On the last day of the holidays the rain stopped and they woke to opaque mist, the sun white and mysterious as a moon. Hettie rushed into their room, hugging the sleepy Wolfie, hurried the children downstairs. ‘We’ve had a letter – you’ve a letter waiting . . .’ On the breakfast table, propped up against a green vase of yellow gorse, stood an envelope from Pa. Father Lamb sat in a chair by the church window, a blanket round his shoulders, his head drooping. Dodo and Wolfie read the letter together. My dearest Dodo, dearest Wolfie, Box, my dear Sergeant Box, companion of both wars, survived – he got himself out of that barn – escaped the SS – and was later taken prisoner, wounded and placed in a German hospital. He’s been sent home now, as medically unfit. He wrote to me that he had lost his legs, that he’s home, but hospitalized. He says, God bless him, that when he’s well, he’ll fight with every last drop of his blood to clear my name.
