He put his arm around her and she moved forward. More than aware that her bikini offered her no protection from the feel of his arm against her skin. She shouldn’t react this way, but her body wanted him right now just as much as it had years ago.

In the hallway they stopped. Her mother was touching the hydrangeas Lottie had put there last night. They reminded her of Allan Trewin’s grave and the flowers there. Her mother must have been thinking the same thing.

‘What the hell has happened to you?’

‘Weever fish.’ With Alex’s help she reached the stairs.

‘You should know better.’ Her mother looked hard at her and then at Alex. Lottie thought she might not be referring to the weever fish. And if that was true, Lottie knew enough not to play with fire the second time.

32. Diana

32

Diana

4 August 1962, 9.00 a.m.

For her second – or was it third? – breakfast, Diana was eating porridge with raspberries. Everyone around the table was quiet and many were drinking tomato juice. She wrinkled her nose. It tasted awful. She loved orange juice almost as much as she loved chocolate. But orange juice wasn’t often available, and she certainly didn’t like them both together.

Daddy was beside her reading the paper. He turned to the page with the goat. He looked at her and smiled. ‘Now I know what you were asking about, little one.’

‘What does “imperialism” mean and what does a goat in your house have to do with it?’ she asked.

Uncle Tom looked up and smiled at her. ‘I see you have begun your education in journalism.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to explain this one, Tom?’

‘No, you are far better placed to do so.’ Uncle Tom turned the page on the paper he was reading before taking a sip of coffee and winking at her.

Mrs Hoskine came into the room with a fresh pot of coffee. ‘There you are, Diana. Do you want to help with the picnic?’

‘Yes, please.’ She ate the last mouthful of porridge. ‘Will you excuse me, Daddy?’

‘Of course.’ He smiled.

As she dashed out of the room, she heard Uncle Tom say to Daddy that he had dodged a bullet there, which didn’t make any sense. There was no gun in the dining room. She cast a look back at Uncle Tom and Daddy but both of them were reading the papers.

Diana walked into the big kitchen. The table was covered with all sorts of food, but her glance went straight to the cake.

‘What do you think?’ Mrs Hoskine asked.

‘It looks like snow.’ The cake was all white and, sitting on a plate beside it, were the marzipan figures they had made.

‘Just what you wanted.’