‘Get that down you, and you’ll soon feel better,’ he said, pouring from a flask of sugary tea. He swigged his own, then lit a cigarette. ‘Didn’t think you had it in you, laddie. Some first-timers don’t make it with clean underpants, if you get my gist. You done well.’

Their hard work was rewarded with a visit from none other than Winston Churchill, the MP and former chancellor who, according to Watson-Watt, was a staunch supporter of their work. Even from the back benches he’d been warning of German rearmament, and he was a fierce critic of the Prime Minister’s policy of appeasement.

‘Best foot forward, chaps,’ Dr Rowe said. ‘He’s on our side, this fellow, so we need to make a damned good impression.’

Vic was aware that Churchill had been vociferously opposed to the idea of Indian independence, claiming it would bring disaster for the British economy, and had called for Gandhi to be allowed to die if he went on his threatened hunger strike. How would he react to meeting an Indian man at the heart of one of the government’s top secret defence establishments?

The reaction was the very opposite of what he’d feared. After the RAF top brass had taken him on a tour of the masts, transmitter and receiver blocks, Churchill returned with Dr Rowe to the Manor to meet the non-military staff, the scientists and engineers.

As they waited in the Green Room, Vic found himself watching Kath as she laid out the table, marvelling at her quiet efficiency and economy of movement, the twist of her body as she leaned across the great oval table to place the cups and saucers, plates, knives and napkins in perfect order. She caught his glance and he gave a discreet thumbs-up, rewarded with that sweet gap-toothed smile that made his heart leap like a fish on a line. She returned several times with platters of sandwiches, scones with pots of jam and thick cream and six cakes of different varieties, including – he was pleased to see – carrot cake.

The great man arrived and began to work the room like any seasoned politician, bestowing smiles of appreciation during the introductions and then listening, apparently rapt, to each individual he spoke to, exuding the energy of a much younger man. Close up, he was shorter than Vic had imagined: about the same height as himself, but powerfully built, with a strong chin and skewer-sharp eyes of the palest blue.

Vic was just taking a bite of cake when the heads of his companions swivelled. Churchill was approaching, holding out his hand. ‘Just had to come and say hello to this fellow.’ That voice, so sonorous and commanding, seemed to penetrate the general hubbub, and Vic felt his ears burning as everyone turned to watch.

He swallowed fast, nearly choking himself. ‘Vikram Mackensie, sir.’ The handshake was strong and firm. He hoped Mr Churchill wouldn’t notice his sticky fingers.