The English Wife. Adrienne Chinn

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      Thomas nods. ‘All right, then. I see.’ He looks at Ellie. ‘He liked your friend. He talked my ear off all about her for months. He kept looking for her at the dance halls every time we came to Norwich.’

      Ellie presses her lips together, willing the sob that’s forming in her throat not to spring into life. If it does, she can’t trust herself not to stop crying. She’d thought she’d cried all the tears allotted to her body, but she was wrong. They were like a perpetual spring with a source that never dried up.

      The ear-splitting wail of the all-clear slices through the heavy stillness of the December night. They rise and stretch, unfolding into the pale yellow light illuminating the cellar. The revellers pick their way over the crates and beer casks and make their way up the cellar steps.

      Outside, a half-moon hangs like a Christmas bauble in the twinkling sky. George holds out his hand to Thomas. ‘Thanks for your help tonight.’ His breath forms into a cloud that sits on the cold air. ‘Will you get back to Filby okay?’

      Thomas shakes George’s hand. ‘No problem, George, b’y. There’s always someone happy to give a soldier a lift.’ He looks at Ellie and touches his forehead in a mini-salute. ‘See you anon. Thanks for the dance.’

      Ellie watches as Thomas walks down the street, his tall figure growing smaller, his outline growing fainter, until he melds into the black winter night.