A Very Merry 1940s Christmas

This morning we made mince pies in our pyjamas. It's always chaotic on Christmas Eve, but eventually I managed to put a fine layer of lipstick on, borrow a pair of Tilly's heels and a dress from my mother, and we hurled ourselves into the van and went to a carol service in Neath. It was completely different from any carol service I've ever been to - war-time themed, everyone with pin curls and floral aprons.
We were told a story about a young woman who stood looking up at the hills that surrounded her village every day during the war, in the hopes that the man she loved would come home to her. She waited, day after day, and one morning woke up and decided that this morning would be the last time she stood looking up and waiting for him.
And just when we were leaning forward and wishing, praying that he would come home, a soloist started to sing "Oh Danny Boy". I was outraged - why would you do this to me on Christmas Eve? The tragedy! The injustice! And in the closing bars of the song a man in uniform walks in from the back of the church, up to the soloist, and snakes an arm around her waist.
He did come home. I was a mess - one hand clutching Chloe's knee and the other pawing at Mum's sleeve. What a very merry Christmas present!