‘I’m coming with you!’ Charity said firmly. ‘No, don’t look at me like that, Maggie. He’s an airman. Everyone knows what they’re like.’

It was the following evening and they were sitting up at the bar in The Royal Oak. Pam, Nancy and Norm were there too, playing darts at the back of the pub. Bill and Ray were sitting by the fire. Ray had already been over to buy drinks and to speak to Charity but he hadn’t stayed long.

Maggie laughed at Charity’s outrage. ‘It’s only a drink!’

Charity pulled a face. ‘It’s never “only a drink”.’

‘Actually, he did say I could bring someone.’

‘That’s it, then. Decided. In any case, I’m looking forward to meeting him!’

Maggie sipped her shandy. She hadn’t been entirely honest with Charity about how much time she’d spent with Jack over the past few weeks or how much she’d grown to like him. But perhaps, if Charity could meet him – and approve – Maggie might confide in her a little more.

‘He calls me Poppy, by the way,’ she said. ‘It’s just a nickname.’

Charity gave her a look. ‘Nicknames? Very cosy.’

Of course, there was one obvious drawback to introducing Charity to Jack; he might take one look at her, with her creamy skin and blonde mane, and fall madly in love. It was a risk she’d have to take.

* * *

‘What were you talking to Miss Hoity Toity about?’ Bill asked as Ray brought two pints back to the table. They usually propped up the bar, but the girls were there tonight, perched on stools, so Ray had suggested Bill grab the table nearest the fire while he got the beers in.

Ray took a long gulp of ale and wiped the foam from his top lip. ‘Come on, Bill. She might be a deb’ but Charity’s not uppity. Actually, I was talking to her about the concert. His Nibs has agreed we can do it and as she’s arranged one before, she’s going to help.’

Ray had asked Lord Ashford if he might organise a morale-raising concert in the village hall. There’d be singing, dancing and all kinds of acts. Everyone could get involved and they’d charge sixpence a ticket, in aid of the ‘Spitfire Fund’.

In case his Lordship wasn’t aware, Ray had added, a Spitfire wing cost £2000, a gun £200, a spark plug eight shillings and a rivet sixpence.

‘Enough!’ his Nibs said, laughing and holding up his hand. ‘I’m convinced. In fact, you had me at “morale-raising”. When were you thinking of holding it?’

‘I thought after Christmas, Sir. January’s always a bleak month.’

‘Yes, we’ll be in need of cheering up by then. Jolly good. Go ahead, on condition that all rehearsals are done in everyone’s own free time.’

‘Of course, Sir.’