‘Yes, you’re using England as a convenient spot – from which to do what exactly?’

‘Art fancies himself as a roving reporter, Jack. Not much going on around here usually.’ Arthur winced. He wished Peter hadn’t exposed him like that.

Jack slightly raised an eyebrow but kept smiling. ‘The Brits want us here as far as I know.’

‘More’s the pity,’ said Arthur.

He wanted to ask more because Jack’s answer was no answer at all, but he realised two things simultaneously: that this wasn’t the whole story and that Jack would only tell them what he wanted to and no more. Well, he would do his damnedest to find out.

‘What state are you from?’

‘Arizona,’ said Jack, with a slight hesitation.

‘That’s funny, you sound like someone I met on service. He was from the East. Near New York City.’ This wasn’t quite true – the visiting GI had been from Pennsylvania – but Jack’s voice was odd. He’d seen enough Westerns at the flicks, and Jack sounded nothing like those cowboys.

Jack shrugged and smiled as if it meant nothing. ‘Pete told me you’re a flying man.’

‘Not really. I was just with the RAF for National Service. Demobbed now.’ His guts tightened and he couldn’t bear to tell this interloper that he was his mother’s delivery boy. ‘I’m thinking of going to London, after the summer.’

‘Are you?’ said Peter, his eyebrows raised.

‘Can’t stay here forever,’ Arthur said.

‘I suppose not,’ said Peter, truculent. ‘Though I don’t seem to have a choice over that.’

Jack was looking from one to the other, a slight smile curling up from one side of his mouth. ‘Is it so awful here?’

‘Oh no,’ said Peter. ‘Best place in the world really. Best shooting and birding in the country. You’ll see. We complain about it but we love it truly, don’t we, Arty?’

It was easy to reply yes, because if he thought of her, it was true.

*