The need for complete secrecy was impressed upon them at every turn. RDF developments were a ‘cat and mouse game’, they were told; the smallest leak of information would hand the advantage back to the enemy, with disastrous consequences. No one, however near or dear, was to be given any information about the stations or their operations – not by word of mouth and especially not in writing.

Enemy agents were all around, they were told: in person, tapping telephones and intercepting letters. She shuddered to recall how naive she had been that day, snooping on the Manor with her binoculars. Little wonder they had treated her with such severity. Even whispers could cost lives. They were told that rumours had been designed and circulated, just as Mark had hinted, to lead the general public into believing RDF masts were actually transmitting some sort of ‘magic eye’ or death ray, and that the success of British attacks was due to the superiority of their planes and the skills of the pilots. Someone asked about carrots improving the eyesight of flyers. That, too, was propaganda, the instructor confirmed.

Two days after the dance, Kath received a note from Donald:

There’s a quiz night at the NAAFI this evening. We could do with some more brains on our team (as well as beauty)! Can you join us?

She showed the letter to Marcia. ‘Has he invited you, too?’

‘Donald? Who’s he?’

‘The fellow you danced with the other night.’

‘Which fellow?’

‘Blond, good dancer. Shortish.’

‘Oh, him. Made me feel like a giant. No, I don’t think he was interested in me. Anyway, I’m such a dimbo at that sort of thing. You go, have fun.’

To her surprise, Kath enjoyed the competitiveness of the quiz. She contributed correct answers to several questions that stumped the others and helped the team take second place, winning a free round of drinks from the bar.

Donald invited her to the dance the following weekend. Dancing with him was like flying, she decided. Her footwork was improving, and she loved the exhilaration and freedom of allowing the music to transport her away from harsh reality. This time, as they walked home, he leaned in for a kiss, and she soon discovered that he was something of an expert at that too. Like Billy Bishop, his hands seemed to roam everywhere at the same time. It was flattering and thrilling to be the object of such passion, and she felt her own desire for him growing.

One evening, after they had drunk more cocktails than usual, Donald said he had something special to tell her, in private. For a fleeting moment she wondered if he might produce a ring.

In the shadows at the back of the NAAFI, he pulled her to him and kissed her. ‘You are the most delicious girl . . .’ he said, pressing the length of his body against her. ‘I wish we had more time to get to know each other.’