Returning to the ballroom, she felt on show at first, as if everyone must know where she had been, then she realised that no one had noticed her absence and she could watch them instead. For a few long minutes she stood shivering in a corner surveying the dancing. They were all there, the local girls and boys, the shiny pastels of the girls’ dresses swirling round the boys’ clumsy legs. Farmers and fishermen scrubbed up for the night. The uniforms of the Americans were a dashing navy, but none of them, she noted, as interesting as Jack. She felt far removed even from the girls she knew from her school days. For all their talk they were not the kind of girls to do anything. They would wait. And maybe one of the smarter boys, a vicar’s son or something, would court them, or even one of the more educated Americans, but it would be the usual dull courtship, ending in the usual dull marriage.

Verity couldn’t help but smile at her secrets. Yet she squirmed. Standing shivering in the dripping trees as the engine revved and faded, she recalled Jack catching sight of her, lit by the rectangle of golden yellow fallen across the drive from the open door. How long had he been there? Had Jack seen them together, her and Arthur? His face told her he had, that he’d seen right through the trees and caught her being kissed by Arthur. It gave her a terrible sense of nakedness as if he must know what she really was. But at the same time, maybe she wanted him to know; maybe she wanted to be known. She felt as if she was teetering on the edge of a cliff. About to fly or fall.

*

A muffled cry came from in front. Clutching onto Jack’s back, Arthur couldn’t make it out.

‘What?’

Jack turned. Arthur caught the words ‘Miss Frost’, but the rest was lost in the roar of the wind rushing past his ears, the throb of the engine like a miniature aeroplane and the pounding of his own blood. His insides felt like they were flying out behind him and the cold air snapped on his face as they hurtled along deserted country lanes. Arthur had been on a motorbike before in basic training, but not like this. Not at this speed, on these roads. Jack took them out on the coast road towards Cromer, through the tiny villages of Stiffkey and Cley. In one of them, a man walked out of the pub and had to step back into the doorway as they sped past. ‘Terribly sorry, sir!’ Jack called.

With Verity listening in the shadows there, he felt he couldn’t refuse getting on the bike. He felt bad for Peter – he clearly idolised Jack. But Peter was vulnerable.