‘Well, Greenborough’s not far away, that was considered a prime target — East Coast port, you know, and this is Bomber County, Mr Stonebridge. The Lancasters flew out of here every night on their missions. Didn’t yer dad tell yer about ’em?’

But Will’s dad had died when he and his younger sister, Eva, were kids.

Neville, well up on his local history, went on to tell Will about the thousands of evacuees who had poured into the rural villages after war was declared. Will had to stop him after a while and bring him back to the matter in hand. ‘So, is it intact?’

‘Dunno yet, sir. Thought you better see it first. It has a proper solid door, which is a bit unusual. Lots of folk used to just hang a curtain up — doors meant no air and would have made it pretty uncomfortable. Our young Steve is still digging down to get it free.’

A young man with a selection of colourful tattoos and a shovel was moving great heaps of rich soil away from the old, damp wood. Sweat glistened off a ferocious-looking tiger and dripped across the heart-encircled Mandy.

‘Nearly there.’ He raked away some loose earth and threw his spade down with a gasp. ‘’Ot work, an’ no mistake.’

‘Open her up, Steve, and I’ll get you a cold beer,’ Will called out.

The lad dragged on the old door. It opened with a squeal, and the three men peered in.

As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they made out two beds at either side of the shelter, with a small wooden table in between. A rickety bookcase stood just inside the door with a rusty bucket next to it. The bedclothes had long gone, but a hurricane lamp still stood on the table alongside a tin box, and when Will prised it open, he found a pack of dog-eared playing cards and a mildewed prayer book.

No one spoke for a moment. Just as Will was about to make a comment, he looked back and saw his wife standing behind them. She looked gaunt, deathly pale.

She was staring past them into the shelter.

Slowly, as if in a trance, she moved forward between them. Then Will saw what she was looking at.

On the roughly constructed duckboard floor lay a toy, a handmade rag doll with scrappy woollen hair and an embroidered face. It was filthy.

With something like reverence, Kate picked it up, tried to smooth its tattered and dirt-stained smock and, holding it like a baby, turned and walked away.

The workmen looked at each other uncomfortably. Unable to offer an explanation for his wife’s odd behaviour, Will turned and ran after her.

She had gone to her studio, of course, and he dared not follow her in.