The flotsam and jetsam from the tide, the debris left on the wrackline were there for the taking. She peered out of the steamed-up window of the milk bar. The music drowned out Rodney’s chatter. At the end of the street, she could just see the hulk of the torpedo boat, which was still resting on the quay. This strange, wild place, neither land nor sea, was in a state of constant flux. They could reclaim the marsh for grazing, they could plant pine trees to stabilise the dunes, but the sea would always come. The tide would rise and fall and rise and fall over and over again. The shore would be reformed after every storm, as they were. That was how it should be. And she was only one tiny part of that ancient, relentless wave.

She lit another fag. No use hurrying home.

15th May 1953

Howe Farm

Dear Ver,

You know how much I hate writing letters but I thought I should give you some news from home. It is a pretty bleak picture I have to paint but at least you are nowhere near. You are better off where you are.

Father stays inside and drinks. I make any excuse to go out on the land but as there are hardly any cattle left there’s little to do. A small portion of the grazing land is usable so the cows are out on that but most of the arable land is ruined by the flood. And we haven’t had enough rain this spring to wash away the devilish salt. I can’t see how we’ll be able to grow anything on it for years. Some of the compensation has come through but it’s a pittance. Desperate times and all that. My little plan is to run bigger public shoots in the autumn. It’s that or the farm goes.

There was a ceremony for Jack. They’ve given him the George Cross. Apparently he’d already been awarded the Air Force Cross. It was all very proper. There was an American flag and a General read out something about his bravery. He’d been in Korea. Did you know that? They didn’t say anything about how he was found or anything like that. Or why he’d received the Air Force Cross. But another airman told me that they give that to men who’ve flown secret reconnaissance missions. ‘Ferret flights’ they call them. Whatever secrets Jack had, they died with him and that’s all that matters to the Yanks. Rodney Blowers told me that the Air Force chaps – Strategic Air Command – took the briefcase you’d found but never discussed a jot about it since. He seemed a bit miffed, though I can’t see why he thought those types would share their secrets with a Norfolk policeman.