From the open French windows emerged a small boy dressed for school in a shirt and short pants. ‘Wotcha, Missus!’ he called, waving his arms excitedly, like a windmill. ‘Yer’ve got a visitor! A Yank! A real live one!’

Vicky’s heart gave a leap. ‘It must be Paul.’ She broke into a run. ‘He must have leave.’

‘Why does that particular blighter always call you Missus?’ Adam asked, keeping abreast of her with ease. ‘Why can’t he call you Mrs Priestley or give you the honorary title of aunt and call you Aunt Vicky, like the some of the other children do. Even calling you Vicky would be better than Missus.’

‘Jimmy Spinx thinks calling me Missus is the height of politeness.’ Vicky panted breathlessly. ‘And it’s a much better way of trying to attract my attention than the one he used to use.’

‘Why, what was that?’ he asked, preparing himself to be appalled.

‘Oy, you!’

Seconds later, they ran into the house to find Paul in the kitchen, the centre of avid attention.

Vicky threw herself into his arms. ‘Paul! Oh, Paul! What a wonderful surprise! Oh, it’s so good to see you.’

As Paul hugged her so tightly she could scarcely breathe, Jimmy’s mother said, with down-to-earth practicality, ‘Have you any nylons?’

‘I might have.’ Paul reluctantly returned his attention to the other people in the kitchen.

‘I’d be really ‘ppreciative if you ‘ave.’ She smiled at him winningly, all thoughts of giving her son his breakfast forgotten.

Aware that her real reunion with Paul would have to wait until later, and aware that though the four children seated around the table had already finished their breakfasts, Jimmy hadn’t yet started his, Vicky cleared her throat. ‘If Jimmy doesn’t have his breakfast now, he’s going to be late for school, Ivy.’

Ivy Spinx gave a flounce of her shoulders and sauntered across to the cooker. Seconds later there came the sound of an egg being cracked into a frying pan.

‘Eggs?’ Paul asked, his eyebrows rising as he gave Vicky a hug. ‘I thought eggs were as scarce as gold these days?’

‘Not for people who keep hens. And no, I don’t keep any, but Violet does. I supply her with fresh vegetables and she supplies me with fresh eggs. It’s a system that works a treat.’

As another mother came into the room and tried to gather the children together in order to walk them down to the village school, Vicky put the kettle on to make a pot of fresh tea.

None of the children was eager to leave the kitchen. They milled around Paul, fingering his uniform and asking ceaseless questions.

‘Why are you here? Are other American soldiers going to be coming here?’

‘My mam says American soldiers are black. You ain’t black. Why ain’t yer black?’

‘Have yer been to ‘ollywood, Mister? Have yer met Roy Rodgers?’

And from Jimmy: ‘Have yer killed any Jerries yet? My dad’s killed lots of Jerries. My dad’s bin killing Jerries for years.’