So it was in the late summer of 1952 when a young woman took a creased black-and-white photograph from her handbag. She looked around at the other passengers on the bus. No one had noticed and after a brief glance she replaced it carefully in her bag. As she stared out of the window a smile flickered across her face. The past was receding and a new life stretched out before her. A promise had been made and a secret was safe. Her earlier life lay concealed behind a closed door. There was no going back and she would not speak of it.

William Featherstone’s cream-and-green Reliance bus trundled through the quiet, picturesque countryside of North Yorkshire until it reached a pretty village ten miles north of the city of York. The road was flanked by high grassy verges and cottages with pantiled roofs and tall chimneys.

‘Ragley High Street,’ announced William as he slowed down next to a parade of shops. He pulled on his handbrake, opened the door, skipped down the steps and stood to attention on the pavement. His wartime army background was there for all to see and, as a survivor of Dunkirk, he valued life and loved his job. In his neatly pressed navy-blue three-piece suit, peaked cap, clean white shirt and regimental tie, William took a pride in his appearance. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness,’ his mother had told him and he had never forgotten.

The young woman stepped down and William touched the neb of his cap and smiled. ‘Morning, Miss. Would you like some ’elp with y’case?’

‘Thank you … but I’ll be fine.’

She put down her brown suitcase on the pavement, tugged on her leather gloves and took in the scene. The first shop on the High Street, the General Stores & Newsagent, was already busy with early-morning trade. Next door, behind the window of Piercy’s butcher’s shop, a burly man in a striped apron and straw hat was arranging pairs of pigs’ trotters. He smiled as he glanced up at her standing on the pavement. Nice-looking lady, he thought.

The village Pharmacy was about to open and a portly man in a white coat was sticking a poster on the door advertising:

ANDREWS LIVER SALTS

4 oz tin for 1/6d

‘for INNER CLEANLINESS’

He waved a friendly greeting. ‘Good morning, Miss,’ he called out, wondering who the attractive newcomer might be.

Next in line was Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, where, outside on the forecourt, a slightly built youth in a cut-down brown overall was arranging a display of galvanized buckets and scrubbing brushes with infinite care. He paused before polishing a bright sign next to the window that read ‘ATLAS LAMPS’, then he hurried back inside, full of nervous energy.

The bus stop was right outside an imposing shop above which an ornate sign read ‘DORIS CLUTTERBUCK’S TEA ROOMS’ in bold capitals. It appeared to cater for the discerning customer, as the sign on the door read: