That first week of the holidays Mrs D kept us busy, helping make cakes for the church fete. They needed dozens of sponges, loaf cakes, fairy cakes, scones and biscuits. ‘My stall raises more money than most of the others, and it’s the most popular; we usually sell out within minutes,’ she said with a glow of modest pride, taking another batch of raisin scones from the oven.

‘Is this fluffy enough?’ I asked, stopping to stretch my back after what felt like hours of creaming an enormous bowl of butter and sugar. Jimmy had been set to work on a smaller task, but had given up after only a few minutes and gone into the garden. My arm ached and my head throbbed, but I wasn’t allowed to complain, because Pa told us Mrs D had been going without her own personal rations for months to hoard enough sugar, flour and butter to make these cakes. ‘Such a generous woman,’ he said. ‘The money we raise from the fete is direly needed, and it’s the least we can do to support her.’

The day of the fete dawned dry; not exactly sunny, but at least no rain was forecast. At least that was what Mr Diamond had predicted, based on the long strand of brown seaweed that hung in the porch of his cottage, and which always appeared to be uncannily accurate.

Jimmy and I helped carry fifteen Victoria sponge cakes, ten ginger and ten honey loaf cakes, nearly fifty iced fairy cakes and as many raisin scones across to the playing field, laying them out on one of the trestle tables from the village hall, covered with a tablecloth of Mrs D’s pristine white bed sheet.

The crowds arrived – more people than I’d ever imagined, and certainly more than any I’d ever seen in church. I glanced round anxiously, looking for the Waddingtons, hoping against hope that Kit might come and we could meet again in a casual kind of way, resuming our friendship, but there was no sign of him.

Soon enough it was eleven o’clock. Pa stood precariously on a chair to declare the fete officially open, and within seconds our stall was thronged with eager customers. Just as Mrs D had warned, it was cleared in a matter of twenty minutes, save for a few slightly wonky scones and a fairy cake with Jimmy’s fingerprint in the icing.

‘Now off you go, you two, and enjoy the fete. You’ve earned a bit of fun,’ Mrs D said, reaching into the cash belt tied round her waist and pressing two sixpenny pieces into my hand. ‘That’s for the both of you, mind. Have a go on some of them stalls.’