‘Yes, thank you Mr Maguire,’ Miss Sharp said, raising her eyebrows at him, as though he’d suggested something quite improper.

‘And,’ he continued, ‘what if the Nazis march on Snowden? Backed up by bombers? We’d have to do something, wouldn’t we? We couldn’t sit here, like this—’ he spread his hands ‘like—’

‘Sittin’ ducks?’ Elsie offered.

The mood in the room was sober now. Some of the older chaps were muttering to each other and nodding.

‘Precisely. Like sitting ducks.’ They were actually listening to him and they had to admit he was making sense.

‘So, where’re we going to go then?’ Norm asked. ‘For this air raid drill?’

‘Good question!’ Ray raised a finger. ‘I’ll let you know.’

They all groaned. Some of the men shook their heads and got back to work.

‘Blimey! Talk about getting us all worked up for nothing!’ Elsie said.

Ray pulled his shirt collar away from his neck. It was hot in here. He needed some air.

‘I wanted your agreement that it was something we should consider and, erm … in fact, do. Right, fine. Good.’ He put his hand up and then down again. ‘I’ll report back. Very soon. Carry on!’

As he sidled out of the room, he could have sworn Elsie muttered, ‘Pompous twerp!’

That had gone well, then.

‘You’re twirly,’ Cook snapped, as he entered the kitchen. He wasn’t sure why he’d headed there; perhaps in the hope of finding a sympathetic ear. Sometimes the driver was in there, drinking tea. But Cook and another woman, in white caps and pinnies, were peeling veg at a rate of knots and clearly had no time for him.

‘You’re twirly!’ she said again.

What on earth did she mean? Was that some kind of dialect? First Miss Sharp and now Cook. Everyone was talking to him like he was nobody.

Cook rolled her eyes in an exaggerated motion toward the clock on the wall. ‘I said you’re too early. Lunch ain’t ’til one. Now scoot! Out of my kitchen!’

The back door that led out onto the cobbled yard was open and Ray sat on the step in the late morning sunshine. He patted his jacket pockets. Too bad, he’d left his ciggies in the boys’ dorm. It was a bore, having to share a room. It was difficult to command respect when the other chaps saw you in your socks and underpants and with your hair at half-mast before you’d taken the Brylcreem to it.

He pulled out the letter he’d received from his old lady yesterday and sighed as he re-read it.