‘You were busy at the clinic with the twins,’ Kitty reminded her, sighing with pleasure as she released the final strap and set the prosthetic leg to one side. ‘Besides, I’m perfectly capable of doing the shopping,’ she added, giving her stump a jolly good rub.

Charlotte was about to pour the tea when the telephone on the dresser began to ring. The two young women looked at one another in dread, and then Charlotte quickly grabbed the receiver.

‘Hello? Yes, this is Charlotte Pargeter.’

Kitty anxiously strained to hear what was being said at the other end as Charlotte listened, her face slowly draining of colour.

‘Thank you, Air Commodore. We shall be waiting – with the children. So you’d better make suitable arrangements.’

Kitty could hear the loud protest at the other end of the line before it was cut short by Charlotte unceremoniously replacing the receiver.

‘It’s Freddy,’ Charlotte said. ‘He’s been flown to some place in Buckinghamshire where he’s been admitted to hospital.’ Her voice wavered and tears shone in her eyes as she took Kitty’s hand. ‘He’s very ill, Kitty, so the RAF are flying us up there from Cliffe.’

The shock hit Kitty so hard she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move at all.

‘We have to be ready in half an hour. Someone’s picking us up to drive us to the airfield.’ Charlotte was suddenly all motion, moving about the kitchen, dampening down the range fire, putting things away, gathering up coats and hats, and straightening chairs.

Kitty slowly reached for her tin leg, her numb fingers fumbling with the straps. The idea that Freddy was in a really bad way was simply impossible to contemplate. He’d pull through, she was sure of it. He was her brother and like a cat he had nine lives, surviving all sorts of scrapes and disasters. He was the boy who could ride horses and motorbikes with such speed and skill it took your breath away; the boy who’d given her the thirst to learn to fly; the beloved naughty brother who was forever getting into mischief and breaking hearts wherever he went. She could see him now, with his black curly, wayward hair; his dark, flashing eyes in that handsome face which always seemed to be smiling with the sheer joy of being alive.

‘He’ll be all right,’ she mumbled. ‘Freddy’s never had a day’s illness in his life. The RAF is just being very careful because of who he is and our history of flying for them.’