It’s a well-established fact that all the great turning points of history happen in places no one expects. Boring meetings happen in palaces. Great betrayals? supermarket car parks. And fate, that great practical joker, tends to play its trump cards in somewhere like a pie shop.

The “Upper Crust” was, notionally at least, a respectable establishment in the kind of way that reformed bank robbers can become respectable in old age. It sold pasties, pies and tarts. All savoury, and none that could be definitively connected to any of the more traditional foodstuffs. No butcher in town owned up to supplying the meat for the pies. But meat-filled they certainly were. That being said, the residents of Murkstone-Snatchly were, by long tradition, unconcerned by issues of provenance in the food chain. Which is probably a good thing, considering.

On this particular afternoon, while the sky outside hung like a soggy sock and the rain drizzled like an olive oil salesman on drugs, the bell above the door dinged, and Fate, that sly old fox, took a seat near the radiator.

First in was Captain James Bigglesworth DFC Ret’d., late of the Royal Flying Corps and currently of the opinion that no pie should ever contain either fruit or vegetables. Pies, in his considered opinion were about meat and gravy. Where gravy was unavailable, then meat and jelly would suffice. Vegetables in pies, particularly all forms of brassica, was the province of his old enemy, whom, even after all these long years of relative peace, he still referred to as ‘the bally Bosch’. Biggles removed his cap with military precision and scanned the premises as if expecting some enemy to have disguised themselves as a brocolli quiche simply in order to gain access to state secrets.

He took a seat. He waited. He ordered a meat pie that was described on the board as “Experimental, if somewhat bold.” He approved.

Then came a man in a rather suave trench coat.

He walked in with a certain insouciance. Cool, melancholy, and with the quiet confidence of someone who had seen the world, lit a cigarette, and told it where to get off. Rick Blaine, Casablanca Club owner, and the only man who could make a hat seem like a moral statement, loafed just inside the door.

“Here’s lookin’ at stew,” he said, nodding at the selection behind the counter.

Biggles eyed him. It was the sort of eyeing that had once brought down enemy pilots at 10,000 feet simply with the aid of a twin Vickers machine gun or popped an enemy bunker with a well-aimed Cooper bomb rattled off the underside of his Sopwith Camel. Rick met it with a look that would give an unfriendly Nazi the staggers.

“You a pilot?” Biggles asked, after a moment.

“I know where Casablanca airfield is. Never flew much though, too hard to light a cigarette mid-immelmann turn.”

Biggles grunted. “Hmm. I couldn’t agree more. Ciggarettes, dreadful things.”

The waitress, a vast woman called Doris who looked like she’d once wrestled rhinos for fun brought Rick a coffee and Biggles another pie.

“Anything for you sir?” she asked Rick, her pencil hovering expectantly.

Rick gave her the smile. Being an actor, he knew how to do winning smiles. Doris was smitten in an instant. Biggles, who rather fancied a larger lady, was a trifle miffed when he saw the effect of Rick’s smile.

“Meat, mystery, and something that won’t ask too many questions afterward.”

“That’ll be the Tuesday Surprise, then,” said Doris, and vanished in a flourish of apron.

There was a silence.

It was the silence of two men who knew danger, regret, and pastry. A silence that hinted at old wars, lost loves, and aircraft with one wing held on by string and prayers.

Finally, Biggles broke it.

“I say, what brings a Yank like you to a British pie shop?”

Rick stirred his coffee. “Same thing that brings everyone here. Escaping something. And hoping the pastry helps. Also, I wasn’t aware it was a strictly British pie shop?”

Biggles nodded. “Good point, I suppose. More of an international, ‘porc à la moutarde en croute’, or ‘Pâté en croûte’ or ‘venison en Tourte’ sort of ‘haute cuisine’ type of gaff then really?”

“Well… up to a a point. This is Murkstone-Snatchly, after all. But I agree, pies have appeal the world over.”

Biggles pushed a pie toward him. “Try this. You can’t think about anything else when your mouth’s full of gravy.”

Rick accepted. He bit. He paused. Something flickered in his eyes, possibly nostalgia, more likely nutmeg.

“You know,” he said slowly, “this could be the beginning of a beautiful indigestion.”

Biggles raised his cup. “To pie.”

“To pie,” said Rick. “And whatever’s left of honour, old planes, and people who know when to dodge a bullet.”

They clinked their coffee cups.

Outside, the rain had started marching rather than drizzling. But inside the pie shop, two old campaigners shared silence, shared stories, and, for the first time in a long time, shared something that tasted nothing like vegetables.

In the back, Doris bludgeoned a dozen rats with a labourers hod and threw the flattened remains into the stew pot. “Duck a l’orange pies coming up in half an hour,” she trilled.