“We call the cockpit the dog kennel. Because it’s a sort of wooden box. In fact the outer frame of the airplane is made mostly of wood.”

“Wood? Now you’re having me on.” That phrase was one of Alastair’s.

“Nope. Wood, covered in Irish linen, which is stretched and doped and painted.”

“Really, James. Irish linen, indeed. For a theatrical production, yes, but a real plane?” I chortled at this rank attempt at deception. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“The shells go straight through without exploding.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “And it’s quick and easy to repair. I’m not making it up, I swear.”

“Good heavens,” I said, as it sank in. “Wait till I tell Célia . . . Actually, no, I won’t.”

“No. It doesn’t inspire confidence in the civilian.”

The chatter around us was now at the level of a promenade café. Sweets and cigarettes were being handed, or rather fumbled, around, new friends were being made. Soon, I thought, we won’t be able to hear the all-clear.

“What do you do in the desert, when you’re not in your Hurricane?”

My misery had quite gone.

“What do we do? Let me see . . . Oh, yes. Last year my squadron leader commandeered an abandoned Italian tank. He drove it around, crashing into the other wrecks.”

I gasped. “Why on earth?”

“For fun!”

“Insane,” I said in admiration.

“The game was called bumpers.”

“I bet I could handle a tank.”

“No, no, Yvette.” He started laughing. “You’d never be happy driving a tank. They do sixteen miles an hour flat out.”

I was covered in shame. “I am sincerely sorry about our speed trial. We should have prepared you.”

“Yes, you should have!” He was still laughing. “I thought that was how you drove all the time!”