Summer of 1945

The war might have ended, Beatrice Mortimer thought gloomily, as she glanced in the neglected-looking shop windows on her way to the Red Cross office in Bromley where she volunteered, but people were looking just as drawn and drab with the rationing still on.

It was as though the whole country had gone from the colourful, noisy atmosphere of VE Day only a few weeks ago, when everyone was celebrating victory against the Germans, to a depressing black and white film. Even the sky was overcast.

Snapoutofit,Bea, she told herself sternly. It’snotlikeyou.Yourtroubleis, you’remissingJames.Butyou’veplenty tobethankfulfor.

Her son, serving in the Navy, had recovered from the shocking experience of his ship being torpedoed, and she couldn’t wish for a lovelier daughter-inlaw. But she couldn’t rid herself of the empty feeling inside.

Bea opened the squeaking office door. She breathed in the familiar smell of old paintwork and stale cigarette smoke mixed with Janet’s Yardley lavender water, loving the sounds of the women working, their typewriters clattering a mile a minute.

The office was busier than ever, helping prisoners-of-war make the transition to a normal life and searching for missing civilians and military personnel.

That part was particularly exacting and often led nowhere, but so rewarding when anyone in the office had a success. Then they would all clap – something silly she’d started off, but the office had adopted it, revelling in the joy when someone was matched with their family.

Her heart squeezed with fondness as she glanced over to the four women at their desks. She’d got to know them well these last three years.

Then she saw a man sitting at her desk, filling in a form. He glanced up, then immediately stood, an uncertain smile on his lips. Bea frowned.

“Oh, Bea, we have a new volunteer.”

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