One face I hoped not to see on our doorstep was the man to whom I’d taken an immediate dislike at my father’s first-ever service in the village a few Sundays before. It was such a minor thing, but it irritated me, and you get a sort of sixth sense about some people. It was Advent, and Pa had asked me to help Jimmy light the symbolic candles on the wreath. It was a responsible job, lighting the taper and making sure you didn’t drip too much wax onto the white linen runner, and we practised the little ritual over and over, using sticks as pretend candles. They were to be lit in the same order each Sunday, so that by Christmas they would, in theory, have burned down by different amounts. By tradition, the special pink candle was left unlit until the third Sunday – Gaudete Sunday.

As we returned to our pew, a man whispered from the seat behind, ‘You missed one.’ I felt a pang of panic. Pa was standing in front of the wreath now, so I couldn’t exactly see right away, but when he moved, it was clear that all the candles were burning perfectly. Apart, obviously, from the pink one. What an idiot, I thought. I learned later that the man was the church treasurer and a successful property developer. With his obvious business acumen, he would definitely be an asset, Pa said. You would have thought he’d have known about the pink candle.

But now here he was on our doorstep: a man in his middle years, about the same age as Pa or perhaps a little younger, well-fed and beaming, with an air of prosperity about him. You could tell, somehow, those people who hadn’t suffered too much deprivation during the war years. Even though only of average height and build, he had a very powerful presence, with a thick thatch of dark hair growing low over his brow, which reminded me of the Neanderthal man illustration in our encyclopaedia. He was dressed to the nines in a three-piece suit with a red-and-blue paisley-patterned cravat.

‘Miss Goddard, I presume.’ He had a rather too-posh voice, the accent of someone who probably hadn’t been to public school but wanted to convey the impression that he had. His handshake went on for longer than strictly necessary and was slightly sweaty, so that afterwards I felt a great urge to wipe my hand on my skirt. Something about him made my skin crawl even then, although I couldn’t put my finger on it.

‘I’m Henry Blackman, and this is my wife, Melissa.’

She was a glamorous woman with bright-red lipstick and a helmet of permed blonde hair immobilised with lacquer. ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ she purred. ‘May we call you Molly?’

I took their coats and offered a glass of sherry.