Of course there was the usual official business, speeches and prize-giving, but perhaps best of all was the culmination of the day’s festivities, the pram race. Crowds gathered to enjoy the absurd spectacle of prams precariously overloaded with fully grown men dressed as babies, lining up to be pushed by other men masquerading as grotesque travesties of nannies.

Joan poked her in the ribs. ‘Look, there, in the pram. It’s Billy.’

‘Can’t be,’ Kath said. ‘He wouldn’t . . .’ The words died in her mouth. The boy she’d believed to be so sophisticated was sitting in a large pram, naked save for a frilly bonnet and huge towelling nappy, with a baby’s dummy in his mouth. His father, complete with skirt, starched cap and apron, stood behind, burly hands clasping the handle.

‘How could he?’ she whispered. ‘How humiliating.’ But neither man seemed the slightest bit embarrassed – in fact, they were larking about to amuse their friends, Billy whining like a baby and his father slapping him around the head with a rattle. It occurred to Kath that they and many of the other contestants had been in the pub for most of the afternoon.

It was at that moment she looked up and saw on the other side of the crowd a familiar face: the man she’d met at the station who’d asked directions to Bawdsey, with two others, including Weasel-face. They looked like schoolteachers or office workers, painfully out of place in their jackets and ties, and genuinely bemused by the spectacle before them.

The dark man caught her eye with what she thought was a smile of recognition, although it was hard to tell behind those thick glasses. But just at that moment the starting pistol cracked and a great roar came from the crowd. The course was uneven and it wasn’t long before many of the prams were struggling with broken wheels or springs. Some actually collapsed, tipping the ‘babies’ out onto the ground amid much hilarity. Billy and his father suffered no such mishaps and soon took a commanding lead. Just a few minutes later they passed the finishing post well ahead of the rest.

Kath ran to congratulate them, but found herself pushed aside by a bunch of Billy’s friends who hoisted him onto their shoulders, parading and crowing in triumph. He barely acknowledged her, and she headed back to the stall feeling confused and despondent.

Her mother was serving teas to the three men from the Manor.

‘Hello there,’ Kath said brightly. ‘Remember me? I was at the station?’

‘Ah yes, thank you. You were most kind. Miss . . .?’

‘Motts, Kathleen Motts.’

‘Do you live in Felixstowe, Miss Motts?’ That voice again: gentle, educated, rather posh. There were plenty of that sort at the tennis club every summer holiday, and she usually tried to avoid them. But there was something rather sweet and unsophisticated about this man, his hesitant manner rather endearing.

‘We do,’ she replied. ‘I take it you’re not from round here?’