The Germans have stopped bombing Biggin Hill and started bombing London instead in the past few days. I suppose that is good for us, but we’d almost got used to the bombs raining down on us every day, and the poor cockneys up in the East End are not nearly so well equipped as us to deal with it. Alf and Billy are both from Bethnal Green and they heard that when the big German attack came in on September 7, the area around them was badly hit. I hope their families are alright; they haven’t heard anything from them yet.

The relative lull here has at least given us the opportunity to properly repair all the holes on the airfield and attempt to restore the telephone lines which had been completely destroyed by the bombs on September 5. I even managed to wipe the dust off my violin which I haven’t managed to play for a while because I’ve either been working on George’s plane, filling in holes on the runway or talking to Joyce.

It was only yesterday evening though, that I plucked up the courage to ask Joyce what I have been meaning to ask her for a little while. George had returned after claiming the scalp of a Junkers 88 bomber and once I had looked over the Merlin and had put my tools away and cleaned myself up, I went to find Joyce. We went for a walk in the twilight, through the fields around Biggin Hill. We talked about the attacks on London and something I had discovered only that day; that the Germans were using inferior fuel to our 100-octane variety, which was giving our engines the edge over theirs. Joyce seemed to particularly like this story and I felt that the time was right. We opened a gate into a field with just a solitary cow mooching around in it. A few birds tweeted in the darkening dusk. I held Joyce’s right hand in mine and dropped onto one knee.

‘What are you doing, Frank?’ she said, laughing.

‘Joyce, I’m so glad I met you. I’m not really much of a man for the ladies but I think I’ve found the most perfect lady in the world . . . ‘

‘Frank!’

‘Will you please let me finish, Joyce?’

‘Get up, Frank,’ she said, pulling at my hand.

‘I’m asking you to marry me,’ I said, with dread in my heart like shards of ice.

‘Will you wait until we’ve got out of this field first, Frank: there’s a bull running towards us!’

I looked over my shoulder and saw that the solitary cow I had seen was indeed a bull and that it was gathering pace as it moved toward us.

‘Run!’ I shouted.

We ran for the gate and jumped onto it. I got over first and dragged Joyce over behind me just at the moment that the bull skidded to a halt, bringing up a cloud of dust. It snorted and bucked its head and looked me straight in the eye.

‘Yes,’ I heard Joyce say.

‘What was that?’ I asked.

‘Yes, Mr Frank Edwards, I would like to be your wife.’

I gave the bull a triumphant wink and kissed Joyce on the lips.

I was up early this morning to get George’s plane ready for dawn patrol. When I saw him I told him what had happened and I confided in him. ‘I’m a man with few friends, Mr Sheridan, but I’ve always found you a very decent, kind and generous chap. So I know that this may not be “the done thing”; me an engineer and you an officer pilot and all, but it would be a great honour for me if you would be the best man at our wedding.’

‘Of course,’ says George, ‘It’ll be my pleasure. And stop calling me Mr Sheridan. It’s George or nothing.’