But that had been years ago; now he knew exactly what he must do, and his reward would be not beer money but a handful of those sparkly stones.

The back door had opened beneath his touch, the click of the latch drowned by the crump of the bombs, and he went like a shadow through the kitchen, across the hall, and up the stairs. He was almost at the top landing when he heard a sound, and glancing towards the half-open bedroom door he had nearly died of fright. An old, old woman stood in the doorway, ghostlike in a white cotton nightie, pointing a trembling finger at him. ‘How dare you come into my house!’ she said in a frail, shaking voice. ‘I’ll call the police, I’ll have you arrested. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’

And on those words she had tipped forward, and though, to be fair, Cyril had tried to catch her, she fell and lay, an immovable bundle, on the landing.

Cyril had left the scene, but not before he had tried to open the dressing table drawer and found it locked. He would have broken it open had he not seen through the window a man in a tin hat and ARP uniform coming up the path. He must have seen the back door swinging open.

It was sheer bad luck that the ARP warden was Cyril’s erstwhile boss, Freddie Cummins. Cyril pushed past him, muttering that he had noticed the open door and come in to check that all was well, but Freddie stopped short and reached out to grab his arm. ‘Do I know you?’ he said uncertainly, but Cyril was already moving again.

He did not know whether he had been recognised in the dark or what had happened to the old lady. He had returned to his ship and resolved not to go ashore again until he had ascertained that the wretched old woman was not dead. But even then he would be in danger if Cummins had recognised him. It was whilst he was still trying to discover whether the scuffers might be on his tail that another thought occurred to him. If only he could become another person . . .

Then had come the attack on his convoy, and when his ship had gone down with most of the crew Cyril had been one of the lucky ones, for he was a strong swimmer and had speedily found himself a spar on which to cling. The sea had been relatively calm; the enemy had gone on their way, knowing that they had scored a kill. Cyril had looked around him and seen, in the dim dawn light, what seemed to be a friendly ship, and had set off towards what he hoped would be rescue.

Then he had seen one of his shipmates, Ernie Beaver, drifting towards him, his skinny white hands desperately clinging to just such a sturdy plank as Cyril’s. He had contemplated leaving the other man to struggle on alone, but even as the thought occurred to him Ernie turned his long, horse-like face towards his approaching shipmate. ‘Gi’ us a hand, Hux,’ he had pleaded. ‘I can’t swim . . . gi’ us a hand.’