Meanwhile, George Hardcastle, the bank manager from Easington, had taken a different sort of shine to Vera and he was parked outside the General Stores in his Rover P4. It was a car that George believed reflected his solid and sensible image, the epitome of respectability.

Indeed, Vera approved. Handsome but not flashy, she thought. While the third headlamp in the middle of the grille looked odd, George was proud that the aluminium body panels were the result of the surplus stock of wartime aircraft.

George clearly admired the slim, graceful Vera and had made hesitant and stumbling overtures in the past. They had, however, been met with an icy calm by the aloof school secretary – not least because Mrs Wilhelmena Hardcastle, a portly and vociferous lady, was the current president of the Ragley Women’s Institute.

A passing AA patrolman on his motorbike glanced at the shiny AA badge on the grille of George’s car and gave a smart salute. George nodded back in appreciation. It was good to feel valued as a motorist of note, and he smiled at the recognition of his status in the community.

However, this feeling of wellbeing soon vanished.

‘Can I offer you a lift, Miss Evans?’

Vera reflected on his use of the English language. You can, but you may not, she thought.

‘No thank you, Mr Hardcastle,’ she said. ‘But thank you for the offer.’

At the end of the school day John Pruett asked all the children to stand quietly and recite the school prayer. Then, after a reminder not to swing on the school gates on their way home, they walked out in single file.

John noticed that Big Dave and Little Malcolm appeared more eager than usual.

‘Are you in a hurry, boys?’

‘Yes, sir, we’re off t’play Subbuteo.’

John’s eyes lit up. ‘The table soccer game? On that green cloth marked out like a football pitch?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And little footballers that you flick with fingertip control? I’ve seen the box in the shops. It looks good.’

‘Is is, sir, it’s great. Tonight it’s Ragley Rovers versus Leeds United.’

‘Should be a good game.’

‘Y’can come an’ play if y’like, sir,’ offered Dave.

There was a moment when John would have loved to have said yes, but professional restraint won over. ‘Another time, boys,’ he said sadly.

Sometimes being a headteacher is no fun, he thought.

Prudence Golightly looked up when the bell rang again. She was serving Millicent Merryweather as Deirdre Coe strode up to the counter. For Prudence the gloomy and formidable presence of Stan Coe’s sister was unwelcome, but as always she remembered her manners.

‘Good afternoon, Deirdre. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

Deirdre frowned and glanced at Millicent. ‘Life’s too short for idle talk,’ she muttered, ‘an’ ah need summat sharpish.’

Prudence ignored the rebuke and began packing Millicent’s basket. ‘Was there anything else, Milly?’