Back in Kirkby Steepleton, Tom walked Lily to her front gate and immediately spotted the twitching curtain.

‘I think your mother is on lookout duty.’

Lily frowned. ‘At my age that’s embarrassing.’

‘Anyway, thanks for coming,’ said Tom. ‘I hope you enjoyed it … and sorry if I picked the wrong film.’

‘It was lovely,’ said Lily without conviction. In truth she had hated the film and the glorification of war.

‘Perhaps we can do it again sometime?’ suggested Tom hopefully.

There was a silence as Lily pondered this new situation. He was a lovely man, but …

‘And you can select the film,’ added Tom.

Lily wanted desperately to say yes. ‘It’s complicated,’ she said quietly.

‘Oh well, the offer is there,’ said Tom, not sure of where the conversation may be heading. ‘Goodnight, Lily.’

There was an awkward moment as they stood facing each other. Finally Lily said, ‘Goodnight, Tom.’

She hurried up the path and Tom watched her open the door. For a moment her slim figure was silhouetted in the bright light of the hallway, then the door was closed. The curtains twitched again as he turned and drove away.

It was Saturday morning and Lily had put on her warmest coat and was about to catch the bus into Ragley. She called upstairs, ‘I’m leaving now, Mother. See you later at the bonfire.’

‘Very well,’ said Florence curtly. ‘So it’s up to me to bring Freddie this evening, I suppose.’

Lily had grown used to her mother’s dark moods and unkind words. She recalled that her father had once said to her, ‘Your mother is quick to chide and slow to bless.’ That had been in happier times, when her father kept the peace in a troubled household. She pulled on her woollen hat and scarf and called out, ‘I’ll buy some fireworks for him, Mother, and keep them safe in school.’

When she reached Ragley, Big Dave was standing outside the General Stores next to a wheelbarrow in which a reclining figure was displayed and trying desperately to keep still.

‘Penny for the guy, Miss,’ he called out.

Lily studied the so-called guy and noted it looked remarkably like Little Malcolm in his father’s cast-off boiler suit, thick gloves and a papier-mâché mask under a large balaclava.

Lily smiled. ‘A wonderful guy, David,’ she said. ‘Pity Malcolm isn’t here to see it,’ and behind the mask Malcolm’s eyes blinked in surprise.

Dave rattled an old cocoa tin and Lily dropped in a coin. ‘There,’ she said, ‘that should be enough to buy a firework for each of you.’

‘Thank you, Miss,’ said Dave.

‘Thank you, Miss,’ echoed the guy.