Miss Calver – I knew from Mrs D that her first name was Violet, but she never invited me to use it and insisted on calling me ‘Miss Goddard’ – lived alone in a tiny end-of-terrace cottage towards the top part of the village. She ushered me into a small room over-filled with furniture, every surface overflowing with books and papers, and without a further word of small talk, began to explain our task for the morning. As a first edition, it was to be a modest affair: a single sheet of paper, double-sided and folded in two. We were to print three hundred copies, one for each house in the village. It would be reproduced on the hulking metal contraption lurking in the corner of the room, which she called a ‘Gestetner’.

The content included the list of services, the volunteer rota for cleaning and flowers, and the very brief column of ‘Hatches, Matches and Dispatches’ of which, since our arrival, there had been no weddings, two deaths and only a single birth. ‘We’re a declining breed,’ she commented drily.

There was a short letter from Pa, saying how pleased he was to have been chosen to be the vicar of such a beautiful village and thanking everyone for making him and his family so welcome. And on the back page was this:

NEW STAINED GLASS FOR CHURCH WINDOW

Some residents will recall the terrible night when a German bomber dropped its load onto our village, killing two residents, destroying four homes and blowing out the windows of several others, including the beautiful medieval stained glass in the east transept of All Saints Church.

Now, through the generosity of Mr and Mrs Waddington of Wormley Hall, the stained glass will be replaced in the East Window. It will be dedicated to the memory of those who lost their lives in two world wars, and a memorial plaque will honour Captain David Burrows, Mrs Waddington’s brother, who died in 1944 while fighting to liberate Italy.

We are especially fortunate that local resident Mrs Melissa Blackman, a gifted artist, has offered her services to design the glass, free of charge.

Miss Calver had already typed the content onto two fragile-looking waxed stencil sheets. One of these was attached to a drum pressed onto an inky pad, against which we would have to rotate three hundred sheets of paper twice, once for each side. Then we would have to fold them.

‘What do you think about this stained-glass plan, Miss Calver?’ I asked, panting slightly with the effort of winding the heavy handle as the slightly smudged sheets flicked out into a slowly growing pile.

‘It’s not my job to have an opinion,’ she said, with a wry smile. ‘Our job is to report, as truthfully as possible. First law of journalism, young lady.’ She refilled her whisky glass and took a long slug. ‘But if you want my personal view, I wouldn’t trust anything that man is involved in.’