The Very White of Love: the heartbreaking love story that everyone is talking about!. S Worrall C

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      They drive back to Blythe Cottage in silence, each wondering what the next weeks and months will bring. In a few hours, Martin will be in uniform. Another chapter in their lives is beginning.

      ‘I wonder what we’ll be doing next summer?’ says Nancy, wistfully, as they pull up outside Blythe Cottage.

      ‘Same as this, I hope.’ Martin leans over and kisses her, then watches as she slides out of the car, her tennis skirt high up her thigh. ‘See you tomorrow? At the station?’

      He waves then drives away, watching her grow more distant in the side mirror. Half an hour later, he pulls up at the drill hall in Aylesbury, the battalion’s base. A line of Bren Carriers is parked outside. Probably be driving one of those soon, Martin thinks.

      James Ritchie, another of the battalion’s captains, greets Martin as he pulls up. He’s a banker, married to the daughter of the Wethered brewing family in Marlow, and a descendant of the writer, William Thackeray. He’s also ten years older than Martin, and senior to him.

      ‘Captain Viney and the rest of the officers are already inside.’ Ritchie points to a tent in the middle of the parade ground. ‘You can collect your uniform there.’

      The tent is full of men stripped down to their underpants and smells of sweat and beer. Bawdy jokes about the respective size of the officers’ ‘packages’ fly back and forth. Boxes of battledress uniforms, just arrived from London, stand open: a woollen blouse and a pair of trousers that look rather like something you would wear in the Alps.

      ‘Hugh!’ Martin calls over to Saunders.

      ‘You made it.’ Saunders stares down in dismay at the trousers he is trying on and pulls a face: they are up around his ankles.

      ‘Is this the longest you’ve got?’ he says to an orderly.

      ‘I’ll see if I can find a thirty-four.’ The orderly goes out.

      Martin pulls on his own trousers. ‘Not quite so elegant as tennis whites, are they?’

      ‘Lovely girl, Nancy,’ Hugh says. ‘Needs a bit of work on her serve.’ He grins. ‘But seriously, Martin, I can’t believe how much more cheerful you have become since you met her. I think I am going to start calling you the Happiest Man in the World.’

      ‘I am!’ Martin smiles at his friend. ‘I can’t bear the idea that we are going to be separated.’

      ‘I can imagine.’ Saunders sighs. ‘Sometimes I think being a bachelor has its advantages.’

      The orderly returns. ‘Try this one, sir.’

      Saunders steps into the new pair of trousers. They are fitted high in the waist, like a ski suit, with a large exterior map pocket at the front and button flies. This time they fit.

      ‘What’s this?’ Saunders says to the orderly, sliding a finger into a slit-shaped pocket at the side of his trousers.

      ‘That’s for your knife, sir.’

      ‘My what?’

      ‘Your jackknife.’ The orderly opens the blade. ‘Best Sheffield steel, sir.’

      Hugh takes the knife and slides it into the pocket.

      ‘And this?’ Martin points to a small, horizontal pocket at the front of the trouser.

      ‘For your field dressing, sir.’ The orderly passes him a small canvas bag, marked ‘First Field Dressing’. ‘There are two dressings inside, sir. Both in waterproof pouches.’ The orderly looks him in the eye. He hands him another packet. ‘And this one is your shell dressing.’

      ‘What’s that?’ Martin asks.

      ‘For your . . . er . . . head, sir,’ says the orderly, shifting his feet awkwardly.

      ‘Won’t be needing that then,’ Martin jokes. ‘It’s all hollow.’