And that evening in bed, thinking over the events of the day, it came to me with a clarity I hadn’t felt before: Jimmy might seem self-sufficient in many ways; he didn’t ask for much, and seemed content with simple pleasures. But when it came to going out in the wider world and meeting new people, he needed to be protected. And that was my responsibility. I’d been so absorbed in thinking about Kit that I had failed to protect my brother.

16

The following Sunday, Pa was due to tell the congregation that he’d got the go-ahead from the diocese for the stained glass. Melissa Blackman arrived in a particularly fetching dress and fancy hat, ready to bathe in glory. Mrs Waddington was there too, unusually, but her husband was missing and so was Kit.

Pa’s sermon that day was one of his more engaging ones, I thought. It was all about the importance of cherishing traditions – something the church did very well most of the time – alongside valuing the beliefs of others, something the church was sometimes not very good at. The choice of subject was so transparent I had to lower my face to conceal my smile.

One of the benefits of being in the church choir was having a grandstand view of the assembled congregation. From here, we could spy any new faces and whether anyone was missing; who was attentive and who had a tendency to fall asleep. We saw discreet smiles being exchanged, eyebrows raised, sideways glances. Weddings were rare, but the one service I sang for during our time in the village offered us a special treat, since we were perfectly placed to see the expressions on the faces of bride and groom, ranging from blissful joy to utter terror, sometimes in the same minute.

After the final blessing Pa moved forward between the front pews – his ‘I’m a man of the people’ position – and invited everyone to be seated for the final notices. ‘We are truly grateful to Mr and Mrs Waddington for offering to pay for new stained glass in our beautiful old church. The window will be dedicated to the memory of all those who fell in two world wars, and in particular to Jane Waddington’s brother, Captain David Burrows, who died in 1944 while fighting to liberate Italy. I am pleased to tell you that Mrs Blackman’s charming design has been given the go-ahead by the diocese. They share our view that the story of the dragon is an important part of our shared history and sense of community. Something we should be proud of, even.’

A familiar voice – Blackman’s – boomed a self-important ‘Hear, hear’. Mrs Waddington smiled modestly.