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After the drama at the farm and then the break-in, Beth felt she needed to get away, but it was several more weeks before she decided where to go.

Now, as she stepped down from the train in Bristol, she was very relieved that the long journey was over.

It was two in the afternoon and a glorious sunny day, which was very welcome after the incessant rain in Ireland.

She had considered Dublin or Galway, but decided that England was a better plan– after all, it would appear natural to people for her to go home.

After studying the map, she picked Bristol because it had good train links both from the Irish ferry and to London, and also to Cornwall for when Jack returned.

She had been told it was a lovely city, surrounded by open countryside and close to the sea.

But to Beth the real attraction was that she was unlikely to run into anyone she knew.

The break-in at Clancy’s Cottage seemed a long while ago now, but according to Kathleen, who appeared to have a direct message service from God– or at least from the Garda– the tinker had not been found.

The camp Beth had seen near Waterford vanished like smoke, and Kathleen said she doubted the Garda would make much effort to find them.

In fact, Sergeant Michael Flannery who had come to interview Beth after the break-in had all but dismissed the case.

After all, nothing had been stolen, and apart from the cut on her shoulder, the only real damage was to the front door, and that was caused by her neighbour.

Beth was relieved; she’d been expecting to be interrogated.

But she found it very odd that they were not pursuing the attack on Able.

His son had gone back to England, leaving the farm in the hands of an agent.

It was Mr Boyle who finally made her mind up to go away.

He came to see her just two weeks ago, saying he’d been contacted by an old friend who was looking for somewhere for himself and his young family to rent for three weeks in August. ‘I told him that you were the only person I knew who had a home with the kind of comforts he’d expect,’ Mr Boyle said hesitantly, as if expecting her to be offended he’d even asked such a thing.

‘I ran it past Kathleen, and she said you had been speaking of going back to England for a holiday and to see friends.’

‘I have been,’ Beth agreed, and her spirits lifted at finally being encouraged to go.

‘Kathleen would be happy to clean for them. Do the laundry and such like. They could pay you ten pounds a week, in advance. They would pay Kathleen directly too.’

Beth said she’d mull it over, just so she didn’t look suspiciously eager. But the house would be safe with someone in it, and the money made it a sensible plan.

She had already written to Jack telling him about the attack and saying she wanted to go away somewhere.

Just a few days ago she’d had a reply in which he sounded alarmed that someone had broken into her cottage.

He said she should go to his mother’s in Falmouth.

But by the time his letter came, she’d already decided on Bristol, booked a room at the place Margery had recommended, and agreed to let the cottage.

She wrote to him and said maybe while she was in Bristol she could go down to Falmouth to meet his mother.

She suggested he wrote back care of Margery at No.

18 and she’d send him her new address as soon as she was settled.

She hadn’t packed much, as most of her clothes were too warm for summer. She was looking forward to shopping for a couple of dresses and sandals. Right now she was sweltering with her raincoat over a wool dress. It would be so good to sit in a park and sunbathe.

Margery was right. Down House, in St Paul’s Road, was as charming as her own guest house.

The owner, Mrs Levy, a tall, slender brunette with olive skin who immediately suggested Beth call her Rachel, was very welcoming.

She took her up to see a room at the back of the house on the first floor, and said she was happy to provide an evening meal, along with breakfast.

‘We’ve been lucky so far in the bombing,’ she said.

‘Several bombs have landed near here but, touch wood, we haven’t been affected.

However, in the unlikely event of getting an air-raid warning, there is an Anderson shelter in the garden.

I got someone to clean it out the other day.

But make sure you take something warm to wear if the worst happens. ’

Rachel asked her why she’d come to Bristol.

Beth explained that she wanted a change of scene, and she’d rented her home out for a few weeks.

‘I’ve got a boyfriend in the army, in North Africa.

Ireland is too far to go when he’s on leave, but Bristol is convenient whether he arrives back in London or one of the ports on the south coast.’

Rachel commiserated, but said she could probably find him a room for a couple of nights if he ever needed one.

‘These are difficult times for everyone,’ she said with a sigh.

‘People losing their homes, loved ones overseas, rationing and the fear of bombs. We should all do our best to make things a little better for people.’

Beth settled into Down House very quickly.

It was good to be in walking distance of shops, and the wide open spaces of the Downs.

Just a day or two into her stay she found herself thinking she could live happily in the leafy city for ever.

She had quickly sent a letter to Jack telling him where she was, and alerted Margery he might write to her or telephone there.

But she knew how long mail took to get to and from England, so she tried not to get excited.

She bought a couple of summer dresses and some sandals, and as the weather was so nice, she spent most days on Brandon Hill, a lovely small park which overlooked the whole of Bristol, just a short distance from the guest house.

Rachel had a good selection of books which she was happy to lend, and lying in the sun reading was Beth’s idea of heaven.

Clifton, Beth learned, was built for the wealthy merchants at the time that Bristol Docks were second only to London for trade in innumerable goods, from glass, sherry, cotton and sugar, to shot for guns, and of course shipping.

But the merchants and other wealthy people involved with these companies didn’t want to set up home down near the docks because of the foul smells, nor anywhere near the Horse Fair in the centre of town, where the worst slums were.

So the greatest architects and builders of the day were hired to build a town on the hill looking down onto the River Avon.

The elegant terraces rivalled those in neighbouring Bath, and the wealthy flocked to buy them.

Beth had learned all this from the museum, which had been bombed, but the valuable exhibits had been taken out of harm’s way before the Blitz began, as they had in other big cities.

Now part of the museum had reopened with many photographs and drawings of old Bristol, and she enjoyed reading about this splendid city which had so much fascinating history.

She did get the local paper to check on situations vacant, but there was nothing that inspired her, just domestic work either in private homes or hotels. But she was in no hurry, feeling that something would present itself in due course.

On Beth’s fourth day, she was just coming out of the museum, when a slight, elderly lady in front of her tripped on the steps and fell. Beth rushed to help her.

‘I’m not hurt, just winded,’ the lady said, her voice posh but soft. ‘But if you’d be so good as to help me to my feet.’

‘I think I should call an ambulance,’ said Beth. ‘Especially as you banged your head.’

‘My dear, I appreciate your concern, but the last thing I want is a trip to the hospital, so please just help me up.’

The command in her voice was such that Beth felt she had no choice but to put her hands under the lady’s arms and lift her to a standing position.

‘That’s the ticket,’ she said with a chuckle as she leant into Beth. ‘The only thing damaged is my pride. But bless you for coming to my aid.’

Beth thought the lady had the sweetest face, with pale blue eyes and rosy cheeks, but she also thought she might be a bit dazed. ‘Well, I’m at least going to take you somewhere for a cup of tea,’ she said firmly and pointed across the road. ‘Over there in the Berkeley Tearooms.’

Beth had found this place the previous day and was told they held tea dances a couple of times a week which were popular with servicemen home on leave. She had liked the atmosphere, the marble floor and a rather splendid domed ceiling. She had already earmarked it to take Jack to when he got leave.

‘I’m Beth Manning,’ she said as she tucked the old lady’s arm into hers to cross the road. ‘And your name?’

‘Rose Cullen,’ she said and smiled up at Beth. ‘Beth always makes me think of the book Little Women .’

‘I’m not as virtuous as she was.’

‘Well, anyone who takes me off for a cup of tea is virtuous in my eyes.’

Beth felt an odd flash of déjà vu; she knew she hadn’t met Rose before, but the sweetness of her face and kindness in her eyes were a reminder of Auntie Ruth. She wanted to know all about this lady.

Once seated in the Berkeley, a pot of tea and tea cakes in front of them, Rose told Beth that she lived in a lane just off Pembroke Road, which Beth knew was close to Down House.

Rose had been widowed for ten years, with one son, Myles, who lived in Canada.

‘He begged me to join him there after Duncan died,’ she said.

‘But I love Clifton and my home, I have so many happy memories here, and I find Canadians rather dull. Oh, I know it’s a vast, beautiful country and so many aspects of life there are better than ours, but really, do they have to be so smug about it? ’