‘Yes.’ Noel dragged his eyes away from the holly. ‘Yes, I … could you wait here a moment?’

‘Here? You mean, outside? Can’t I come in?’

‘No,’ said Noel, picturing the current occupants of the lumber room. ‘Sorry.’

He stepped back into the house and closed the door, and then immediately re-opened it, because what had just happened couldn’t possibly have happened; the naval officer was still there, however, hands in the pockets of his duffel coat, his breath clouding the air. ‘I’ll be quick,’ said Noel, closing it again. The house was silent, the sardines still hiding in their tin, and he raced to the kitchen, lobbing the holly into the sink, taking Vee’s string bag from the hook and gathering food almost randomly – a half-full bottle of wine, the drumsticks torn from the chicken carcass and wrapped in a tea-towel, a dense wedge of fruitcake, a jar of pickled beetroot and, finally, a handful of chocolates that he shoved into the pockets of his coat as he passed through the hall again. In the drawing room, he grabbed a box of matches and some paper spills from a brass pot in the grate, and then shouted, ‘Just going out!’ as the door closed behind him. The officer was standing halfway down the path, looking up at the house, and Noel swung round to share his view. The low sun had reddened the bricks and blanked the windows. ‘Good-looking pile,’ said the officer. ‘So if I can’t come in, where are you taking me?’

‘It’s not far.’ Noel walked fast, uphill towards the Heath end of the lane, skirting the vast sand-pits that had been gouged out earlier in the war and were now disused and grassy. Crescents of unmelted frost lay along their northern edges.

‘Might have to slow down a bit,’ said the naval man, from behind. ‘I’m actually convalescing. Currently a bit of a crock, I’m afraid.’

Noel waited for him to catch up. ‘Were you injured at sea?’

‘No. Inglorious pneumonia while in port. Left me with a wheeze.’ He paused to catch his breath, his lips purplish. There seemed nothing familiar about his face, no feature or angle that Noel had ever seen in his own mirror.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, abruptly.

The officer flipped a salute. ‘Lieutenant Simeon Foster. Generally known as Sim. And you’re Noel …?’

‘Bostock.’

‘Bostock? Where does that come from?’

‘It was my godmother’s alias, when she was a suffragette on the run from the police.’

Sim’s laugh turned into a cough.

‘I’m not making a joke,’ said Noel, coldly.

‘No, no …’ Sim flapped a hand as if to waft away offence. ‘It was a laugh of considerable admiration. I came across your godmother a couple of times, and she left quite an impression. Shall we carry on?’

Noel took a path that wove through the trees, and then ducked under an oak branch that thrust out horizontally at head height. Beyond it was a clearing, the ground crisp with leaf-litter, and a ring of stones in the centre with three logs arranged as seating around it.