He was certainly no oil painting, he thought ruefully, for his eyes and face were still hollow, the flesh the colour of old parchment; the overall effect worsened by the fact his head had been shaved to rid him of lice. He’d lost an earlobe and there was a puckered and still livid scar above his right temple where a guard had hit him with a rifle butt. At least he’d been permitted to keep his moustache, but it was a poor thing compared to what it had been.

‘It’ll be a miracle if Anne recognises me, and the girls don’t run screaming,’ he muttered. ‘I hope she’s prepared them well enough after our telephone conversations.’

The thought of frightening his little girls was too painful, so he concentrated on hiding the scar and dark stubble beneath the cap, centring the RAF insignia and pulling the heavily braided peak low over his eyes. Checking that the buckle on his belt was in line with the jacket’s brass buttons, he tweaked the end of the braided sleeves to cover his bony wrists. He could do nothing about the fingers he’d lost to frostbite, or the lack of nails on the ones he still had and on his toes, which had blackened and fallen off during the trek – but the doctors had assured him the regrowth would give him normal nails again, so he should be thankful for small mercies.

He slid open the compartment door and limped out into the corridor as the train slowly chugged along the platform and drew to a halt with a great exhalation of steam. His pulse was racing and he was aware of cold perspiration beading on his forehead as he pulled the leather strap to open the window and reach down for the door handle. Feeling quite nauseous with anxiety, he stepped down onto the platform.

Determined not to limp on his damaged feet, he squared his shoulders and headed for the ticket barrier where he could see Anne jumping up and down and waving excitedly.

Martin drank in the sight of her, praying she didn’t find his looks too repugnant, but before he could brace himself for the reunion, she’d barged through the barrier and was running towards him to fling herself against him and cling to his neck.

‘Oh, Martin, Martin,’ she sobbed, kissing his face and holding him tight. ‘It’s been so long. So very long.’

He dropped the kitbag and held her as he kissed her deeply, marvelling at how she’d hardly changed in the two years they’d been apart. The war had been kind to her, for her dark hair was glossy, her skin radiant, and beneath that lightweight coat, he could feel that her figure was still as lithe and firm as the day they’d married.