‘I’m going to stop this, Mark, before it goes any further. I’m going to confront her and tell her to stop telling lies.’

He looked up sharply. ‘No, Kath, don’t say anything to her; it might make it worse. Let me talk to Ray, he’ll know what to do.’ He shook his head, furiously. ‘She’d better watch out, though. He’ll be hopping mad.’

10

Vic was having the time of his life. For six weeks that autumn he and Johnnie visited airfields all across the south of England, taking measurements of different aircraft: bombers, fighters, transport and reconnaissance.

He was glad to be away from the febrile hothouse atmosphere of the labs at Bawdsey. One of the men questioned about the leak had disappeared without trace, but it seemed that Frank had been exonerated and nothing more was said. Vic wished he’d had the courage to challenge him, but feared making things worse. Time had now passed, but his resentment had not. He felt constantly wary, fearful the snake might strike again.

The days grew shorter, the mornings misty. Leaves coloured red, orange and brown, then fell from the trees. Time was pressing on, and ‘Jimmy’ Rowe told each of the two teams he expected ‘workable solutions’ by Christmas, to be tested in the New Year. Frank crowed that his team’s new kit was infinitely superior and nearly ready for use, and they had fully expected to coincide with him at one of their airfield visits, but there was no sign.

‘That man’s all bluff and bluster,’ was Johnnie’s diagnosis. ‘We don’t need to worry about that lot. Just get on with the job in hand.’

The research station lent them a car, a battered old Morris Ten. Johnnie had taught him to drive but Vic usually opted to be navigator, even though his map-reading skills were often tested to the limit; sometimes beyond their limits. Most airfields were quite new and not yet signposted, but getting lost in the lanes of Kent, Sussex or Lincolnshire became part of the fun.

Vic had never seen the English countryside looking so beautiful. The trees still held vestiges of autumn plumage, and bridal veils of white gulls billowed behind the ploughing tractors that turned fields of harvest gold overnight into precise stripes of brown. Johnnie was the best kind of travelling companion: efficient but relaxed, cheerful but not overbearing. He liked a drink, but never to excess. He seemed to enjoy Vic’s company, and showed a friendly curiosity about his Indian origins.

‘Time for the Brits to get out, isn’t it?’ he said at breakfast one day, after reading a newspaper report about the progress of one Mahatma Gandhi.

‘Of course it is. But people fear what will happen when they lose a common enemy.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘They would fight among themselves instead. Muslims and Hindus both believe they have the right to rule.’

Johnnie, always curious, wanted to know more about the religious differences, but Vic’s knowledge was cursory and he struggled to explain. Apart from avoiding meat, he’d barely thought about being a Hindu since his mother died. ‘You don’t speak the language and seem to know diddly squat about their religions. I don’t believe you’re Indian at all,’ his friend teased.