Jepson had reported for the North London Press on the final mass parade – seven thousand men selected from all over the country, boots shining, music playing, the King taking the salute. There had been one final absurd twist when the Irish Guard’s band had played the march-past at a fearful lick, too rapid for some of the older members, who had nevertheless managed to keep up, turning variously grey or pink, according to the condition of their hearts. Some of the watchers had laughed, and Jepson had had to turn away, pierced by the derision; they were laughing at men who, night after night, year after year, had come home after long shifts and then wearily changed into khaki before setting out again, unpaid, unlauded. And he remembered Della, pressing a hand to her smiling mouth after seeing him in his Home Guard uniform for the first time. ‘Sorry,’ she’d said, ‘I know you can’t help your ear, but that helmet does look silly, all tipped to one side.’ It was painful, now, to think that he had smiled back.

‘We’ll be opening the hall doors very shortly,’ said Mrs Claxton, ‘and once they’ve eaten all the buffet – and they will, Mr Jepson, it’ll be like the Gadarene swine – we’ll begin the entertainment. We have quite a full programme.’ She gestured towards the blackboard propped on an easel beside the stage; an elderly minister was chalking ‘QUIZ’ at the bottom of a long list, and Jepson spotted the name ‘Reddish’ halfway down, next to the ominous word ‘Recitation’.

‘I’m sorry, though,’ continued Mrs Claxton, ‘that Mrs Overs is unwell. Was it sudden? Her nephew didn’t mention anything about it when he arrived earlier.’

‘A bilious attack, I believe,’ said Jepson, looking around for Noel, and spotting him sitting on his own in the middle of the rows of empty chairs, studying what looked like a letter. It had arrived that morning. Noel, sorting the post into piles for the lodgers, had been surprised to find one envelope addressed to himself. It contained a single sheet of notepaper, and amidst the neatly written lines, the word ‘Simpkin’ had drawn his eye as if picked out in gold leaf.

… and I promised to let you know what happened to the Green Man carving found in the church ruins. It’s been taken to the Victoria and Albert Museum, but the expert wasn’t able to tell me whether it would be on display or not, as most of the portable contents have been taken out of London for safety. Incidentally, your postal address rang a very happy bell with me – when I was younger than you, I belonged to a club for girls called the Amazons, run by an extraordinary woman called Miss Matilda Simpkin, who lived in Green Shutters (she called it ‘The Mousehole’) and who had been a suffragette. I think I remember hearing that she died a few years ago, but I’m sure some of the local residents will still remember her. I once broke a pane in your next-door neighbour’s greenhouse with a badly aimed javelin!

Yours sincerely,

Winnie Crowther