Gordon is feeling very down at the moment because, although one of his hands appears to be fine, the other got a minor infection which has set back progress a little. The Maestro remained confident that the outcome would be ultimately positive though.

Henry received a letter a couple of days back from one of his pilot pals at Biggin Hill; a man called George Sheridan.

‘Good old Sherry,’ recalled Henry wistfully, as he read the letter. ‘He was one of the red scarf pirates; now the only active member in fact. All others are either deceased or have had half of their skin burned off them.’ He grinned at me and offered to read the letter out loud.

‘Dear Henry,

I’m ploughing a lonely furrow here at Biggin Hill now that you’re not here and the rest of the squadron’s gone to Wales. I requested to stay to fight on in this blasted battle – kicked up a real fuss actually – and so I am accompanied by my faithful mechanic, Frank Edwards – the wiry little Brummie who plays violin and looks over an engine like an artist inspecting his canvas. The Group Captain passes on best regards as does Canary, who reckons he can add one to your tally which was previously a probable. I’m not sure if that’s much of a boost for you at the moment. From the sounds of your nurse it sounds like your morale should be fairly high anyway!

Anyway, I’ve no idea how all this is going to end up. The Germans are still coming as you’ve probably read in the newspapers. There are more and more of the blighters and Biggin Hill’s now so full of holes that you’d think a giant mouse had been eating chunks out of it.

There’s some chance that I might be joining you down at East Grinstead the way things are going.

Anyhow, I hope that you’re well and enjoying the holiday. I’ll have a pint for you down at the White Hart this evening on the condition that you buy another for me when you return.

With all the best from your chum,

Sherry.’

The grim fatalism in the letter hidden not far beneath a veneer of jolly humour shocked me and I hated the idea that there were pilots out there anticipating that they might find their way here sooner or later. But it’s true that the war seems to have taken an even grimmer turn, though I hadn’t thought that was possible before. London is under attack and the Luftwaffe seem to be ruling the skies. There needs to be one almighty battle to stop an invasion happening now I think.

I realise that I have been spending more and more time on the ward and less and less in my room or going for walks in the country on my own. I don’t like to leave the place. Sometimes the Matron will tell me to take some time off, but otherwise I’m quite happy to be here to look after the men. I like to feel wanted and it’s become clear that the work I’m doing is so important for the lives of these patients. I cannot imagine what would happen to them were it not for the Maestro and us nurses.

 I went with Henry to the cinema the other day and we had a lovely time. I like having the company I realise; I don’t want to be on my own anymore. Perhaps Henry isn’t the man for me, perhaps Alexander Rhodes isn’t (I haven’t yet received a reply from him), but I’m now sure that there might be another romance in my life. After all, I am 27 years old, which isn’t that old is it?