‘At least he’s safe there,’ she said. ‘I just hope he doesn’t recover too quickly and they send him back again.’

Without going into specifics, Kath talked about the highs and lows of her WAAF training, about Donald, and how she’d met up with Vic in Lincoln and thought it might be growing into something.

‘Whatever would your parents think, you dating an Indian?’ Joan asked.

‘He’s only half Indian,’ Kath retorted, more sharply than she’d intended. ‘Anyway, I don’t care what anyone thinks.’

But he’s such a long way away, she thought to herself now as she clambered off the ferry, remembering how he never managed to avoid getting his feet wet. The last time she’d been here at Bawdsey, he’d been here too.

The weight of her kit bag made fast walking impossible, but she deliberately took her time walking up the long driveway from the ferry, allowing the Manor to emerge slowly as she rounded the bend. Pausing at the bridge over the River Jordan, she took a few breaths to calm her nerves before lifting the pack once more.

At the front porch she paused again. This would be the first time she had ever entered the building through this doorway. She was no longer a servant. She belonged here, had a right to enter. A duty to enter.

She knocked once, twice and then tried the handle, a ring of heavy iron which turned surprisingly easily. The wooden door gave way, and she was inside. The cavernous hallway was deserted. She put down her pack. To her left was the great wide staircase. Ahead of her, double doors stood open, leading into the great hall with its panelled walls and balcony above. The old out-of-tune piano was still there – she wondered whether Vic was able to practise wherever he was these days. Beyond that, she knew, was the Green Lounge, where she’d served tea for Winston Churchill.

It felt good, like coming home.

After a short exploration she found herself in the open doorway of a large room panelled in oak and lined with leather, and knocked. ‘Come in, come in,’ came a female voice.

‘ACW2 Motts 526843, reporting for duty, ma’am.’ She saluted and clicked her heels as crisply as the thick carpeting would allow.

‘At ease,’ the woman said, moving forward to shake her hand. ‘Section Leader Bartlett. Good morning, Motts. Bit nippy on the ferry today, I expect?’ She tipped her head towards the window and the panoramic view of the estuary.

‘I live round here, ma’am, so I’m used to the weather.’

‘Very good, very good. You have been at Stanmore, I understand? Interesting?’

‘Very interesting, ma’am.’

‘I expect you to tell the other recruits all about it, when you can.’ She turned back to her desk, running her finger down a list of names. ‘Now let me check. I believe you are . . . yes, here we are. Room fifty-four, White Tower.’

‘Yes, ma’am. And thank you, ma’am.’