‘Mm, I can see why Mum says you’re a godsend,’ said Diana drily. ‘Oh, no, can you stop Coco? He’s got the end of it and it will be all over the garden in a minute.’

‘Coco! Coco, come here, lad. Bad boy. Sit!’

The excitable young dog was brought under control and disaster averted. Gina went inside to get his lead and then took him over to Mrs Stellion, out of mischief and harm’s way. When she returned to the bunting, however, she saw Diana and Penelope were disappearing off to look at the rose garden and she was left alone. Everyone seemed very busy with other tasks so there was nothing for it but to make a start by herself.

She was halfway round, balancing on a set of kitchen steps, when she smelled cigarette smoke. She looked down to see James standing with one hand in his pocket and a cigarette at the corner of his mouth, gazing up at her.

‘That’s a pretty sight,’ he said.

‘It’ll look good when it’s finished,’ said Gina, though she half thought he wasn’t referring to the bunting. She secured the flags to the nail and was descending the steps when she felt a hand on her arm, another arm round her waist.

‘Here, let me help you. Can’t have the indispensable Gina falling and hurting herself, can we?’

‘Thank you, I can manage,’ said Gina, stepping away from him, not keen on his tone. Was he being sarcastic? If so, why?

‘We’d have to cancel the festivities, wouldn’t we? Everyone would be so disappointed.’

Gina looked at him hard. What was his game? She decided he needed keeping in order. There had been boys like him at school; if she gave as good as she got, they soon left her alone.

‘There’s plenty to do over there, if you want to help,’ she suggested, pointing to where James’s father and Tom were putting up the last of the little tents with a couple of men from the pub, Reggie Travers instructing them from a diagram on a sheet of paper.

‘Oh, I think the old boys can manage without me. But I do love work,’ said James. ‘I could watch it all day.’

Gina laughed.

‘Not an original line, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But I rather think I’ve a talent more for bunting than tents, and you look like you need some help.’

‘Oh, go on with you,’ said Gina. ‘If you really want to help you can stop being clever and grab the end of this length.’

‘Jawohl, mein Führer.’

Gina gasped. People didn’t make light-hearted references to the war in Little Grindle. It was – even now, over ten years after the end of the conflict – too uncomfortable a subject, and jesting about it was thought to be in poor taste.

‘Just a joke. No need to look so shocked.’