An important day lay ahead for the Ragley School secretary. Her new typewriter was due to be delivered and the bright modern technology of the early 1950s awaited her. She had promised to type a selection of Harvest Festival notices for the various noticeboards in the village and her new typewriter would be perfect for the task.

She set off at a brisk walk down the Morton road towards Ragley’s village green. Early-morning shoppers appeared like wraiths in a ghostly world through the golden hue of swirling mist. It was only when she reached The Royal Oak and walked across the village green that the sun broke through once again and the familiar sight of Ragley School came into view.

Meanwhile, on the south side of the village, a black Ford Prefect was leaving the forecourt of Victor Pratt’s garage after filling up at the single pump. Two large policemen occupied the front seats and Victor waved a cheery farewell to the local bobby, twenty-eight-year-old Sergeant Tom Feather, and the young trainee police constable, Harry Dewhirst.

‘It’s a farm, Sergeant,’ said twenty-one-year-old Harry, glancing down at his notebook. ‘The cattle are getting out through a broken fence on the way to Kirkby Steepleton.’ He was a second row forward for the York Railway Institute rugby union team and the small car was uncomfortable for his huge frame. However, Harry was content with his life. Having completed two years of National Service, he had achieved his boyhood ambition and joined the police force.

The stoic Tom merely nodded and concentrated on the journey ahead. Mist kept drifting across the road and on occasions visibility was difficult. Also, he knew all the local farmers and this call was simply routine, but as he drove along he was aware that this visit would provide useful experience for his enthusiastic colleague.

Cut, scratched and shaken, Lily sat up on the grassy bank and stared after the hazy shape of a large vehicle as it raced away into the distance. She had caught only the briefest glimpse of it before she was bundled into the hedgerow.

She got to her feet unsteadily and looked down at her torn stockings. ‘Blast!’ she muttered. Her shoes were scuffed and there was a small tear on the sleeve of her jacket. Then she looked at the road ahead. All was silent and there was still a mile to go. With a sigh she collected her books, which had scattered on the road, then she took a small mirror out of her handbag and checked her appearance. Her hair was bedraggled and there was a scratch on her cheek from her collision with the hawthorn hedge. It was only when she retrieved her bicycle that she realized the extent of the damage. ‘Oh no,’ she shouted out loud. The front wheel was buckled.