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back. Well, that was a bit of an understatement. He was completely harpic.
    I never could get used to it. He looked so different with his hair prematurely grey and those sunken stubbly cheeks. Before the war George had smooth flesh and he’d been proud of his shaving, you never saw any five o’clock shadow on him, but now his skin had gone thin and bluish and hairy. And then when you did try and engage him in a bit of conversation he had such a distant expression you felt almost stupid, as if you’d made a mistake and were talking to the wrong person.
    I wanted to tell those Navy boys: ‘Look. This isn’t my husband. This isn’t the man I thought was dead, the man I married and loved. This is someone pretending to be him, someone who’s horrible, someone who thinks I’ll be fooled.’
    But I could see that it was George even if I didn’t want to admit it. When he smiled or laughed, I almost thought he might get better and come out of it, but he always sank back. And his nerves kept changing. One day he couldn’t concentrate on anything and the next he’d be obsessed with tiny details, washing his hands, wanting to be clean, hating any sign of mud or dirt.
    On Christmas Eve Len sang sea shanties on the squeeze-box as I wrapped up presents for the stocking at the bottom of Martin’s bed: a little wooden boat, Fry’s Five Boys chocolate, a tin whistle, a cardboard kaleidoscope and a tangerine covered in foil at the toe. George hummed out of tune, staring into the distance, remembering the shanties called by line and shout, haul and stamp:
    Here’s to the grog, boys, the jolly, jolly grog
Here’s to the rum and tobacco
I’ve a-spent all my tin with the lassies drinking gin
And to cross the briny ocean I must wander
.
    On Christmas morning, Len gave his son an orange kite he’d got from the Army Surplus that was also a kind of radio receiver. George and I had bought a set of Meccano because Martin was always making things.
    Meccano is the key to a happy boyhood
, it said on the box. Martin made models of bridges and dams and tested them in the bathroom, stopping the water reaching one side of the basin and watching it rise and tip over.
    Len gave me a bottle of Shalimar. ‘Give us a cuddle, love,’ I said.
    He told me not to be silly, which made him a bit of a spoilsport because I’m sure nobody would have minded. George wasn’t in a position to care much about anything and the boy was busy with his Meccano.
    Len read out the quiz from the paper: ‘What did my true love send on the first day of Christmas, what did the third little pig have to eat, what did the girls do when Georgie Porgie kissed them and with what was the ship a-sailing laden? Come on, Martin, don’t sulk.’
    â€˜I feel sick.’
    â€˜Well, best get it over with then,’ I said. I never did like a sickly child.
    At the end of the meal, I fetched the cherry brandy. Len was resting his fingers on the edge of the table; he was always eager for the next thing. Then he leant back and belched.
    â€˜
Pardonnez moi!
’ he said, thinking it the funniest thing he had ever done.
    I poured the brandy and Len got out a cigar but as soon as he started to light it George turned his face away and put his head in his hands, hiding from the flame.
    â€˜I should have realised …’ Len said. ‘Stupid of me. Stupid.’
    â€˜Never mind,’ I said, but he was right. It was a bit silly because we all knew how George was about fire.
    Len banged on the table. ‘Come on then, let’s have another song.’
    Windy old weather, boys, stormy old weather
When the wind blows we’ll all go together …
    Martin had given George a box of coloured pencils for Christmas and he started to examine them. He took each one out in turn, studying the colours. Then he separated three from the rest: Chinese white, poppy red, navy blue. England expects. He