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‘What on earth is wrong with you, Beth?’ Rose asked.

It was four in the afternoon and Rose had sensed something was wrong when Beth came back from the shops.

She’d done exceptionally well at the shopping, braving queues and not only getting sugar, but another pot of honey, more dried yeast, some strong flour for making bread, plus meat and vegetables.

Rose would’ve expected her to want to start on making bread immediately, but instead she had remained sitting, nursing a cup of tea, without saying a word. She looked pale and worried too.

‘Did someone say something unpleasant to you?’ Rose asked. Clifton was full of people who thought they were a superior being. Because she had been the doctor’s wife she never experienced this herself, but she had heard women making cutting remarks to those they considered beneath them.

‘No, everyone was nice,’ Beth replied, but she didn’t smile as she said it. ‘Especially the butcher.’

‘Well, he’s got an eye for a pretty girl,’ Rose said. ‘So why the sad, worried face? You can tell me, whatever it is.’

‘I saw someone I used to know.’

‘Well, that’s good isn’t it? An old flame?’

‘Never! But I can’t imagine what he’s doing in Bristol.’

The way she snapped out ‘Never’ told Rose a great deal. Beth loathed the man she’d seen.

Rose had been told a thousand times that she had a gift for sensing stuff about people. On her first meeting with Beth, she’d known this was a young woman holding a big secret. On the face of it Beth had everything. She was intelligent, capable, attractive and well-dressed.

But she was incredibly cautious and suspicious, not trusting anyone, yet craved affection.

Rose had tried to analyse what little Beth had told her about her past, mixed with observations she’d made.

Beth was afraid of this man she’d seen, so what was he to her?

Not her father, he’d died in the Great War, so it could be a stepfather or an uncle who scared her.

Did he molest her? Or was he just cruel?

The other observation Rose had made was about Beth’s speech.

Most people would claim she had no discernible accent, but that would be because she was softly spoken.

Yet Rose could hear hints of Cockney. It was almost ironed out, either by a teacher, or her mistress when she was in service, or indeed a conscious effort on her own part, but now and again when she was a bit excited it slipped out.

She claimed she grew up in Tunbridge Wells, but there was no Kentish accent.

Then there was the mystery of the godmother who left her the cottage; wouldn’t most people inheriting be likely to speak of their good fortune and also about the person who gave it?

Beth never did. She said once she used to write to the woman as she was her mother’s friend, but Beth had never met her, aside from at her own christening.

She said she had a photograph taken at the christening and judging by Miranda’s clothes she was a wealthy woman.

That all sounded true, but so distant! Rose wondered if in fact Miranda was Beth’s mother, and she had handed over her baby to her married friend.

Rose knew many young gentlewomen did that rather than face the disgrace. And the foster mother must have been very glad of the money paid to her when Miranda was notified that her husband had died.

That would make complete sense of Miranda leaving her cottage to Beth. A sort of apology.

Over the next few days, Beth tried to forget the man she’d seen and told herself that Ronnie had no connection with Bristol and that it was probably just someone who looked a bit like him.

After all, it was fifteen years since she’d seen him, and people could change so much in that time.

He’d be in his late forties now, perhaps even older.

But she vowed whenever she was out, she’d keep watching for him.

A couple of letters arrived from Jack, warm, loving letters, yet she sensed how weary he and his comrades were. He mentioned the heat and the flies a lot, and wanting to go out mackerel fishing when he got home.

But he wanted to know about her life, how she was getting on with Rose, what they did all day, and whether she kept thinking about him.

When she wrote to him, Beth told him what she considered really boring stuff, like weeding the garden, or putting clean sheets on their beds.

But he seemed to love such detail; he said it made him feel he was there with her, and one day when they were married he’d help her change the bed, turn the mattress and even hang washing on the line.

It was endearing to imagine a man sitting writing in a tent, in blazing heat, perhaps only just returned from some skirmish which had killed or wounded some of his friends, having a little fantasy about helping with laundry or making beds.

It was approaching October now, the streets strewn with fallen leaves, and each time a squall of wind came it was like walking through golden confetti.

She and Rose often walked up to the Downs in the afternoon, and on one occasion a German bomber flew over so low they dropped face-down on the grass, expecting bombs to rain down on them.

But it flew on to the Avon Gorge, following it down towards Portbury Docks.

They heard that evening that it must have got separated from the rest of the squadron, and dropped its stick of bombs on the docks before wheeling off to fly back to Germany.

‘I keep thinking the bombing is over now,’ Beth said quietly as they walked home. ‘Then that happened, and I realize we’ve just had a lull before the next onslaught.’

‘If only the news made it clearer how things are going,’ Rose sighed.

‘There is so much going on in different fronts, in Italy, the Allies invading Sicily, the Japanese in Singapore and Malaysia, and then the uprising in Warsaw, when the Jews fought back against the Germans for a whole month. But we don’t hear what happens to the ordinary people in these places.

I had so much hope back in January when the 6th Army surrendered after the Russian victory in Stalingrad.

Even more hope when the Americans got here in force.

But we are still very much in the dark about what is happening. Are we winning? Or losing?’

‘We have to believe we are winning because we are in the right,’ Beth said. ‘I keep wondering about the fate of the men taken prisoner, on both sides. We don’t hear much about that, do we?’

‘Perhaps we aren’t reading the right newspapers,’ Rose said, putting her hand on Beth’s arm comfortingly. ‘But I’m sure Jack is fine.’

Beth guessed that Rose was glad her son was in Canada and in a reserved profession. She wouldn’t, of course, voice that to Beth. She was too kind.

‘Shall we put up the decorations today?’ Beth asked on the first day of December.

She had fished them out of a store cupboard a few days earlier, and they had discussed when they would get a Christmas tree.

Too early and it would start shedding before the big day; too late and only skinny, threadbare ones would be left.

The compromise was to get one around the 15th and to keep it cool in the garden until the 20th.

Beth was so excited to open the boxes, as Rose had countless beautiful glass baubles collected over the years, and fantastic paper garlands bought at classy shops like Harrods back when Myles was a little boy. She even had electric fairy lights.

Beth had only ever had paper chains and a scrawny tree bought at Whitechapel Market at close of business.

She used to put bits of cotton wool on the branches to pretend it was snow, then strings of silver bells she’d made by modelling milk bottle lids round a thimble.

There was a shoe box with some glass baubles, some of which her mother had had as a child.

But each year there were fewer and fewer because some had been broken.

Neither Emily nor Ronnie wanted to waste money on new decorations, when that money would buy drink.

In November, Beth had gone back to Ireland for a week.

It had been a stormy crossing, and had rained almost the whole time she was in Dunmore.

Everything in the cottage was neat and tidy, and Kathleen was excited as Mr Boyle had booked a family of four to stay for two weeks over Christmas and New Year.

She loved the green wool jacket Beth had brought her.

It had belonged to Rose, but never worn because it was too big for her.

It looked wonderful on Kathleen and fitted her perfectly.

It was bliss to Beth to do nothing much for the week she was there.

Reading, a bit of weeding when it wasn’t raining, visiting Aisling and Caitlin, both of whom were pleased to see her and seemed to be in good spirits.

Caitlin said her husband was drinking less and being nicer to her, though she admitted she’d be on the next train to Dublin if it wasn’t for her children.

Beth found it quite amusing that these two women and Kathleen appeared to hold her in such reverence, almost like a visiting celebrity.

Dr McMara came by, having heard she was home, and wanted to know if she had any intention of coming back permanently.

She said she didn’t know, but in her heart she knew it would only be a place for a holiday.

She was wanted, needed and valued by Rose.

And when the war was over and she and Jack married, she hoped they could stay near Bristol.

‘So, is the young man well?’ the doctor asked. ‘Still in Africa? And does he still love you?’

‘As far as I know,’ she said, ‘yes to all three. It takes such an age for letters to get through sometimes, he could be on his way back now.’

But a week of sitting around was enough for her. She packed her warmer clothes into the empty case she’d brought with her, bought some beef, pork and bacon to take back for Rose and Rachel, and after a goodbye hug for Kathleen, she left without a backward glance.

‘So what’s the verdict? Decorations up or leave them a couple of weeks?’ Beth asked.

Rose smiled at her impatience. ‘I bet as a child you used to hunt for presents before Christmas.’

Beth laughed at that. There would’ve been no point in hunting for presents, there were none. The most she ever got at Christmas was a few sweets, though Ruth always kept a few surprises upstairs for her. But she couldn’t tell Rose about her childhood Christmases– she’d cry.

‘Next week,’ Rose said firmly. ‘I know perfectly well you’ve already been through them. Mice may have got in the boxes and damaged some of them. Meanwhile we could go up on the Downs one day this week and see if we can find holly with berries.’

Rose and Beth came back the following Tuesday afternoon all rosy-cheeked from the cold wind as they’d walked to the Downs, and with a basket of the holly they’d found. As Rose opened the front door the telephone was ringing.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Beth said, and carried the basket to the back door to put outside in the cool, while Rose answered the phone.

‘It’s for you,’ Rose said, holding out the receiver and looking worried. ‘It’s Jack’s father.’

Beth’s heart lurched. A call from his mother might be an invitation to come for Christmas, but his father did not bode well.

‘Hello, Mr Ramsey,’ she said. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘No, I’m sorry, it isn’t,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a telegram from the War Office. Jack is reported missing.’

Beth’s knees buckled under her and she reached for a chair to steady herself. ‘No, no,’ she gasped, tears instantly welling up in her eyes.

‘It could mean he’s been taken prisoner, or wounded, but his name was omitted from the list of men taken to hospital,’ Mr Ramsey said, and his deep voice was cracking with emotion. ‘We have to wait for clarification.’

Beth didn’t know what to say. ‘How has Mrs Ramsey taken it?’ she asked eventually.

‘As you’d expect, Beth, devastated,’ he said. ‘She couldn’t bring herself to break the news to you. Now, would you like me to read the telegram to you?’

‘Yes please.’ Beth could hardly get the two words out.

‘“Regret to inform you that Private Jack Ramsey reported missing in action. Letters will follow shortly.”’

Beth felt as if all the blood in her body had suddenly drained away. She thought she had prepared herself for bad news about Jack, but clearly she hadn’t. She loved him and thought they’d be together for ever after the war. How could fate be so cruel?

Perhaps Mr Ramsey understood how she felt, indeed he was probably at the same stage as she was.

‘He’s just missing, not reported dead,’ he assured her.

‘If he’s in a hospital, the army or Red Cross will find him.

If he’s been taken prisoner I believe he will be taken to Italy, and the Red Cross with contact us.

We have to say our prayers for him, Beth, and hold on to the belief our boy will come back to us.

He told us in his last letter he wants to marry you.

So we understand how shocking this news must be for you. ’

‘Yes, I love him,’ she whispered. ‘So much.’

‘Have faith, Beth, and rest assured we will contact you as soon as we get further news.’

After thanking Mr Ramsey and sending a message of condolences to his wife and the rest of the family, Beth slumped onto a chair and, holding her head in her hands, let out a wail of pain.

Rose came over and enfolded her in her arms, rocking her gently till her tears subsided and Beth could tell her all that Jack’s father had said.

‘There is nothing I can say to make you stop imagining the worse,’ Rose said eventually.

‘It’s true he could be wounded in a field hospital, or taken prisoner by the Germans, and neither scenario is comforting.

But I can tell you that all bodies of men killed during action are identified if possible.

That was very difficult during the Great War because of the thick mud, and the dangers to the stretcher-bearers who went out under fire to bring the wounded and fallen back.

But the fighting in Sicily isn’t the same as North Africa.

I don’t know what it’s like there, but I imagine it’s mountainous, and I believe they even have an amnesty time when they can bring bodies back behind the lines. ’

‘It seems to me this is punishment for things I’ve done,’ Beth sobbed out.

‘What can you have done that was bad enough to make Jack go missing?’ Rose said.

A fresh burst of crying was Beth’s response.