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‘I’m ever so sorry, love. I didn’t mean to worry you.

’ Aunt Polly blew me a kiss and slipped into an armchair, tucking her feet beneath her and making herself at home.

She smoothed the front of her printed cotton dress and patted her dark hair, as if either of them ever needed adjusting.

‘Well anyway, I’m here now. Did your dad tell you about poor old Percy Swain? ’

I narrowed my eyes. On the surface, she seemed as bright and bubbly as ever, but there was something different about her this evening. She looked almost shifty.

‘Oh, no big deal,’ she said. ‘But you know, Shona, just because someone’s put up with something for decades, doesn’t mean it can’t get too much for them now and then. Percy’s got every right to feel fed up with their antics sometimes. He might be dead but he’s still human.’

She nodded at me and I gave her an awkward smile. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to be insensitive.’

She waved my apology away. ‘No need to be sorry. Just bear it in mind in future.’

Well, that was me told!

‘Anyway,’ she said airily, ‘enough about me. What have you been up to?’

Dad came through into the living room, carrying mugs of tea for the two of us.

I gave Aunt Polly an uncomfortable look, but she didn’t seem to be bothered.

Was it just me who felt this mean every time I ate and drank in front of a ghost, I wondered?

Then again, it hadn’t worried me a moment ago when I’d unthinkingly reached for a choccie biccy, had it?

Probably because eating biscuits was something I did without even noticing.

‘What are we talking about?’ Dad asked cheerfully, putting the mugs down on the coffee table and settling next to me on the sofa.

‘Aunt Polly was just asking me what we’d been up to,’ I told him. ‘Mainly,’ I added, turning to her, ‘I’ve been working out a menu for the 1940s weekend. I could have done with your input, actually.’

‘Aw, sorry love. Never mind, I’m here now. What ideas have you come up with so far?’

I wrinkled my nose. ‘Not many, to be honest. I’ve had a look at some old recipes online, but I can’t imagine the customers queueing up to buy mock banana sandwiches, can you? I mean – what’s all that about?’

Aunt Polly laughed. ‘Don’t knock it till you try it.

Although, I have to say I was never keen either.

But if you close your eyes and imagine you’re eating bananas, you can almost get away with it.

Tell you what, when we could get hold of cinnamon, we used to sprinkle a little bit of that on them and it really helped. ’

‘I hate cinnamon,’ Dad said. ‘What’s a mock banana sandwich anyway?’

‘Believe it or not,’ I told him, ‘you chop and boil up some parsnips and mash them with caster sugar and banana essence, then spread them on bread just like you would bananas.’

Dad looked aghast. ‘I’ve eaten some rubbish in my time, but I wouldn’t touch that!’

Aunt Polly pursed her lips. ‘You say that, our Jimmy, but back then, it was needs must. Some people today would eat the equivalent of our full week’s ration in one evening meal. You don’t know you’re born.’

I eyed the chocolate biscuits and blushed. She had a point, after all.

‘I want to be authentic,’ I said, ‘but I also have to think about my twenty-first century customers, and I really can’t see them going for boiled parsnip sandwiches.’

‘Well,’ Dad suggested, ‘why don’t you just serve banana sandwiches and put them on the menu as mock mock banana sandwiches?’

I laughed. ‘You know what, that might actually work!’

Aunt Polly rolled her eyes. ‘Like I said. You don’t know you’re born. So what else have you come up with?’

‘An eggless chocolate cake,’ I said doubtfully. ‘No idea how that will taste, but I’ll give it a go and see how it turns out.’

‘What about a syrup loaf?’ she suggested.

‘Ooh, me and Mum used to love those, and so did our customers. It’s ever so simple.

Bit of self-raising flour, some bicarbonate of soda, milk, golden syrup, and a pinch of salt.

Mind, it can be a bit dry if memory serves, but if we had enough butter, we’d spread some on each slice.

Or you can serve it warm with custard, you know. ’

‘Well, it sounds more palatable than eggless chocolate cake,’ I mused. ‘Thanks, I’ll give that a go, too. What fillings did you have in sandwiches?’

She tilted her head to the side, remembering. ‘Potted beef was popular. Spam, naturally, although I liked spam fritters best. Tinned salmon and cucumber.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘Beetroot sandwiches. Radish sandwiches.’

‘Seriously?’ I said.

‘Seriously. You don’t fancy those then?’

‘Not really, and I doubt very much that my customers would either. Tinned salmon and cucumber, I can do. Potted beef, probably. Not sure about spam!’

‘Mm, a spam fritter,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I could eat one of those right now. Mind you, no need for you to bother if you don’t want to. Isaac tells me they’re going to be serving spam fritters at the pub, along with fish and chips, Lord Woolton’s Pie, and Homity Pie.’

‘I’ve heard of those,’ I said, nodding. ‘Lord Woolton’s Pie is full of root vegetables, right? And Homity Pie, that’s got potatoes and leeks in it, and a little bit of cheese.’

She nodded. ‘Mum always put an apple in her Homity Pie, too. Added a certain something, she said.’ She gave a heavy sigh, and I knew she was remembering the taste of her mum’s cooking and missing it. She’d be missing any cooking really. I wished I could feed her up.

‘I think I’ll stick to just a few vintage recipes for the weekend,’ I said, ‘to go alongside our usual menu. Some people might want to try them since they’ll be here to immerse themselves in the forties, but I’m guessing most won’t. Nice to have the option, though.’

‘That’s what Penny at the pub said,’ Aunt Polly told me. ‘Isaac reckons they’re just replacing three of the main dishes with the pies and the spam fritters. Fish and chips are already on the menu.’

‘Funny that fish and chips weren’t rationed during the war,’ I mused.

‘I’d have been queueing every night,’ Dad said, laughing.

‘Just because they weren’t rationed didn’t mean they were always available,’ Aunt Polly told him with a wry smile.

‘And anyway, who could afford to buy fish and chips every night? We weren’t made of money!

Besides, it wouldn’t have been in the spirit of things.

We were all in it together, and queueing at the shops for sausages and butter and the like was all part of that. ’

She went quiet for a minute, and I sipped my tea, imagining what life must have been like in Rowan Vale back then, and trying to picture Aunt Polly working in the teashop, meeting up with friends, perhaps going to the cinema in Much Melton.

She must have filled her days with as many distractions as she could possibly find in a desperate attempt to get over Uncle Charlie’s death.

It must have been such a terrible time for her.

‘Did I tell you the station’s getting transformed too?

’ she asked suddenly. ‘The Great War’s going to be put on hold for the weekend, so to speak.

They’re changing the usual background music to songs from the war – our war, I mean – and the staff members are going to wear dresses like mine, and modern uniforms.’

‘ Modern uniforms?’ Dad asked, grinning.

‘Well, forties uniforms! Shut up, our Jimmy. You know what I mean.’ Aunt Polly shook her head, smiling at him. ‘So the Victory Tearooms will be in direct competition with you. Mind, they’ll not have my syrup loaf recipe on their side.’

‘I’m sure we’ll both do loads of trade,’ I said. ‘The pub, too. Let’s face it, we’re really lucky here during tourist season. It’s the winter months, when it all dies down and the profits drop.’

‘At least this weekend’s in mid-September, so it will extend the summer season a bit,’ Dad pointed out.

‘A little bit.’ I nodded.

‘I don’t know why you worry,’ Aunt Polly said. ‘Mum and me kept the teashop going long before there were all these tourists. We all did well enough.’

‘Yes, but the village is a tourist-centred place now,’ I pointed out. ‘Back then, lots of people worked on the land. Now it’s nearly all leisure and tourism.’

‘Maybe Silas has a point then,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘About all the tourists, I mean.’

Dad shook his head. ‘It’s different now.

We can’t go back to the old days. I know Rowan Farm is run as a forties farm, but all the other farms round here are modern ones with so much mechanisation that they don’t need to employ loads of labourers any longer.

Farming’s changed. If there weren’t any tourists, most people would leave the area to get jobs in cities.

You can’t put the genie back in the bottle. ’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ Aunt Polly shrugged then brightened. ‘Anyway, whatever else happens, the forties weekend’s going to be fun, right?’

‘I think it will be, yes,’ I said. ‘It’s not going to be too much bother for me, Susie and Paige. We already wear vintage dresses and aprons to work, and the teashop’s set up in the wartime style. Might change the bunting to union flag bunting instead, but other than that…’

Aunt Polly drew an imaginary doodle on the arm of the chair before slowly asking, ‘Do you think Max will come here for the weekend?’

I blushed, wondering why she would ask about him, of all people.

‘Well,’ Dad said, ‘I don’t see why not. Rissa works here, after all, and now he’s been to the village a couple of times, he might well come back for the event. After all, he only lives in Chipping Royston.’

‘Does he?’ Aunt Polly asked, clearly surprised. ‘So quite local then.’

‘Very. He’s a teacher at the academy there,’ I told her.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Academy! What’s wrong with school?’