The stage in St Bartholomew’s church hall was used only rarely for concerts. If there were meetings of some importance then the rector and his spokesmen from the church council might sit up there, the better to command the attention of the audience. And during the recent elections the Parliamentary candidates from all three of the main parties – Conservative, Labour and Liberal – had used the stage as a rostrum. They had found themselves, however, addressing gatherings which could be described as ‘only fair to middling’. It had been regarded as a foregone conclusion that the Conservative candidate, a businessman from Leeds who had held the seat for years, would be returned once again. And so he was, but with a vastly reduced majority. And countless other seats, in all parts of the country, had been lost to the victorious Labour party.

‘Poor old Winston!’ was the cry on the lips of many people. ‘And after all he’s done for our country. What a shame…’ But politics were not openly discussed. What went on between the voter and the ballot box was strictly confidential. There would have been many more surprises if the folk of Middlebeck could have seen the crosses on the voting papers. As well as the ‘Poor old Winnie’ brigade, there were countless others who were thinking, if not saying outright, ‘It’s time for a change…well, maybe next time.’

But on this day politics was forgotten as the stage was being prepared for its proper purpose, that of putting on an entertainment. The red velvet curtains were somewhat faded and not used to a great deal of opening and closing – they must have been there since the first war, many folk remarked – but after a slight adjustment to the pulleys and runners they were soon in working order again. There were even a couple of spotlights which were rigged up for the infrequent concerts by able men from the church congregation.

There were two small cloakrooms to the right and left of the stage which served adequately as dressing rooms, one for the men and boys and the other for the women and girls. It was a tight squeeze in the women’s room, but everyone was in good humour and the feeling of excitement and anticipation was palpable.

‘You look lovely, Maisie,’ said Audrey, with not a trace of envy. ‘It’s a real glamorous dress, just like a film star’s.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Maisie. ‘You don’t think it’s too…well, daring, like? A bit too low at the front?’

‘No, of course it isn’t. I thought it might be when you described it, but it’s just right. It’s a gorgeous colour, and that coral lipstick you’re wearing matches it exactly.’

Maisie rubbed her lips together a little self consciously. ‘You don’t think it’s too bright? It was Mum’s idea, actually. She never really liked me wearing it before, but she said with me being on the stage it would give me a bit more colour.’ She did not need any artificial colour on her cheeks, however, as the excitement, tinged with nervousness, that she was feeling had heightened them to a rosy glow.

‘I’m dead nervous,’ she said, clutching at her stomach. ‘Talk about butterflies; it feels more like baby elephants doing a dance in my tummy! But at least I’m getting my solo over with quite early in the programme. I wouldn’t have wanted to wait till the second half.’

‘Good luck, anyway,’ said Audrey. ‘Oh no; you’re not supposed to say that, are you, when you’re going on the stage? You’re supposed to say “Break a leg”, aren’t you? But I think that sounds silly. Anyway, I know you’ll be just great.’

Patience popped her head round the door at that moment. ‘Choir members, would you make your way up to the stage, please? The concert is just about to start, after Luke has welcomed everybody.’

The men and women of St Bartholomew’s church choir, including Maisie and a few other girls of a similar age, assembled themselves in their correct order – sopranos, altos, tenors and two bass singers – behind the curtain, as the Reverend Luke Fairchild welcomed everyone to the Victory concert.

‘…and what a lot we have to celebrate and be thankful for this evening. So, on with the show, starting off with our own church choir.’

Applause broke out as soon as the curtains, somewhat hesitantly and jerkily, were drawn back to reveal the choir members, the men resplendent in dark suits with red bow ties, and the women in long dresses of varying styles. Rarely were they seen in such magnificence. Mr King, the elderly choir master and organist, but just as competent on the upright piano as the church organ, announced that the opening item would consist of songs by the well-loved Ivor Novello.

There were audible sighs of, ‘Aah, lovely…’ from some members of the audience, then the choir started to sing, ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’. After the opening chorus, one of the bass singers sang the verses and the audience joined in heartily with the choruses.

The sentiment of the song brought tears to a few eyes plus cheers and frenzied clapping, and this was only the start of the evening.

‘And that song, of course,’ said Mr King, when the applause had died down, ‘was written by Mr Novello in 1914, at the start of the last war. And it is just as applicable today. How happy we are that our boys have come home and that some of them are here tonight.’ He had to wait for another burst of clapping before his next announcement. ‘And now for some gentler numbers from the same great composer. Here is our very own Maisie Jackson to sing for you that lovely song from Perchance to Dream; ‘We’ll gather lilacs…’

Maisie stepped forward into the spotlight, and as she did so she felt the fluttering sensation inside her ease a little. Because there, in the second row, smiling encouragingly at her, was her mother, with her old friend Mrs Jenner, who owned the draper’s shop, sitting next to her. And Audrey and Doris were there in the wings, and the thought of them rooting for her gave her confidence. She started to sing, trying to remember all she had been taught about the correct way to breathe: deeply and from the diaphragm so that she did not lose control.

It was becoming a little easier as she went on. She was aware that her first few bars might have been a trifle wavery, but she started to gain in confidence as she heard her voice reaching the top notes quite easily without straining, soaring out into the hall over the heads of the audience. She was afraid to stare around too much at the rows of people in front of her in case she forgot her words – that would be dreadful, especially as she knew the song backwards and inside out with constant practising – but she could not resist taking a fleeting glance.

Bruce’s parents, Archie and Rebecca Tremaine, were plainly visible in the middle of the front row, just in front of her mother, as befitted their importance as the local squire and his wife. The title was largely a courtesy title afforded to Archie as the biggest landowner in the area. The Tremaines lived in the aptly named Tremaine House, and the land surrounding it included the Nixons’ farm where Doris lived with her mother and brothers. Archie and Rebecca were smiling at Maisie, but she knew it would be considered unprofessional to smile back. And so, after her eyes had lighted on them briefly she looked away again.

She could see that Bruce was not with them. She felt a tiny pang of disappointment, but then it would not be his style, she told herself, to take an important seat with his parents. He would be more likely to sit further back, perhaps with others of his own generation. That was if he knew anyone well enough. Bruce had been educated at a public school in North Yorkshire, and not at the local Grammar or Secondary school like most of his contemporaries in the town; and so had never had a chance to make close friends in his own neighbourhood; and for the last two years, of course, he had been away serving in the RAF.

The chorus about gathering lilacs in the spring was familiar now to many people, after being sung and played on the wireless countless times, following the production of the play in London’s West End earlier that year. And as she sang the familiar words Maisie caught her first glimpse of him.

He was sitting about halfway back on an end seat near to the aisle, leaning forward as though he wanted to get a better look at her. And even at that distance and in the dim light she could tell that he was smiling. His dark eyes were glowing with pleasure and delight…at being home again, no doubt, she told herself. She must not read too much into his smile, but it was so good to see it again. After letting her glance linger on him for only a few seconds she looked away again; she fixed her eyes on a point near the back of the room to enable her to focus her attention on her song.

But her thoughts still kept wandering back to Bruce. ‘And walk together down an English lane…’ The words assumed a greater significance as she recalled the first time she had met Bruce Tremaine…

She was an evacuee. It was only her second – no, her third – day in Middlebeck if she remembered rightly, and she had been exploring the countryside behind the church with Audrey. Then Doris, their new friend from the farm, had joined them, anxious to teach these city kids some of the lore of the country. And then Bruce had suddenly appeared on the scene, chasing after Prince, his boisterous collie dog, who had frightened Audrey, causing her to fall down and spill her blackberries…

Maisie realised now that she had started to fall in love with him, just a little bit, on that very first day, even though she was angry with him – or, rather, with his dog – for frightening her friend, and though she was only nine years old. He had seemed posh to Maisie, especially the way he talked. She had never met anyone like him, especially not a boy. She had not been keen on boys at all at that time, comparing every one that she met with her loathsome stepbrother, Percy. But she had soon realised that Bruce was different; he was kind and considerate and ever such good fun, and not the slightest bit snooty towards her and her friends, in spite of being a few years older and, moreover, the son of the squire.

Her song came to an end to ecstatic applause from the audience and shouts of ‘Well done, Maisie love…’ She was well known now in the little town of Middlebeck and popular with her own peer group. Feeling thankful that it was over, she gave a slight bow to acknowledge their ovation, then took her place amongst the other sopranos.

The choir then sang ‘Waltz of my Heart’ and ‘I can give you the Starlight’ from the musical The Dancing Years, with the audience, though unbidden, joining in with the more familiar words. The last song, ‘Rose of England’, was another one very appropriate to the occasion.

Muriel Hollins was the soloist this time, a majestic figure in midnight blue satin, with a white rose anchored to a spot just above her magnificent bosom, which rose and fell visibly with every breath she took. She had a rich and melodious contralto voice, which had been known to cause amusement amongst the choir boys at practices, when she insisted on demonstrating how a certain phrase should be sung. But the young boy choristers were not included in that night’s performance – Ivor Novello was not considered to be their forte – so there was no giggling. And certainly none from the members of the audience who, once again, were moved by the patriotic sentiments.

When the song had finished and they had taken a bow – well, two and three bows to be accurate – the ladies of the choir retreated to their dressing room to refresh themselves with drinks of orange squash. There were seats reserved for them in the hall so that they could watch the rest of the concert if they so wished; but Maisie chose to stay with Audrey to help her to get the children ready for their Alice in Wonderland scenes. The girls, that was, because the boys who were taking part were in the other dressing room, the male one, in the charge of a lad called Brian. He was Audrey’s co-producer, a sixth-former at the Grammar school in Lowerbeck, which complemented the school which Maisie and Audrey attended. Maisie believed that Brian Milner rather fancied her friend, but Audrey chose not to give too much away when it came to affairs of the heart, and she did not take kindly to teasing.

‘You were brilliant, honest you were,’ Audrey told her. ‘We felt real proud of you, didn’t we, Doris? Oh…where’s she gone?’ She turned round looking for their other friend. ‘Oh, there she is at the other mirror, doing her hair ready for her poem. She’s on soon.’

Maisie glanced across at Doris. She was not within hearing distance – there was quite a racket going on anyway – so she leaned towards Audrey. ‘He’s here!’ she whispered in her ear. ‘I’ve seen him; about halfway back, at the end of the row.’

‘Oh…! No wonder there’s such a gleam in your eye,’ replied Audrey. ‘Shall you go and say hello to him at the interval?’

‘I think I’ll wait till the end,’ said Maisie. ‘We’re only having a ten minute break, aren’t we, just to stretch our legs and so on? And I don’t want to appear too eager, you know; as though I can’t wait to see him.’

‘Which would be quite true…’ Audrey grinned slyly.

Maisie shrugged, aware that she was letting her feelings show too much, something she had been determined not to do. ‘Well…yes; it’s good to see him again,’ she said, with an air of nonchalance. Her cheeks felt hot and Audrey was looking at her knowingly.

‘Joanie…come over here, love,’ Maisie called to her sister, ‘and I’ll help you to fix your hair ribbons.’

‘Doesn’t she look just perfect in that dress?’ said Audrey, taking the hint from Maisie and changing the subject. ‘Just like the pictures of Alice in the books. Your mum’s been busy, hasn’t she, Joanie?’

Joanie nodded. ‘She’s done nothing but sew just lately, hasn’t she, Maisie? My dress, and Maisie’s an’ all.’

Joanie, as Alice in Wonderland, was wearing a mid-calf length dress of pale blue cotton, with puffed sleeves, a white collar and trimmings and a white apron tied around her waist. She had been growing her hair especially for the performance, and Maisie brushed it for her now. It was a pale golden colour, straight and shining, and fell to just below her shoulders. Her sister fastened it back with kirby grips, then secured the blue ribbon bows, one at each side of her forehead.

‘There now,’ she said, kissing her lightly on the cheek. ‘You’ll do. In fact, you look lovely.’ They were not, as a family, much given to a lot of hugging and kissing. But Maisie, over the years, had been amazed at the transformation of her once naughty, grubby, and not very likeable little sister, into this pretty, polite, and friendly nine-year-old girl. And Jimmy was shaping up quite nicely too.

‘Aw, give over, Maisie! Don’t be soppy,’ said Joanie; but she could not disguise her pleased smile. ‘Are we on soon, Audrey?’ she asked. ‘Have I time to go to the lav?’

Audrey laughed. ‘Yes; you’d better go. We’re on after Doris’s poem, and she’s next. You four girls who are being the playing cards, you’ve all been to the toilet, have you? Because you won’t be able to sit down when you’ve got these costumes on.’

The four girls nodded in unison, then Audrey and Maisie placed the large cards – the three and four of hearts, and the three and four of spades – over their heads. The numbers of the playing cards were painted on both the front and the back, and the cards were secured at the shoulders and sides with tapes. Audrey and her friend, Brian, with Maisie sometimes assisting them, had spent many evenings at the Rectory designing them.

Maisie shrieked with laughter when Doris turned round from the mirror. ‘Goodness, Doris, what a scream you look! You’ll bring the house down before you even start to speak.’

Doris’s flaxen hair was done up in two plaits which, somehow, she had made to stick out at an angle on either side of her head. Each plait was finished off with a bright pink bow, with a third bow on top of her head. Her cheeks were normally rosy, but she had heightened their colour with dabs of rouge like a Dutch doll. Her dress was of pink and white gingham, one that she had used to wear a couple of summers ago, but she – or her mother – had altered the bodice to fit her increasing bustline, and the shortness of the skirt did not matter. Layers of stiffened petticoats underneath made it stand out, revealing her shapely, rather plumpish, legs and her feet in white ankle socks.

‘I told you they were supposed to laugh,’ said Doris. ‘Oh heck! D’you think I’ve overdone it? I feel sick. Oh… Oh dear! I can’t go on…’

But Maisie and Audrey knew that it was mostly just banter. Doris would be fine once she got onto the stage.

‘’Course you can, don’t be daft,’ said Maisie, giving her a push. ‘Luke’s announcing you now. Go on; get a move on.’

Doris grimaced as she went through the door. ‘I still don’t know what she’s going to recite,’ said Maisie. ‘Come on, Audrey; let’s go to the front and listen, shall we?’

‘No; I’d better stay here and keep an eye on the children,’ said Audrey. ‘I can hear well enough from the side of the stage. You go…’

Maisie tiptoed out and stood by the side wall, not allowing her eyes to stray further back down the hall, but fixing them on the stage. The laughter and applause greeting Doris’s appearance was beginning to die down, and she grinned at them, all trace of nervousness, if there had ever been any, completely gone.

‘Matilda,’ she announced in a confident voice, ‘by Hilaire Belloc.’ And then, ghoulishly and leaning confidingly towards her audience, ‘Matilda, who told lies and was burned to death!’ She paused for effect, and some members of the audience responded with a reciprocal, ‘Aahh…’, knowing, from the girl’s appearance that this would be a poem to evoke laughter and not a feeling of horror.

Doris was a born actress, thought Maisie, as she watched her friend’s expressive face and meaningful gestures, but no one seemed to have realised it before. There had not been much opportunity for concerts and play-acting during the war years, such performances as there were having been held during daylight hours because of the blackout regulations.

As Doris finished the poem Maisie clapped till her hands were stinging and she gave a cheer, along with several others, as her friend bowed and grinned then left the stage.

It was time then for the last act before the interval, the scenes from Alice in Wonderland. Maisie stayed where she was. Joanie would not want her fussing over her again. She was still forcing her eyes to look straight in front and not allowing herself to turn round, but once the Mad Hatter’s tea party commenced she was thoroughly engrossed. Joanie was an enchanting Alice and word perfect too, and the boys who played the Mad Hatter, the March Hare and the Dormouse made the audience laugh, though not always in the right places. The Hatter’s top hat was a shade too large and kept falling over his eyes, and the Dormouse, a tiny little lad, kept waving to his mother in the third row.

In the next scene Maisie was relieved to see that Jimmy behaved himself very well. He was one of the playing-card gardeners, the two of spades, engaged in the task of painting the white roses red. Fortunately, he was concentrating on doing just that and not splashing the paint all over himself and his mates which, at one time, would have been a pleasant diversion for him. The card worn by the Queen of Hearts – a twelve-year-old girl who shouted, ‘Off with their heads!’ in a very imperious voice – had been drawn and painted expertly by Audrey. The whole performance, indeed, was a great credit to her and Brian and there were cries at the end for the producers to come onto the stage and take a bow.

Brian emerged from one dressing room and Audrey, rather more unwillingly, from the other. As they stood in the centre of the stage, smiling and bowing a little to acknowledge the applause, Brian took hold of her hand. Maisie saw the blush which crept over her friend’s cheeks, but she also noticed that her blue eyes were extra bright and sparkly as she turned to smile shyly at Brian and then at her mother and father, both standing proudly at the side of the piano.

‘Well done, everyone,’ said Luke. ‘Very well done indeed. And now we will have just a short ten-minute interval before we start the second half of our programme.’

When Audrey came down from the stage she was surrounded by folk who wanted to congratulate her on the children’s performances. Maisie could see that her friend was quite pink-cheeked with pleasure. This was her moment of glory and well deserved, too. Maisie added her own praise as well.

‘That was great, Audrey. I’m really proud of you. I’m amazed at the way you’ve got our Joanie to do her part; she was terrific.’

‘Yes, she was,’ agreed Audrey. ‘But I told you, she’s a natural. It had very little to do with me; she just seemed to know what to do.’

‘And all the others played their parts so well; it was obvious they were enjoying it.’

‘Well, that’s the most important thing at their age, isn’t it?’ Audrey laughed. ‘As for me, I shall enjoy the rest of the concert much more now that that’s over. Anyway, I’d better go and help the girls to get out of their costumes.’

‘No… I’ll do that,’ said Maisie quickly. ‘You stay and talk to these ladies.’ A few of Luke’s more elderly parishioners were smiling fondly at Audrey. She was very popular with them and had a pleasant manner which enabled her to associate with both the young and the old in her father’s congregation. Already she was becoming quite an asset to him.

‘Are you sure?’ said Audrey. It was clear that she was enjoying her triumph, in her own quiet way.

‘Of course I am,’ said Maisie. She grinned. ‘Off you go and chat to the old ladies,’ she added in a lower voice. ‘They’ll love it.’

Maisie was feeling, suddenly, rather nervous and shy at the thought of encountering Bruce again. Besides, she was all dolled up in her finery ready for the next appearance of the choir near the end of the programme. It would be better to wait until the end. Without a backward glance she went back into the dressing room to help the playing card girls with their costumes, and the Queen of Hearts, too, with her more elaborate regalia and cardboard crown. Joanie, though, wanted to stay in her Alice dress, minus the apron, and there was no reason why she should not do so. The children all hurried out to the seats reserved for them to watch the rest of the concert, and Maisie busied herself tidying up the costumes and props that had been used for the Alice scenes.

Audrey popped her head round the door. ‘Come on, Maisie. There are three seats at the end of a row near the front, so you and me and Doris can sit together.’

‘All right then,’ said Maisie, joining her friends just as the lights in the hall were dimmed. ‘I’ll have to leave you, though, before the choir goes on again.’

‘Our Timothy’ll be playing soon,’ whispered Audrey. ‘I knew you’d want to listen to him.’

‘Yes, of course I do,’ Maisie whispered back, as Luke stepped forward to announce the start of the second half.

The next act was a conjuror; quite a competent one. He was a middle-aged man who was also in the choir, and he had the audience suitably impressed with his yards and yards of silken handkerchiefs, his card tricks and the climax at the end, a rabbit in a top hat.

Maisie leaned close to her friend and whispered in her ear, under cover of the applause, ‘Did you…er, did you see Bruce in the interval?’

‘Er, yes… I did, actually…’ Audrey replied.

‘Did you speak to him?’

‘Only to say hello, that’s all.’ Audrey sounded quite off-hand, almost impatient, in fact.

‘Who is he sitting with? ’Cause he’s not with his mother and father…’

‘No, I know he’s not…’

‘Who is he with then?’

But Audrey did not answer. She was looking ahead, her eyes fixed on the stage instead of turning to look at her friend. Then, ‘Hush, Maisie,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you later. We’ll have to shut up now while Mr Carey does his poem.’

The audience had heard Albert Carey’s monologue, ‘The Green Eye of the Yellow God’ before, on more than one occasion; but as a highly regarded church warden of many years standing they gave him the attention and respect due to him.

Loud, if not rapturous applause followed the last verse as Albert Carey bowed and left the stage.

Maisie was beginning to sense some sort of a mystery. ‘You said you’d tell me who Bruce is sitting with,’ she persisted.

Audrey was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘He’s with a friend…from the RAF. He’s wearing his uniform…and so is his friend.’

‘Oh, I see… And did he introduce you to the other young man?’

Audrey looked at her oddly, then, ‘No, why should he?’ she said. ‘I told you, we only said hello.’

‘I just thought he might’ve done, that’s all…’

‘Well, he didn’t,’ Audrey snapped, but immediately she regretted it and turned and smiled at Maisie. ‘I’m sorry… I’m feeling a bit on edge. It’s our Tim next and I suppose I’m feeling nervous in sympathy with him. I hope he’ll be OK. He played his pieces beautifully before we came out.’

‘I’m sure he will.’ Maisie squeezed her friend’s arm, her perplexity about Bruce being put aside for the moment.

Then Luke announced, ‘And now here is Timothy Fairchild to play for us,’ and Timothy took his seat at the piano.

‘Aw, bless him!’ said Maisie, smiling fondly. ‘Doesn’t he look grown-up?’ Timothy was now eleven years old, due to start at the Grammar school in Lowerbeck at the beginning of the September term. He was, in point of fact, only four years younger than Maisie, Audrey and Doris; his sister, Ivy, having been a friend and class-mate of theirs. But the older girls had always made a fuss of him.

‘My first piece is “Sonata in C” by Mozart,’ he announced, quite confidently, in a voice that was still quite shrill and piping. He had recently joined the ranks of the boy choristers at St Bartholomew’s and had been found to have a pleasing voice.

The first movement of the sonata was a popular one with budding pianists and familiar to the audience, many of whom had played it in their youth. Or attempted to play it, because it was not as simple as it at first appeared. The runs and cadences were quite tricky, but Timothy managed them all with scarcely a slip or wrong note.

Maisie found herself remembering the skinny knock-kneed little boy with the wire-framed glasses who had clung so desperately to his big sister when they were first evacuated to Middlebeck. She and her friends had tried to comfort and protect him then; and now he was Audrey’s adopted brother. He had matured considerably since those early days and was no longer so nervous or self-effacing. His sandy hair still stuck up like porcupine quills, being unmanageable if it was allowed to grow longer; but his glasses, which he still needed for his short-sighted pale blue eyes, were more adult ones with a tortoiseshell frame. And that evening he was wearing his first pair of long trousers, grey flannels, with a crisp white shirt and red bow tie.

‘And now I would like to play, “Butterflies in the Rain”,’ he said, smiling, as the applause for his first piece died down.

That, too, needed a good deal of dexterity and neat fingering, and he played it with even greater confidence. As he passed the three girls, on his way to join his parents, he grinned and uttered a very relieved, ‘Whew! I’m glad that’s over!’

‘You were terrific!’ said Audrey, sticking her thumb up in the air. ‘Wasn’t he, girls?’

‘I’ll say,’ echoed Maisie and Doris.

‘I’d better go now,’ said Maisie, ‘and tidy my hair and re-do my make-up. The choir’s on again soon.’

‘OK, see you later,’ said Audrey. She gave her a sympathetic sort of smile, and Maisie wondered why.

For the last item of the evening the choir had put together a medley of patriotic songs and ones that had been very popular in recent years. What other way could there be of concluding a concert to celebrate the end of the six long years of war?

‘Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye’; ‘I’ll be seeing you’; ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’. How familiar these songs were, having been heard time and again on the wireless and in dance halls all over the country, and sung by the Forces’ own favourite, Vera Lynn. It was impossible to stop the audience from singing along, although they did not know the words to all the verses.

‘A Nightingale sang in Berkeley Square’; ‘Deep in the heart of Texas’ (one introduced by the American GIs); and, inevitably, ‘There’ll Always be an England’.

As everyone joined with great enthusiasm in the final verse, the lights in the hall went on again. There was frenzied clapping and cheering until Luke raised his hand as a signal for them to be quiet, if that were possible.

And Maisie, unable to contain herself any longer, looked to the centre of the hall. She could see Bruce at the end of the row, where she had picked him out dimly before; but now that the lights had gone on she could see he was wearing his blue airforce uniform. And sitting next to him, also dressed in airforce blue there was…a girl! A young woman, to be more correct, several years older than Maisie. A blonde-haired young woman, and as Maisie watched she turned and smiled at Bruce. And Bruce smiled back at her.

Maisie felt sick with the shock and had to restrain herself from gasping and crying out, ‘Oh no…!’ But she knew she must smile, like everyone else was doing, and they still had one more song to sing.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Luke. ‘We would like you all to join with the choir to sing, “Land of Hope and Glory”. You will find the words on the back of your programmes.’

It was a thrilling finale, jubilant and joyous, with several folk in the audience waving Union Jacks high in the air, but it was an emotional moment as well. There was scarcely a dry eye in the audience or choir as they sang the final words.

Maisie’s eyes were moist too, but not solely with the patriotic fervour that was gripping everyone. Why had she not realised? Of course; that was why Audrey had been behaving so oddly. And she, Maisie, ought to have known. What a complete and utter fool she was…