An oblong of light from the doorway broke into her thoughts, and Marta joined her by the gate. ‘We did a good job,’ she said, passing Josephine a nightcap and looking approvingly at the windows. ‘Nothing to tempt an eagle-eyed Jerry there.’ The thunder came again, closer this time, and in the context of their conversation it felt like an ominous rehearsal for the uncertain months ahead. ‘We’ll get through it,’ she said quietly, taking Josephine’s hand. ‘No matter how long it lasts or how bad it gets, we’ll get through it.’

The sound of the telephone challenged the comfort of Marta’s words; whenever it rang these days, even at a more sociable hour, Josephine found herself fearing the worst. ‘It might be Archie,’ she said, as they went back inside. ‘Perhaps something’s cropped up at work and he can’t come for the weekend after all.’

But it was Hilary Lampton, the vicar’s wife, and one of Josephine’s closest friends in the village. ‘I’m so sorry to call at this time of night,’ she said. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘No, we’re still up. Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, fine – at least, I hope it will be. The man came over from Hadleigh just after nine. They’ll be here in the morning.’ The words would have sounded absurdly cryptic if evacuation hadn’t been the main focus of Hilary’s conversation for months. Ever since the false alarm of the year before, when the prospect of war had loomed and then retreated in the wake of Chamberlain’s fated visit to Munich, she had been preparing the village for an influx of children from the cities, spearheading a band of local women who – in Josephine’s opinion – might profitably have been put to handling the war in general. Considerable time and effort had been devoted to the enterprise – reconciling the hopelessly out-of-date census cards provided by the authorities with the reality of the village; visiting households to scout for suitable accommodation – and Josephine had listened sympathetically to her friend’s concerns, relieved that a part-time status in Polstead exempted her from an obligation to do anything more practical about them. ‘We’re getting twenty in the end,’ Hilary announced triumphantly, as if the allocation had been a prize for the taking rather than the bane of her life. ‘The bus should be at the school by half past eleven, and I wondered if you might be able to help? I’d be so grateful.’

Josephine’s heart sank. ‘I’m sorry, Hilary, but I did explain the last time you asked – I really can’t have anybody here. I’ll have to go back to Scotland soon, and it wouldn’t be fair to take someone in and then leave you in the lurch when—’

‘Oh, I don’t mean that. No, we’ve got them all fixed up – on paper, at least – and they’re going where they’re most wanted, even if the facilities aren’t ideal. That’s the least a child deserves, and things will be difficult enough for them as it is, away from home for the first time. I’m not having any of that “five rooms, three in family, two billets” nonsense – you can’t do mathematics with people’s lives, can you?’ Hilary invariably talked as if she were partway through a never-ending to-do list, and Josephine guessed correctly that the question was rhetorical. ‘The village has been very good, on the whole. Of course, it makes it easier that we’re not having any adults. Most of the wives I know would want more than five shillings from the Post Office to let another woman anywhere near her kitchen. I really can’t see that working. But children are different.’ Josephine smiled, but she knew what Hilary meant. Even in her limited dealings with the community, she had been aware of a general eagerness to welcome some youth into the village – a subconscious compensation, perhaps, for the casualty lists that were bound to follow. ‘I’m confident that we can soon make them feel at home,’ the vicar’s wife continued. ‘Stephen’s just been out on his bike to tell everyone to make their households ready, bless him, and they’re all doing their bit.’