His Majesty spoke about the children. ‘I am sure we will all do our best to make it a happy one for them,’ he said before he went on to talk about ‘the sadness of separation’ and how ‘many family circles are broken’.

Poor devil, Joseph thought. The King sounded slow, his speech laboured. He was struggling but he was doing his best, doing his duty.

When it had finished and they’d all stood once more for the national anthem, the children started running around, impatient for more games. Glasses were refilled and Lady Ashford issued more instructions to the staff.

* * *

Ray walked through the Long Gallery and stepped out onto the terrace for a cigarette. It was late afternoon now and already dark outside.

The evacuee kiddies were a good bunch and they were away from home and their families, so he wanted to give them a good time, but blimey, they were exhausting. He hardly smoked these days but he needed a ciggie now.

Somehow, he’d ended up organising the children’s games and they’d only managed to sit still for five minutes when Lord Ashford had asked him to do some shadow puppets on the walls. Lights had been dimmed and lamps turned on and the children had been enchanted by Ray’s rabbit and flapping bird and the new animals he’d added to his repertoire: a stag with antlers, a horse and a snail.

He’d left them in the drawing room, still trying, with varying levels of success, to create their own puppets. He’d slipped out for a break. He reckoned he’d earned it.

He’d only taken one or two drags on the ciggie when he heard the French doors opening and first Maggie’s voice and then, a moment later, Jack Rosman’s. He cursed to himself and stepped back, to take cover in the bushes.

Could today get any worse? They’d obviously come out for some quiet time together. It was the last thing he wanted to witness and he was sure as eggs were eggs that they had no desire to see him either. Playing gooseberry, once again.

But now – oh blast! – he should have made his escape some other way. He was trapped. If he moved in any direction, they’d see him and from his position in the bushes – unless they decided to head out across the lawn – he couldn’t help but hear what they were saying.

He felt rotten, like some kind of Peeping Tom or spy. He dropped his ciggie and put it out with the ball of his foot, wafting the smoke away quickly.

It was cold and he could see that Maggie was shivering. The fella could at least give her his jacket. Ah yes, there he was, taking it off and putting it over her shoulders. But that wasn’t what he wanted to see either. Keep your hands off her, Ray wanted to shout.