Philip inclined his head towards Mrs Brownlow and her brood. Standing a pace or so behind their CO, the three WAAFs were able to avoid shaking hands with Mr Brownlow, as the party, now complete it seemed, moved towards the church porch. As they fell in behind the coffin, Isobel muttered, ‘Now we know why she had nits!’

‘Shut up, Iso!’ Kate hissed between her teeth as they passed through the porch and into the musty interior of the church.

The service was conducted in a swift, unfeeling monotone. It was obvious that the vicar knew neither Edith nor any member of her family and Kate felt a surge of pity for the girl as her coffin was lowered into the grave. As the party moved away, Edith’s father said loudly, ‘I told ’er she’d come to no good, joining up. She had a good job – a safe job – in a factory. What did she ’ave to go and join up for? Officers’ groundsheets, that’s all them WAAFs are. I told ’er.’ He glared accusingly at the three girls in uniform as if he held them personally responsible for his daughter’s death.

‘She wanted to make something of herself, Bert.’ The woman looked up at Philip, appealing for support. ‘She was a good girl, sir. Not like ’ee’s makin’ out.’

Philip nodded at the woman, his voice gently sympathetic. ‘She was a clever girl, Mrs Brownlow, and well thought of, I promise you. We shall all miss her.’

The woman’s eyes filled with tears and she nodded, a swift, pecking movement, hitched up the child in her arms and turned away. The children followed her while Edith’s father, with a last baleful glare at the officer and three girls in uniform, sniffed, wiped his hand across his mouth once more, turned away without a glance at his departing family and shuffled off down the road in the opposite direction towards the swinging sign of a pub.

‘Good grief! What a family!’ Isobel could contain herself no longer as they got back into the car. ‘Ooh, sorry, sir.’

‘That’s all right.’ Philip took off his peaked cap and ran his hand through his springy hair. ‘Thank goodness that’s over. Let’s get going, Kate.’

As Kate started the car she heard the gasp of surprise from the back seat at Philip’s use of her Christian name. Once out of the city, Philip relaxed and leaned back in the corner of the front seat, half-turned towards the two girls in the back, his arm along the back of the bench seat.

‘In the confines of this car, we’re unofficial,’ he grinned. ‘My name’s Philip and you’re . . .?’

‘C-Cartwright and Nuttall,’ Mavis stuttered.

In the rear-view mirror, Kate could see Mavis’s eyes were nearly popping out of their sockets.

‘No, no, Christian names, please.’

‘Isobel – and I’m Mavis.’