‘Whole new world we’re in now of course,’ continued the old man. ‘Atomic warfare. Need to keep up with the damned Yanks and the Reds. Good men needed more than ever.’ Arthur thought of the pictures of the cauliflower-shaped cloud over a faraway sea that the newspapers had printed earlier in the month, and then of the airbase up the road with their planes he suspected were carrying A-bombs. The lad at the pub was just a local boy, whose parents put up one of the servicemen in their village near the base. It was only a rumour. But it felt true, and the whole lot of them just allowing it to happen. His other theory, that they were keeping something else secret from the public, was only just forming in his mind. He’d been watching the planes, keeping a record of the comings and goings. Sometimes they flew at night but it made no sense, unless they had something to hide.

‘You don’t need many men to detonate an atom bomb,’ said Arthur, but Mr Frost ignored him as if he hadn’t spoken.

‘Or finance. Banking. Plenty of your lot in banking. You could do worse.’

‘My lot?’ He couldn’t think of anything to say to that; the words caught in his throat. It was funny how people continued to think of him as Jewish whatever his mother’s efforts to blend in. He supposed he looked ‘Jewish’, whatever that meant.

‘Father,’ said both his children, and Peter grimaced to Arthur.

‘I just meant that they do look after each other,’ said Mr Frost to Arthur’s dismay.

Verity closed her eyes.

Arthur coughed. ‘Yes, sir, I’m sure that’s true but I had thought of journalism. I always liked writing and I thought if I could find some stories, get some pieces in the local paper, perhaps…’ Peter opened his mouth to say something but Mr Frost beat him to it.

‘Rum lot, journalists. Liars and crooks, most of them.’

‘I’m sure old Arthur here wouldn’t be one of those, Father,’ said Peter, eyes wide to Arthur, a pained expression on his face.

‘No, of course not,’ Mr Frost said. ‘Still.’

‘I think it’s a marvellous idea.’ Verity was smiling at him. He shot back one of gratitude.

‘Yes, rather,’ chimed in Peter, ‘you should get a story in the Post about what the Yanks are up to over at Holkham.’

Arthur thought Verity glanced at Peter then but his friend didn’t notice. If only they all knew.

‘What’s that?’ said their father, but Mrs Timms came bustling out to tell them that the American had arrived.

‘Ah, we can ask him ourselves. Get him kitted out, will you? We can’t wait all day.’