‘Bloody hell, if he doesn’t come soon, he can’t come at all. There are rules, you know. They are there for a damned good reason.’

It was well into the shooting season and Arthur and Peter were in the boot room, strapping up for the day’s shoot. Mr Frost and his group of local farmers were still in the dining room, discussing the prospects for the day over an early breakfast. Peter was jumpy. They were, once again, waiting for Jack.

‘He’ll be here,’ Arthur said. He would be quite happy if he never saw Jack again. He had a bitter taste in his mouth at the mention of the American or the airbase. But it was only he who felt like that – everyone said that whatever they were doing must be for our own good – so he kept his thoughts to himself. The naïvety of it! And Jack was always present. Always the three of them, never just he and Peter, and the latter only seemed animated when Jack was there.

‘You’ll never guess what I found out about the base.’ He waited for Peter to bite.

‘They’re all spies?’ said Peter, laughing.

Arthur smiled to himself. Something like that. The local lad at the Shipwright’s had been quite a talker when he’d had his tongue loosened with a free pint or three. ‘My source tells me they’re carrying atomic bombs.’

Peter stood up. ‘Your source?’ he said, amused.

‘It’s not funny. Do you know that most of the scientists who worked on the Manhattan Project are against nuclear armaments? Einstein himself has warned of the dangers. He talked about it on American TV a couple of years ago. He said the idea of security through nuclear weapons was a dangerous illusion. I know it sounds apocalyptic but it is. He’s talking about the annihilation of life on earth for God’s sake, Peter.’

‘Is he?’ He sighed theatrically. ‘Though I’m sure I heard that the Americans think old Albert is something of a fellow traveller—’

‘That’s bloody ridiculous, Peter. They say that about anyone who gets in their way,’ Arthur snapped.

Peter shrugged. ‘I suppose you think Jack knows—’

‘Of course he knows, Peter, he flies the bloody planes, doesn’t he?’

‘You’re rather harsh on our mutual friend, Art old boy.’

‘Don’t call me Art, Pete,’ he said petulantly. ‘I think you’re a bit smitten, old boy.’ His teeth were clenched together.

Peter stared at him, his mouth twitching. For a horrible moment, the two of them faced each other as if across a trench.

‘You sound envious, Arthur. It’s not an attractive quality.’ Then Peter smiled, his open, sweet smile that Arthur knew from childhood, and lightly punched Arthur on his shoulder. ‘I’m sure you’re right about the nefarious goings on at Holkham.’