‘Yank army truck going too bloody fast round the bend back there, clipped the rear wheel and knocked us flying,’ Rita rasped. ‘They couldn’t have felt the collision, because they just kept on going.’

Ron handed over the brandy flask, noting how Sarah was cradling her arm against her chest. He tore the sheet to make a sling and gently eased her arm into it before turning his attention to her ankle. ‘It doesn’t look broken,’ he muttered, ‘but I’ll strap it up for now.’

He turned to Rita when he’d finished, and eyed the thick leather trousers. ‘What about your knee?’

She grimaced. ‘There’s not much you can do about it unless I take these trousers off, and it’s far too cold for that. I’ll be fine, really.’ She finished off the brandy. ‘We’re a couple of cripples and the bike looks written off. What on earth do we do now?’

Ron sat back on his haunches. He calculated the distance he’d have to go to get help from either RAF Cliffe or the American HQ on the Cliffe estate. ‘I’ll go and get help from the Yanks,’ he muttered. ‘It’ll be quicker than trekking round the airfield to the guard house.’

He tucked the blankets more tightly around them, hoping they would be enough to stave off the cold while he was gone. ‘Huddle together to keep warm. I shouldn’t be long.’

‘Can Harvey stay with us?’ pleaded Sarah.

Ron shook his head. ‘I’m sending him home to let everyone know I’ve found you. They’ve been out searching since six o’clock and must be frantic by now.’ He tied Rita’s scarf to Harvey’s collar. ‘Home, Harvey,’ he ordered.

Harvey dithered and whined, clearly loath to leave.

‘Home. Now,’ said Ron, his tone stern.

Harvey went hurtling into the lane and was soon swallowed up by the fog.

Ron handed the torch to the girls and strode away, breaking into a steady trot as he headed through the rapidly thickening fog towards the main gate of the Cliffe estate. The blasted Yanks were always driving too damned fast in those great heavy trucks, and it was a miracle the girls had survived such a collision if the state of Rita’s bike was anything to go by. And if he had any kind of back-chat from the guard on the gate, the man would soon learn not to mess with Ronan Reilly – or any of his family.

Peggy had been pacing back and forth; repeatedly going down to the scullery door to peer into the thick blanket of fog, straining to hear any sound that might herald Ron’s return. Her worry over Rita was now all-encompassing, and not helped by the fact that Sarah seemed to have gone missing as well.