‘Perfect! Now, Muriel, you know what you’re doing – cakes and sandwiches?’

‘Yes, I’ve had a look through the recipes the Ministry of Food sent through,’ she shakes her head in despair, ‘I’ll rustle up what I can.’

‘Marvellous, ladies. And Nora, have we discussed your contribution yet?’

‘Not formally.’ Having already finished her dinner, Nora is smoking a cigarette. She taps its flaking tip onto the ashtray beside her. ‘But I know what I’ll be doing.’

‘And what’s that?’ Iris asks suspiciously.

Nora hitches an eyebrow and holds her cigarette aloft. ‘Looking lovely and showering kisses on our returned heroes, of course.’ She blinks with feigned innocence.

‘Oh you,’ Iris huffs with little humour, pushing back her chair in disgust. ‘Gwen, I’ll see you later. Muriel, Tom …’ She glares at Nora as she draws the door to behind her.

Catching Tom’s eye, Nora sits back in her chair and laughs.

Gwen goes alone to the church. She leaves Tom with Nora and Muriel, who stays later at the house during the summer, while the nights are drawn out. Gwen suspects the widowed housekeeper finds her own cottage lonely these days.

The church is alive with people when she arrives, though the pews themselves are filled with produce and props rather than worshippers. Villagers have gathered in clusters in the side aisles and nave to discuss the setting up of stalls and the practicalities of entertainments. Iris flits between them, loud and energetic, her voice ringing out as she directs operations. It is clear she is in her element.

Gwen stands with her dusty box, trying to determine where best to leave it. She approaches the nearest group, but a rather harassed young woman with blemished cheeks abruptly explains they are only responsible for children’s events, before returning to her group’s animated discussion.

Gwen moves up the nave but finds everyone too involved with their own preparations to assist her. Finally, Iris spots her hovering and from her position in the transept she raises her arm and waves her forward.

As Gwen approaches, she sees the policeman’s wife is not alone – she is in conversation with a stooped man Gwen does not recognise and a well-dressed older lady who stands with her back to the church.

‘Gwen, my dear! Come, come.’ Iris beckons her closer as if she were child shy of taking centre stage.

‘I’ve bought the bunting.’ Gwen gestures with the box and, as she does so, the older woman turns. Gwen’s heart seizes as the woman offers her a practised smile.