Tommy shook his head forlornly. ‘Lancashire … poor so-an’-so. ’E must ’ave been desp’rate.’ As far as Tommy was concerned, the Wars of the Roses ran deep and Lancastrians, like vegetarians, reawakened his deep-seated prejudice.

‘I have friends in Lancashire,’ said Vera evenly.

Tommy sighed. He knew when to keep quiet. ‘There’s y’sausages, Miss Evans.’

On Sunday morning Millicent Merryweather left her home at Bilbo Cottage in Kirkby Steepleton in her 1947 Standard Vanguard and drove to a small cottage on the High Street. Florence Briggs was standing in the sunshine in her best tweed suit at the garden gate and waved as Millicent parked outside. Lily appeared in the doorway in a bright floral dress with a reluctant Freddie in his Sunday best and a school cap on his head.

‘Good morning, everybody,’ said Millicent. ‘What a lovely day for the Harvest Festival. Just pile in and don’t mind the basket of plums on the back seat.’

Millicent and Florence had become friends through their shared interest in cross-stitch and they chatted happily as they sped along the back road to Ragley. As they drove past Twenty Acre Field they saw that the first of the hayricks had been thatched to protect the precious straw from the ravages of winter.

‘Freddie might like one of the plums, Florence, don’t you think?’

The young boy didn’t need asking twice and picked up a juicy plum.

At the entrance to St Mary’s Church they were welcomed by the imposing and graceful figure of Vera, who was giving out the hymn books. Her crisp blouse was buttoned to the neck, where her Victorian brooch was pinned. It was a precious family heirloom and one of Vera’s special treasures. She was acting as sidesperson along with Aloysius Pratt, the fifty-year-old owner of Pratt’s Hardware Emporium and the local garage.

Millicent pointed out an empty pew to Lily and she sat down with Freddie and her mother. She noticed Tom Feather in a pew near the front. He was out of uniform, wearing a smart pinstriped suit and sitting next to a grey-haired lady.

Many of the locals were arriving with bags full of carrots or onions. It was the custom for the villagers to bring gifts of produce and these were displayed in front of the altar to be distributed later to those in most need.

Derek ‘Deke’ Ramsbottom, the local farmhand who supplemented his income by singing cowboy songs in the local pubs, had brought in a sheaf of corn, which he propped next to an orange pumpkin and a large marrow. As always, Deke had removed his favourite Stetson hat when he entered the church.