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Who would have thought she would find herself having a pretty little house and garden by the sea, and with a housekeeper too?

The only thing that she wasn’t comfortable with was the money.

It was wicked enough to be an imposter but somehow worse to think she had taken money that didn’t belong to her.

There was nothing she could do about it of course, not unless she went to the Garda and admitted she was not Elizabeth Manning. That would result in her going to prison, a terrifying prospect. So maybe she could deal with her guilt by using the money to help people in some way.

She woke the next morning to hear the postman putting something through the letterbox.

Still in her nightdress, she ran down the stairs, curious, as she had only had two letters in her entire life, both here.

The first had come from Mr Boyle just after she arrived, wishing her every happiness in her new home and saying if she needed his professional advice, he would be happy to act for her.

The second had been from the bank in Waterford confirming that her account with them was now open, and enclosing a cheque book.

But even at Christmas there wasn’t one card from anyone, not from Margery at the London guest house, nor from Jack.

Kathleen did give her a card and a little present of a knitted tea cosy that looked like a cottage, but these were left on the kitchen table.

Puzzled at who this letter was from, she studied the blurred, unreadable postmark.

She couldn’t make anything out, and the envelope was so grubby it looked like it had been walked over many times.

As for the rather scratchy handwriting, she certainly didn’t recognize that.

Yet she assumed it must be from Margery as there was no one else likely to write.

She ripped the envelope open and, gasping at the signature, flopped down on the sofa to read it.

It was from Jack Ramsey.

Six or seven months ago when she wrote to him, she’d been bitterly disappointed when he didn’t reply. But she carried on hoping for a letter for some time, until eventually she felt he had forgotten her and that he was never going to write.

Yet her heart leapt to find this letter was from him, and judging by the state of the envelope, it had been halfway round the world before arriving here.

‘Dear Beth,’ she read. ‘I’m in North Africa, where I was sent shortly after I met you. And I only got your letter sent on to me a short while ago. I expect this reply will also take ages to get to you too, and I wouldn’t blame you if you tore it up!’

Beth began to cry then. It could of course be a lie, a pathetic excuse, but it sounded like the truth. She wiped her eyes and read on.

But even if your letter took for ever to get to me, I was thrilled to hear from you, because I hadn’t forgotten anything about you.

I kept telling myself you were too busy in your new home to think of a man you’d only spent a couple of hours with.

I even hoped you’d found love, or at least some new friends in Ireland, as I didn’t like to think of you being lonely.

I can’t of course tell you where I am exactly or what I’m doing, but the old work of clearing up bomb damage and searching for bodies in the wreckage of homes sometimes feels far better than the real and present danger here.

It’s very hot, the flies torment us, sand gets in my uniform, in my boots and hair.

I find myself dreaming of pouring glass after glass of water from the tap in Mum’s kitchen, and running down to the beach for a swim.

You described the beautiful view of the harbour and sea from your cottage window, and I made myself happy by imagining one day looking at that view with you, or taking you to meet my mother and to show you what a lovely place Cornwall is.

I have so many questions, but until I hear that you’ve got this letter and that it made you happy to remember me, I don’t think I should ask anything, and only tell you I am going to request some leave and, if I get it, hope you could meet me in London?

There’s so much I want to know about you, Beth, but I’m sure when and if we do get together I’ll be stuck for words.

I was so happy to get your letter and I write in hope that you’ve thought about me as often as I have about you.

If you do want to see me, I’ll send you a telegram with the date of my leave.

As I understand it, mail is getting through much quicker now.

One of my mates got a letter yesterday from his mum that had only taken a week to get here.

But I have to go now as I’m on duty in ten minutes.

Thinking of you.

Yours, Jack x

Beth ran upstairs after reading the letter, jumped into bed again and re-read it, a shiver of delight running down her spine.

She could go to London. It was such a long way, the ferry, then the train, but she had nothing better to do. She could ask if they had room for her at No. 18 and if they did she could call it a little holiday, and a chance to do some shopping.

Jack’s letter was replied to that same morning.

She said how pleased she was to get it and said she was willing to meet him in London, and reminded him of Margery’s telephone number at No.

18, just in case he’d lost it. She also wrote to Margery to explain about Jack and that she needed a room for a little London holiday but couldn’t say the date yet.

After posting the two letters, praying that the one to Jack would get there quickly this time, she went for a long, energetic walk.

That evening as she went upstairs to bed, she realized that the day’s events had stopped her from thinking about the doctor. She was very glad of that and thought how silly she’d been to daydream about him. Jack was a far more suitable candidate.

Margery’s reply came five days later. She said whenever it was that Jack got to England, she’d find room for Beth, and she’d be very pleased to see her again.

She said the constant fear of bombs was affecting many people now.

Her husband was exhausted with the endless firefighting, and there had been several bombs dropped close to No.

18. Just a couple of days ago Ernest Bevin, the Minister of Labour, had called for women to fill vital jobs, so she was expecting she would soon be getting enquiries from single women coming to London for work and wanting somewhere to stay.

She said too that both she and her husband were in need of a real rest, and she had thought of writing to ask if they could come to Ireland to stay with her, but she was afraid that was too much of a cheek.

Beth posted a letter back later the same day to say it wasn’t a cheek to ask and she’d love them to come. Perhaps they could arrange it when she came to London?

Remarkably, Jack’s reply came just three weeks after his first letter, so clearly the army were making more of an effort with mail for the soldiers. ‘Dear Beth,’ he wrote,

Your letter made me whoop with excitement and oddly enough my sergeant informed me even before I’d asked that I was due for some leave along with several of my pals here. He said he’d let me know the date when the ship which would be bringing fresh troops got here.

So with luck I could be back in England by June.

I’ll have to squeeze in visiting my family, but that depends on how I get back.

I’m sure you realize I can’t tell you that.

Can’t wait to see you! Mum tells me they’ve had bad bombing in Plymouth, and she’s heard a lot of horror stories about troops in Africa.

She sounded very anxious. But I suppose mothers are the same everywhere, convinced their child is in danger.

I’ll write as I leave here, then send a telegram when I’m in England.

Love, Jack x

As thrilled and excited as she was to know Jack was so eager to see her, the bit about mothers being the same everywhere caught her off guard. Her mother had always known she had put her child in danger, and condoned it.

That was a reminder that she didn’t have a safety net if things went wrong. But she poured herself a second cup of tea, and said aloud that she didn’t need a safety net, and she wasn’t going to let the past spoil the possibilities ahead of her.

Just that week, Aisling’s husband, Donal, had given the bike a good clean, fitted two new tyres, and oiled it. Now Beth had a few short trial runs, and once she knew she could still ride and felt confident, she set off for Waterford to find out train times and check the ferry situation.

It began to rain as Beth cycled back from Waterford.

By the time she got home she felt like a drowned rat, but she was happy; the bike was a joy to ride, despite the wet.

Beth wheeled it round the side of the cottage to the open-fronted shelter for logs.

Once again she felt grateful that Miranda appeared to have thought of everything.

The fire only needed a bit of a prod and a couple more logs to liven it up, and with the curtains drawn and the wireless on it soon felt warm and cosy.

It would be good to see Margery in London, and she thought she would buy a warm coat too.

She’d been very cold during the winter, and the camel one was a bit too smart to wear here.

She would have to ask Mr Boyle if clothes rationing was definitely starting on 2 June as she’d heard, and whether that meant she had to apply for coupons even if she was only visiting England.