‘Yes, sir, certainly, sir. It will be a pleasure,’ Vic said.

Padmore picked up the receiver. ‘Get me Martlesham.’ He gestured to Vic and Monty to take a seat. They perched on the leather sofa as the call went through. But there seemed to be some kind of hitch. ‘Yes . . . yes . . . hmm . . . I do understand. But you see my dilemma too . . .? Yes, of course . . . Look, hold the line and I’ll ask. They’re just here.’

He looked up, hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Seems they’re a bit reluctant to let me keep both of you. Apparently there’s some kind of big pow-wow planned for this afternoon and they’d like one of you RDF fellows to attend. Would one of you agree to stay? Don’t mind who, we can decide later, but do you agree to this, in principle?’

Vic glanced at Monty, and they both nodded. The CO finished his call.

‘Thanks very much for this, lads. Now off you go. Just let me know which one of you is staying, if you don’t mind. The car will be here for the other one at ten prompt.’

‘Toss for it?’ Vic said, back in their room. That would give him at least a fifty-fifty chance.

‘No, you stay, Mac,’ Monty said. ‘Give you a chance to meet up with that sweetheart of yours. I can grab some sleep when I get back.’

‘That’s very generous. I’ll owe you, my friend.’

‘Hope it works out,’ Monty said, with a conspiratorial wink.

On his way back to the receiving room he met Marcia going in the same direction.

‘No sleep for the wicked,’ she said with a weary sigh. ‘Have you seen Kath yet?’

He felt his cheeks flush. ‘No, afraid not. Any idea where she is?’

‘She only came off shift at eight, so she’s probably asleep. But if I see her, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.’

It was all quiet in the skies, so Vic decided to take a walk to clear his head. After the bitter cold of recent weeks the clouds had cleared. He took a lungful of air, fresher and saltier here than anywhere else he’d ever lived. The North Sea looked beguilingly calm, almost benign, its tea-coloured waters concealing the terrible tragedies of war: burning planes, ditched crews, torpedoed convoys; a burial ground for hundreds of lives lost and bodies never recovered.

It was surprisingly warm, almost as though spring had arrived, although a nip in the shadows was a warning against complacency. He passed the laundry cottages, the dairy cottages and the mock Tudor frontage of the farmhouse with its curve of stables, all badly neglected these days, before retracing his steps going via the walled kitchen garden. The wooden structure of the lemonry seemed even more derelict than before, but he took a few moments to sit on the bench, resting his back on the whitewashed wall and warming himself in the weak sunshine. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, feeling his shoulders relaxing, perhaps for the first time in months. He did it again, and a feeling of wellbeing crept over him. It felt wrong, somehow, being here in this paradise while other men were risking their lives.