‘I met one, you know,’ said Peter into the deathly quiet of the drawing room.

‘Met one what?’

‘An American. Jolly sort.’

That piqued her attention. She did not want to give Peter the satisfaction of too much interest but she was curious. Since the war, there was so much talk of the Americans and yet one hardly ever saw one. Most of the local boys would loathe them. English boys hated Americans. Everyone knew that. But it didn’t entirely surprise her that Peter would be chummy with the newcomers. Since that sticky fix at his school a few years ago, he often took up with unusual chaps. The incident had all been covered up and the next thing Verity knew was that Peter had failed his final year. Nothing was ever said, but it made her wonder.

‘Met him at the Shipwright’s in town.’ Mother would have been horrified to know that her beloved son was hanging around at a pub in the East End of Wells. ‘Flies B-45s, he told me. It’s their new bomber. Amusing fellow, likes horses apparently. I said he can ride here and we’ll take him shooting in the season. He seems rather keen on getting involved in local life.’

She yawned and stretched. ‘They might not be here by the shooting season.’

‘They will. He told me. They’re going to be stationed here for a few years. All very hush-hush. And they’re having a party, a big bash up at the Hall in June. We’re invited.’ He said it as if this was a great honour.

‘Not that hush-hush then, is it?’ she teased, but in truth, she was rather pleased by the arrival of the Americans. She imagined that any chum of Peter’s would be a bore, harping on about blood sports, playing bloody golf, but God she was sick of the farm, Wells, the whole of Norfolk, stuck out here, away from the real world. Oxford – if she even got in – was still ages away and it would be fun to have something to distract her while waiting for the results of the exams. If nothing else, they could surely cadge some cigarettes and nylons off them. Maybe even chocolate. She smiled to herself, tasting the rich, creamy sweetness on her tongue. She couldn’t wait to tell Arthur. They could laugh about the newcomers, put on accents, parade around pretending to be film stars. But she stopped abruptly in her daydreams, remembering the grip of his hands on her that day. It made her feel afraid of what he wanted from her.

Silence settled on the room. A shaft of light fell on the photograph of her mother.

‘You know what day it is, don’t you?’

Peter had his mouth full. ‘I know,’ he said when he finally swallowed.