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War had changed everyone, of course. By 1945 he’d become as hunched over in his mind as everyone else by the relentless death and the sheer bloodlust of the German leader. Hitler had died cringing in his bunker, taking his own life – an old man whose belief in his ultra-fascist theories had led his once glorious nation to ruin.

By then Berlin was being defended by children and old men. Women were taking their own lives, terrified of the vengeance of the marauding Soviets, who would make them pay for the monstrous toll on their people this war had wrought. Peter had to blink away the thoughts of rape, pillage and murder. One tended to believe those horrors were for the history pages, not today’s modern man. But people hadn’t changed that much.

Not in love. Not in war.

Not in marriage either. It either worked, or it didn’t.

His marriage didn’t. Never had. It was his greatest disappointment, and his greatest failure.

His attention was caught by Delia straightening to stretch out her back from the weeding. She was still a striking woman years into their marriage, her beauty evident, her figure still neat, and she took pride in her appearance, keeping her hair and clothing immaculately neat and styled. Even through these sober postwar years she looked after everything she owned with care, darning or patching tears immediately; she was good with needle and thread.

He too had moved past that golden age of his twenties, nearing forty now. He felt old these days, but women didn’t seem to notice his ageing; it certainly peeved Delia that other women still took an interest in her husband. Vamps, she called them.

He took no notice of them anyway, but she seemed determined to let him know every comment made about him. To Delia, in spite of her peevishness, this was some sort of trophy for her, that they admired her husband, found his still-boyish looks appealing. In some roundabout way this made her feel smug, even special. He was her husband. She bore his name. She was Mrs Peter Fox… so back off.

Except a name was all they seemed to share these days.

Was he really going to spend the rest of his life in this shallow, passionless relationship? Who was to blame for it? Him? Her? Both of them?

The war?

Yes, perhaps it was the times. Delia’s mother had seen the future and she hadn’t liked what she saw for her only daughter as most of the bright, eligible men went off to war, threatening to leave behind too many daughters as spinsters. And then he’d come along by chance, at the perfect time.

Peter sighed at the window, watching his wife.

She liked her garden to be immaculate because hers was the toast of Bath and she didn’t want that to slip. She took the same care with the interior of their home too, and even made sure her food was all about exquisite presentation, with taste coming second.

He watched her now, busy at her obsession, and felt nothing. Yes, he quietly admired her endeavour, but he felt she expended this energy and commitment for praise and recognition, rather than personal satisfaction, which offended him on some level.

Outwardly they were the perfect couple and led a busy social life, which he detested. The marvellous and effervescent Delia Fox, even at thirty-seven, was still sparkling and they were popular dinner companions. She complained that other women had decided her good looks remained because she had not borne a child, but he knew underneath the sting she relished the compliments, repeating them back to him with feigned modesty.

So there she was, looking like a poster girl for the marriage everyone should aspire to, with her perfectly coiffed hair and tailored outfits, alongside the war hero who’d dared death so many times and outwitted it. War hero! He hated the title, but he understood that people needed to characterise him in this way. It was comforting for those who’d stayed home to know their soldiers, sailors and airmen were brave and had been ever ready to risk their lives to keep Britain safe.

So he attended church fetes and annual carnivals with the dazzling smile he could turn on, cheerfully cutting ribbons or judging fancy dress to applause. He’d given up wearing the uniform as the new decade had approached, even though people loved the sight of him with his medals.

Especially Delia. The uniform, the medals, the hero label – and the fact that other women wanted him.

They’d always been a poor match in terms of personality. He had tried to convince her during their engagement that he didn’t think he was cut out to be a good husband, but she’d been determined not to let him go.

‘Why do you say that, Peter? You’re a dream,’ she’d tinkled in the cheerful, cut-glass voice she’d perfected.

‘Because I think I’ll let you down, old thing.’

‘Nonsense. How could you?’

‘I’ve been so independent all my life, Delia, I’m not sure I know how to share – myself, I mean. I don’t know if I know how to give myself to someone.’

‘You just come home safely and all will be well,’ she’d cooed.

He’d achieved nothing by being honest, even when he had attempted to tackle the subject with her father.

‘Don’t worry, old chap. We all get the frights when a woman makes her move.’

‘It’s not that, sir. I’m worried that I won’t be enough for her. Delia is used to a different sort of life to the one I lead.’

He’d been unmoved. ‘You’ll adjust to each other. And don’t worry, she’s like her mother – she’ll slap you into shape. Now, Scotch?’ He’d gestured to the decanter, their conversation already forgotten.

If only Peter had put his foot down then, stood up for himself and extricated himself from the family’s grip, his wife would now be in a much happier marriage, he was sure. He’d ruined her life as much as his own by being so easy to manipulate. What was this chink in his character that allowed him to drift? In the skies he’d been so focused, so alert, but in life he’d allowed himself to be pushed along by others.