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upstream to relieve Kut. Your pupils must be missing you.’
    â€˜Not in the Christmas and New Year holidays, they’re not. But Theo did say at the end of my shift that I can return to teaching when the spring term starts next week.’
    Charles held his finger to his lips.
    A middle-aged major wearing the insignia of the 6th Poona Division was booming loud enough to be heard above an artillery barrage. ‘I don’t know why we put up with civilians in this club. Treating the place as if it’s their own …’
    â€˜You brave enough to tell him this is a civilian club whose members graciously allow officers to use the facilities?’
    â€˜Not me. Like Theo and Dr Picard, I’m a coward.’ She reached for her gin and tonic. ‘There are a lot of officers here fresh off the boat. Would I be right in assuming the push upstream to relieve Kut is imminent?’
    Charles lowered his voice. ‘I’ve heard we won’t be going up to get Peter and the others out until we have sufficient manpower and arms to do the job properly.’
    â€˜Too late for Harry and Captain Mason.’
    Charles gripped his glass so tightly she thought it would shatter.
    â€˜I’m sorry. I won’t mention their names again.’
    â€˜That would be worse. As though we were trying to deny they’d lived.’ Charles swallowed his brandy and immediately felt light-headed. Given his weakened state he realised if he didn’t slow up he’d soon be too drunk to stand. He wondered if that’s what Colonel Allan had had in mind when he’d insisted on the wheelchair. ‘I received a letter this morning from one of Harry’s friends, Major Warren Crabbe. This was enclosed for you.’ He handed her a postcard. On one side was a sketch of a soldier lolling beneath a palm tree, glass in one hand, slice of cake in the other. Whoever had drawn the sketch, she knew it wasn’t Peter. His artistic skills only extended as far as matchstick men. On the back, next to her name and address, Peter had scrawled,
    Christmas Greetings from Kut. Am well and missing you, all my love as ever, Peter.
    Angela stared at the postcard. It had been in Peter’s hands only a few days ago. He’d written he loved her – she wished she could turn the clock back and accompany it on a return journey through the besieging lines of Turkish troops. Watch Peter write it, hug him. Tell him no matter what, they would survive the war somehow and build a good life together …
    â€˜Do you know Major Warren Crabbe?’ Charles’s voice intruded on her thoughts.
    â€˜I’ve met him. Like Peter and Harry he was stationed here before the war.’ She didn’t look up from the postcard but ran her fingers over the surface. She knew she was being ridiculous but she couldn’t help feeling that in touching it, she was in some way reaching her husband.
    â€˜The lieutenant who brought the letter to the hospital said Crabbe entrusted it to one of the ghulams who’ve been smuggling communications out of Kut. I dread to think how much he had to pay the man to carry it.’
    â€˜Did Major Crabbe say anything about the conditions in Kut?’ Angela asked.
    â€˜Not really,’ Charles fudged. ‘He wanted me to know that although Harry’s posted “missing” there’s no hope he’s alive. Before the Turkish blockade was raised, Townshend sent the tanks and the cavalry south under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Leachman. Harry went out shortly afterwards. He was in native robes and accompanied by two Arab ghulams. Our sentries heard snipers in the Turk forward posts. One of the ghulams returned with Harry’s bloodied robes. He told Crabbe Harry had been killed by the first volley.’
    â€˜So there’s absolutely no chance that Harry survived and was taken prisoner?’
    â€˜None, I’m afraid,’ Charles confirmed. ‘Crabbe