Collecting the eggs the next day – and there were plenty – Noel couldn’t quite work out why he felt that something was missing from the morning. A fine rain had wet the grass, but the clouds were lifting and the BBC forecaster had stated with certainty that it would clear in London later, to allow ‘a day of sunny celebration’. Churchill (if he’d managed to finish his speech) would address the nation on the wireless mid-morning, and no doubt the King and Queen would appear on the balcony at Buckingham Palace, graciously accepting credit for the victory, but in the meantime it seemed a day like any other, the lodgers at work, Vee hurtling through the housework. Perhaps that’s what was odd: a blackcap was singing in the plum tree, and there were no drums, no bells, no fireworks or sirens. War had slid quietly into peace, whereas he’d always somehow assumed that the transition would be vast and seismic, loudspeaker-vans roaring triumph, ululation in the streets.

‘Noel!’

He turned to see Vee at the back door, accompanied by a man who was carrying a briefcase and wearing a buttoned mackintosh and a bowler hat. He had exactly the sort of official appearance that would normally send her into a frenzy of nerves, so the fact that she appeared not only calm, but smiling, could mean only one thing.

‘This is Mr Barfield from the Ministry of Agriculture,’ she said, when Noel approached. ‘It’s a poultry spot-visit. Here’s your records.’

Noel took the yellow notebook that he kept in the kitchen dresser and shook hands with Mr Barfield, who was looking rather disconcerted, obviously far more used to brittle panic at his unannounced arrivals, which were intended to flush out those who were keeping an illegally high number of chickens, or selling on the eggs without a licence, or breaking one of half a dozen other domestic poultry rules as outlined in the Ministry publication Keeping Chickens, a Householder’s Guide, the contents of which Noel knew off by heart. ‘Shall I show you the coop?’ he asked, leading the way.

Vee stood by the back door, enjoying the spectacle of a civil servant having his ear bent, and then, after they’d disappeared from view, she filled a bucket from the coal-bunker, keeping one eye on the sky for later, since Gerry had offered to take both her and Noel to a party in the square outside his newspaper office, so she didn’t notice the woman coming round the side-path.

‘Mrs Overs? Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

She was young, barely thirty, a redhead dressed in a smart blue poplin coat with matching hat, both of which smacked of foreign tailoring, though her accent was English enough.

‘Can I help you?’ asked Vee, and then, with rising hope, ‘Have you come about the card in the newsagent’s? There’s a very nice room at the front with a view of the lane. Half-board included. Good, plain cooking.’

‘No, I haven’t come about that.’ She must have been five foot nine or more, but had none of the usual apologetic hunch of taller women, and she was good-looking in an unshowy way. No lipstick. She glanced quickly at the garden, and then up at the back of the house, her expression peculiar, guarded. ‘Could I talk to you somewhere private?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps in the summerhouse.’