It was a bright, chilly afternoon in mid-November. Maggie looked up at the cloudless sky. It was as blue as forget-me-nots. How could the world be in such turmoil, when, here, there was perfect peace and perfect weather?

If you didn’t listen to the wireless or Norm and the older chaps from the bank, who talked endlessly about invasions, pacts and bombings, you’d never guess there was anything amiss.

‘Hey!’ Ray had obviously sensed her shifting in the saddle and taking pressure off the pedals. ‘Have you gone to sleep back there?’

‘Sorry!’ Maggie called back. ‘I’ve had another letter from Vi, by the way.’

‘And?’

‘There’s a kiss, on the bottom of the page. A small one.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘No!’ Maggie said. ‘One kiss means it’s terrible and I’m supposed to move heaven and earth to get her out!’

She gave a shriek as something ran out from the hedgerow. ‘Goodness! What was that?’

A huge bird, bigger than a hen and as brightly coloured as a painting, had strutted out into the lane, thought better of it and scurried back again, letting out a loud ‘cuck-cuck-cuck!’

‘Cor, was it a peacock?’ she asked. ‘Or a cuckoo?’

Ray’s back and shoulders were shaking.

‘What’s so funny?’ Maggie asked. ‘It sounded like a cuckoo!’

‘That was a pheasant,’ Ray called back. ‘A cock pheasant. The females are brown; not so pretty.’

Maggie only knew two types of birds: sparrows and pigeons. She’d been to Trafalgar Square once and the place had swarmed with horrible pigeons. ‘Rats with wings’, her dad called them. They strutted along the ground and then flew up in a big burst of flapping feathers. If that was birds, you could keep them.

On their early rides, when they’d seen pigeons pecking the ground, barely summoning the energy to fly off as the tandem approached and leaving it until the very last second to take off, Ray had told her, ‘They’re wood pigeons. They eat them round here.’

‘Yuck. I won’t.’

‘Bet you will.’

In contrast to the dull pigeons, the pheasant had been gorgeous, with bright copper feathers and a white collar, like a vicar. It looked like it belonged in a zoo, not roaming free in the countryside.

‘Could we eat it?’ Maggie asked and Ray laughed again.

‘So it’s just pigeons you don’t like? You’re happy to eat everything else in sight!’

They hit a hole in the road with a hard bang.

‘Ow!’ Maggie yelled.

‘Sorry! No time to warn you! Shall we have a break here?’

They’d reached a village that they often passed through on their rides. It had a pretty green in the middle. They dismounted, propped Daisy up against a rickety wooden bench and sat down.

‘Not for too long, though,’ Maggie said, ‘Or we’ll freeze.’