‘Only once,’ he said, remembering the vertiginous feeling of rising through the air and the smell of the fuel at the back of the plane. ‘I was a clerk.’ It was only the public school boys who got commissions and went on to become airmen, while people like him, grammar school boys who could type and file – they were given desk jobs. He moved a step back.

She stayed where she was. ‘You going to the dance the Americans are putting on?’

‘I don’t know anything about it.’

‘It’s going to be at the Hall. Everyone’s going.’

‘I’m a terrible dancer, Muriel.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, and he heard the chime of laughter in her voice. ‘See you there, Arthur!’

She turned to go and he listened to the click of her heels on the pavement as she went down past the Shipwright’s pub towards the warren of little cottages down the east. He watched her skirt swishing as she walked. He had no intention of going to Harborough Hall. The last thing he wanted to do was go to some dance with a lot of arrogant Americans.

*

Arthur and Peter cycled out to the golf course, south of the town, passing the body of a dead badger and what looked like the red pelt of a fox. In the shadow of the scrub under the hedge, the animals’ bodies appeared as if they were sleeping.

As they rode, another of the planes he’d seen at the beginning of May flew overhead. It was an American jet bomber, everyone knew that now, but no one knew why they were here. It was like a futuristic rocket, incongruous in the flat Norfolk countryside. With its deep rumble and flashy brilliance, it seemed to say that whatever the British had done in the war was not enough in this new, atomic world. Arthur wondered why more of the town weren’t resentful of their presence.

The golfing was a write-off. On the ninth, he got stuck in a bunker, sweating, while Peter leaned on his clubs above him offering unhelpful instructions. Peter was in the full regalia: plus fours, shirt and tie, but he didn’t seem bothered by the heat. Arthur loathed golf but he did it for his friend’s sake.

After the tenth, there was a long walk to the next hole. A funny pair they must look – he stocky and dark, Peter tall and fair. Peter offered him a cigarette. Camels.

‘Where did you get those from?’ he said, taking one.

‘Ah, that reminds me. Fellow’s joining us in a tick. One of the Americans. Said he’d be late so I didn’t expect him at the first. Reckon he’ll be here soon, though.’

‘What American? Why didn’t you mention it earlier?’ He sounded piqued but it was odd. No one else ever joined them on their golfing days.