly stopped and Rosie hurried to the platform where a troop train was starting to pull away. Her heart sank, for unusually, there was no sign of Stan – just Ethel, fag in her mouth as usual and looking distinctly sour. Rosie felt a pang of concern that Stan must be ill for his wife to be on duty at such an early hour, but she had other, more pressing things to worry about and didn’t really want to get into any sort of complicated exchange with Ethel.