There was a crashing thump from outside the back door and it burst open to reveal the subject of their conversation, who came straight across the room and settled himself in the nearest chair. ‘Mornin’ all,’ he said cheerfully, seeming not to notice the startled looks trained on him. ‘I ‘member yesterday – cor, that were a grand party, missus – the master said old Chambermaid was goin’ to make a speech today about this ’ere war, an’ we was all invited up here to listen. The O’Connells is comin’, but I don’t know about the Davieses, ’cos I couldn’t ask ’em – they don’t let me into their garding, let alone the cottage.’ He caught Sam’s look and hastened into further speech. ‘It ain’t nothin’ to do wi’ me; never a cross word have I uttered to that stuck-up bitch . . . well, well, less said the better, but I don’t know what I’ve ever done to them.’

The last words were uttered in a self-pitying whine, and Glenys would have sworn that he was slurring his speech; surely he could not be drunk at this time of the morning? And suddenly his proximity was too much for Glenys’s self-control. Before she could prevent them, words popped out of her mouth. ‘I expect it’s the smell,’ she said sharply, ‘or the muck, of course. Try washing, Pete, and the chances are you’ll be invited to Buckingham Palace, and perhaps you’ll be welcome at the Davieses’ too. And the broadcast takes place at eleven, not eight o’clock.’

To her surprise a slow brick-red blush crept up from the man’s filthy, collarless shirt to invade his face. He thumped his fist on the table and half rose to his feet. ‘That weren’t called for, missus,’ he said coldly. ‘It’s all very well for you, you’ve got yourself a tidy billet up here and think you’ve got no need to be polite to old Pete the Sheep.’ He pointed a trembling finger at Glenys. ‘I may be dirty . . .’

‘You damned well are,’ Sam interposed, having obviously decided to take Glenys’s part. ‘And now if you’ve had your say, Pete, you’d best toddle off home and come back at eleven to hear Mr Chamberlain . . . Chamberlain, Pete . . . talk to the nation.’

Pete swung round to face Sam. ‘You’re no bloody angel,’ he said in a hissing whisper. ‘If I were to tell what I know . . .’

But at this point Taid interrupted. ‘You’ve been drinking, Pete, and at this hour of the morning too,’ he said quietly. ‘I saw you leaving the party last night with a bag full of food which my wife had given you; I hadn’t realised you’d taken that big flagon of cider as well till I saw it was missing. Now just you apologise for the things you’ve said.’

Pete sank back in his chair once again and the tide of colour receded from his face. He lowered his head, clearly not wanting to meet his employer’s eyes. There was a short silence before he spoke. ‘I’m sorry for what I said,’ he muttered. Then he looked up and the glance he shot at Glenys was openly malevolent before he dropped his eyes again, veiling them with their puffy lids. ‘Sorry, missus,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean no offence, but I’ve got no woman to cook or make a meal for me . . .’