To their surprise, Mrs Phyllis Uppington was collecting a bucket of water from a rainwater butt at the back of her cottage and she waved in acknowledgement. She ran a dubious bed and breakfast frequented in the main by itinerant farmworkers seeking seasonal employment. On the garden gate was a painted sign reading ‘B&B – No Blacks or Irish’. In Mrs Uppington’s world, prejudice was the norm.

‘Hello, boys,’ she called out. ‘I saw you go into my wood.’

‘Oh, ’ello Mrs Uppington,’ said Dave. His mother had told him that this strange lady was ‘soft in the head’, so he chose his words with caution. ‘Sorry, we were jus’ climbin’ trees.’

Phyllis Uppington was sixty-five years old and, with the exception of the occasional visitor, a recluse. Many thought her strange. She held up a shawl that, once upon a time, had been white. ‘I’m going to wash my shawl,’ she said. ‘It used t’be beautiful.’

‘It’s still lovely,’ said Dave generously. ‘We like that shade o’ grey, don’t we, Malc’?’

Malcolm nodded.

Her hair was like fine thistledown, silver-grey now and cascading down her back in gentle waves. ‘Did you know my two grandchildren used to climb in this wood?’

Dave looked through the open doorway. ‘Where are they now?’

‘In heaven.’

‘’Eaven?’

‘Yes … and they’ll be dancing.’

‘Dancing?’ repeated Dave and Malcolm in unison.

‘Yes, they were a proper little Fred Astaire an’ Ginger Rogers.’ She filled the bucket and walked back inside, seemingly at peace in her world.

‘C’mon, Malc,’ said Big Dave, ‘let’s play conkers,’ and they raced off to school.

In the vicarage Vera was in her kitchen listening to the radio. She sighed. A panel of experts was discussing the recent news. Britain had become the third member of the nuclear power club, along with the USA and Russia. In a far-off lagoon in the uninhabited Monte Bello islands off Australia’s north-west coast, a twenty-five-kiloton plutonium implosion device had exploded and left behind a crater over three hundred yards in diameter on the sea bed. Vera was so shocked she almost forgot to time her boiled egg with her usual precision.

‘Operation Hurricane’ had been seven years in the making since in 1945 the then prime minister, Clement Attlee, had set up a Cabinet committee to explore how we could develop our own atomic bomb. The radio reporter declared it was an act of independence and defiance, but for Vera it felt like the beginning of the end.

‘Oh dear,’ she murmured.

Fortunately the next discussion item dispelled the gloom. A few weeks ago the silent movie star Charlie Chaplin had returned to England for the first time in twenty-one years, to promote his latest film, Limelight, and he had been cheered in the streets of London.

Finally, Vera turned off the radio, put her magazine in her bag and called to her brother. ‘Joseph, I’m leaving now.’