Mrs Huxtable was no longer living in the Court, which had been badly bombed, but had taken herself off to her sister’s and got a job cleaning public lavatories and other amenities for the local council. Cyril had toyed with the idea of simply not telling her he had survived the attack on his convoy, but after much laborious thought he had come to the conclusion that she could be more useful to him if she were in on his secret than if he left her in the dark. It gnawed at his mind like a rat at a cheese that someone might reach the Rathbone jewels first and steal them from him, though he doubted anyone else would know exactly where the treasure was hidden. Not much longer, he told himself. Once he got the dressing table drawer unlocked and took the jewels he was sure it contained, he would be able to kiss the Navy goodbye and take himself off to somewhere a good deal safer than Liverpool in wartime. His mind filled with visions of unlimited riches, he performed his duties as the ship docked, then went ashore and gave an urchin sixpence to deliver a scribbled note to his Auntie Letty’s address, asking his mother to meet him at Lyons Corner House that very afternoon.

‘Oh, Cyril, it’s grand to see you, so it is. They told me your ship went down with all hands, and you was missing presumed killed,’ Mrs Huxtable said, sitting down heavily at the small corner table. ‘And the money stopped coming . . . What happened? Where’s you been?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Cyril said vaguely, not wanting to go into too much detail. ‘The main thing is, you mustn’t call me Cyril any more.’ He went on to explain, with certain omissions, how he had come to take over his erstwhile shipmate’s identity, and sat back to await his mother’s approval. When she said nothing, but merely looked thoughtful, he burst into angry speech. ‘What’s the matter, you silly old bag? You know the scuffers have been watchin’ me ever since some interferin’ busybody told them I’d kidnapped them kids. This way I get them off me back once and for all. So what’s wrong with that, eh?’

His mother did not answer at once. ‘Is this Ernie a local man?’ she asked eventually. ‘If so, me laddo, the first person to seek out Ernie Beaver is bound to notice he’s changed somethin’ remarkable. How will you explain that away, eh?’

‘Ma, for one thing he was a single man, with no wife, and no family that he ever mentioned, and for another Liverpool weren’t his home port,’ Cyril said impatiently. ‘He were from Southampton, which means that as long as I’m on me present ship no one’s likely to put two and two together.’ He glared at his mother. ‘Satisfied? Want to hear the rest of me plan?’

‘Sorry, Cy . . . I mean Ernie,’ she said. ‘Go on, spill the beans.’