‘Physics, mainly. We’re working our way through the detail from their top scientists. You’re the only man I trust on this. Billets in Hounslow. Cavalry barracks. Welsh Guards. Handy.’ The major stood up, pulled down his jacket, picked up his cap and tucked it under his arm. ‘Start Monday,’ he said. ‘There’s a RAF flight tonight. I’ll be on it too. They’re expecting you.’

‘You flew over here for me?’ John said.

‘I have the highest regard for your father,’ he said.

John watched as the major left the room. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved, or humiliated. Old boys’ networks and all that.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Hatfield: spring 1946

Betty put the empty milk bottle back in its crate, threw the straw into the bin, and walked out into the playground, pulling her school coat around her. It was cold for March, with a chill wind. Mrs H had come with her to buy the uniform, a size too large, to allow for growth. It was a dull navy-blue tunic, strapped at the waist with a blue and yellow girdle. Cream blouse, blue and yellow tie. She had to tuck the sleeves up, pull the sash tight and bunch the bodice over it.

‘Tie?’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Mrs H had said, showing her how to knot it, long side over, and under, up and down through the top. ‘Pull the short end and slide it up to your neck.’

Her father wore a tie these days, and a suit. A car had collected him at first and driven him to work, but now he’d bought his own, a 1937 Daimler. Good as new. Pre-selected gearbox. The seats were leather, the dashboard walnut. She could just about remember the car he’d driven before the war. That had been a Daimler, too. His new job at the aircraft factory came with a house and he’d employed Mrs H, a widow, to cook and clean for them. Ever polite round her, Betty noticed, always correct.

‘Such a gentleman, your dad,’ Mrs H said. ‘I thought all Germans were bad. He must be the exception.’

‘And me?’ Betty said. ‘Am I an exception?’

Mrs H had nodded, but her look said it all.

§

She’d had English lessons from a retired teacher with a ruddy face who picked the skin on the palm of his hand. His name was Mr Hopkins and he came to the house every day, sat opposite her in the dining room with his legs straddled wide and his belly over his belt. He reminded her of Boris. Betty was nervous around him, insisted that the door was open, that Mrs H was in earshot. Still, he did the job, explained to her that English had German roots as well as French, had her talking in no time, her accent flawless, though the spelling had taken longer.