Come the Hour (14 page)

‘We’d freeze to death out there,’ Amy said. ‘We could get paraffin heaters, I suppose.’ She smiled. ‘Then we’d die of paraffin fumes. Not much of a choice, is there?’

‘Well nothing’s happened yet,’ Dan said. ‘Perhaps they won’t bomb civilian areas.’

‘They did in the last war,’ Amy said, ‘so I can’t see them holding back in this one.’

‘Perhaps Lord Haw Haw will tell us,’ Dan said, smiling. ‘We’d better listen in on Sunday.’

‘That traitor,’ Amy said. ‘He may be amusing but he’s British, and he’s making broadcasts for the enemy. How can he do that?’ She paused. ‘I’ll see about an Anderson shelter.’

‘He’ll get his come-uppance,’ Dan said. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes when the war is over.’ He wound a scarf around his neck and put on a trilby and woollen gloves. ‘What are you doing today?’

‘The free clinic at Hammersmith,’ Amy said. ‘Then I thought I’d go and see Mrs Lewis and offer her the job. We can’t go on like this with no help.’

‘Good idea. See you tonight.’ Dan kissed her cheek and left, into the dark, icy morning.

The Hammersmith clinic was busy. It seemed that some of the children in the slum areas were still at home. Amy treated coughs and colds, and a little girl with a nasty discharging ear. She cleaned out the ear as best she could, and then packed it with ribbon gauze soaked in antiseptic. The little girl was eleven, scrawny and shabbily dressed. She let Amy deal with her ear without complaining, though it must have been sore.

‘You didn’t send her to be evacuated, then?’ Amy asked.

‘No,’ her mother said. ‘I can’t do without her. I’ve got three more little ones and I have to go out cleaning.’

‘Bring her back in two days,’ Amy said, ‘and I’ll do the dressing again.’ They left. The mother didn’t take the child’s hand, Amy noticed. She spoke to her as if she were an adult. This child, Amy thought, was eleven years old and practically bringing up her little brothers and
sisters, missing school half the time, no doubt. What future did she have? Things must change. When this war is over, things must change.

She shivered a little in the cold. Was it the cold? What would Britain be like then? Conquered and subject to Germany? Blasted and flattened? No, she thought, no such thoughts. We will win. We will win.

She went to see Mrs Lewis. ‘It’s just a visit, Mrs Lewis,’ she said at once. ‘Nothing to do with Sara.’

Nora smiled and took her into the kitchen. ‘Cup of tea, Doctor?’ she said.

‘Yes please.’

Nora put on the kettle and got out the best cups and saucers.

‘Has your husband been called up yet?’ Amy asked.

Nora nodded. ‘He got into the Navy – that was what he wanted.’ She bit her lip. ‘He would, wouldn’t he – go into the one that’s doing all the fighting. The Germans are sinking our ships all the time, aren’t they?’

‘You must be very proud of him,’ Amy said. ‘We couldn’t do without the Navy. It’s our lifeline.’

‘Yes,’ Nora said, ‘I am. But he couldn’t even say goodbye to Sara.’

‘Have you heard from her?’ Amy asked. ‘Is she all right?’

‘No, she isn’t,’ Nora said. ‘She’s very upset. She can’t get into a proper school. I don’t know what to do.’

‘It might not be the right time to ask,’ Amy said, ‘but I wondered if you were thinking of taking a job?’

Nora was surprised. ‘I suppose I’ll have to sometime,’ she said. ‘Everybody’ll have to do something, won’t they?’

‘I wondered if you’d like to work for me?’ Amy said. ‘I need a housekeeper to look after the house and do simple cooking. My husband’s a surgeon. We’re both out most of the time.’

‘Oh!’ Nora said, surprised. ‘It might be better than working in a factory or on the land. I’d be there for Sara if she comes home. Would I have to live in?’

‘Only if you want to,’ Amy said. ‘Or you could come in each day.’

‘Are you sure I could do it?’ Nora said. ‘I’m not a fancy cook. It would all be a bit plain.’

‘We’re not fancy eaters,’ Amy said. ‘Plain food suits us fine. And
there won’t be much else when the rationing really gets going. I expect just about everything will be rationed in the end. My daughter will only be home in the university vacations, and my son when he gets leave.’

‘Can I think about it?’ Nora said.

Amy smiled. ‘Of course. I’ll come round in a couple of days and see what you think.’

After she’d gone Nora sat down and had another cup of tea. What a surprise that was! It might be a good idea – the job. Sara would come home sometime, she supposed, and she wouldn’t mind if her mother was working for a couple of doctors.

Sara went to school every day and came home frustrated and angry. It wasn’t the teachers – they were nice, but as every day went by she felt her dream slipping away. They even asked her to teach some of the little ones now and again, they were so short of teachers. She helped the little ones with their reading. The headmistress seemed to think she was very good at it. ‘You should be a teacher, Sara,’ she said. Her reaction to that had been to feel a bit sick. No, she thought. No. I shouldn’t.

Mrs Brooks had invited her mother for Christmas Day and her mother had brought one of her Christmas puddings with the threepenny bits. She had given her a book about zoology – a second-hand one that she had found in the Portobello Road.

‘It’s lovely, Mum,’ she said, ‘but I want to come home. Nobody’s bombing anybody, are they, and you’re all on your own. There haven’t been any raids at all.’

‘Please, Sara.’ Nora was almost in tears. ‘We don’t know what’s going to happen and you’re safer here with Mrs Brooks.’

‘But I’ll miss everything at school.’ Sara was crying now. ‘I’ve already missed one term. If I miss any more I’ll never get to university.’ Her mother didn’t seem to know what to do. Nora had been in tears herself before she left, but she hadn’t taken her home.

Sara lay in bed at night, restless and unhappy. I’m not doing this, she thought. I’m not just going to let it all be taken away. I’m not staying here. A plan was becoming a certainty. The pound note was still under the mattress, she checked every night. I’m going home, she thought.
I’m not a baby, I’m twelve now and my dad was working when he was twelve. Nobody can stop me, and my mum won’t send me back. I just won’t go.

Mrs Brooks was going out next morning. She said she was trying to get some eggs from one of the farms. If she went home she would have to take her ration book. She knew where it was. Mrs Brooks kept it in a drawer in the kitchen.

She got up quietly, got out the pound note and put it in her satchel. She packed her clothes in her little case and hid it in the wardrobe. Then she tore a page out of her exercise book and wrote a note to Mrs Brooks. ‘I have gone home. Thank you for having me. Love, Sara.’ Then she went to sleep. Tomorrow she was going home.

She took the train in the morning. It was packed, mainly with soldiers, and she couldn’t get a seat. She stood in the corridor, squashed up against a large lady in a damp fur coat that smelt of dog.

‘Do you know where I have to change trains to get to London?’ Sara asked her.

‘Maidenhead,’ the woman said. ‘Are you on your own? You’re a bit young to be going about on your own, especially with all these soldiers about.’

‘I’m twelve,’ Sara said. ‘I’m all right.’

The woman shrugged. ‘I don’t know what’s going on half the time. There’s a war on, I suppose. You be careful. I’ll tell you when we get there.’

Sara changed trains. The London train was worse, more packed than ever. There were soldiers lining the corridors, all smoking, and the smoke made her cough. They seemed to go so slowly, past the bare fields and woods of the countryside, and the rows of little houses on the edges of the towns. They’d taken all the signs down at the stations to fool the Germans and she’d no idea where she was. Still, the guard or somebody shouted the station names when they stopped.

‘Paddington’ the guard shouted. ‘Paddington station.’

Sara felt a flood of relief and pure joy. She was home. She climbed off the train and went to find the bus.

Nora opened the front door. Sara rushed in and threw her arms around her mother’s neck.

‘I’ve come home, Mum. Please, please don’t send me back.’ She burst into tears.

Nora held her close. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’ She held Sara away from her and looked into her face. ‘You tell me the truth, Sara. Did somebody do something to you? Some man?’

‘No, Mum,’ Sara said. ‘Nothing like that. I just wanted to come home.’

Nora took her into the kitchen. ‘Sit down there,’ she said, ‘and I’ll make you a cup of tea. Now tell me what happened.’ Nora was ready to be outraged – ready to do battle with anyone who had hurt Sara.

‘Nothing, Mum,’ Sara said. ‘Mrs Brooks was very nice, but the school was useless. I was even teaching some of the little kids sometimes. They said I’d make a good teacher. A teacher, Mum!’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being a teacher,’ Nora said. It might be a good idea, she thought, to suggest some other career, just in case.

Sara began to cry again. ‘I’m not going back.’

‘All right,’ Nora said. ‘You’re not going back.’ She put Sara to bed early.

She sat by the kitchen fire. What a world, she thought. Who would have imagined that there would be another war? With Jim away fighting, it didn’t seem real. The confusion of the last few months was terrible. But perhaps, in a small way, things were working out a bit for her. If she took the job with Doctor Fielding she wouldn’t have to go into a factory or on the land, and she’d be there for Sara. Sara was at home, upstairs in her own bed, and it was lovely. She was growing up – thirteen now. In another year, she thought, she’ll be the same age as I was when I went into service. Well, that wasn’t going to happen to her.

Someone knocked at the door. It was a young policeman. For a moment she was terrified. Was it Jim? No, they sent a telegram from the Navy if anything had happened, not a policeman. She asked him in. He was checking to see whether Sara had got home safely. Mrs Brooks had contacted the police. She must write to her, Nora thought, and thank her for everything.

She stared into the fire, the flickering flames soothing and calming
her. The child was right. Why should we let them spoil everything? No bloody German was going to stop Sara doing what she wanted, war or no war.

Amy did her surgeries in the Harrow Road. There were some children about again, playing in the streets, and coming in with their coughs and colds and runny ears. ‘They’ve come home,’ their mothers said. ‘They weren’t happy there, and there’s nothing happening, is there?’ It all seemed to have been a panic for nothing. Fears about bombing seemed to be unfounded and the children were trickling home from everywhere. Perhaps the Germans really were going to do the right thing and not bomb civilians.

It began to feel almost normal again, apart from the blackout, and even that had eased a little. Cars had cardboard covers over the lights with little slits in them to let out a modicum of light. Some street lights were lit – blue lamps shaded from above. The road accident rate had gone down a little, according to Dan.

She called on Nora again, praying that she’d take the job. Things were getting difficult at home. The rations were minute, and she didn’t have time to stand in queues to get whatever was going. Oranges and bananas and lots of other things had disappeared. Merchant seamen’s lives weren’t to be put at risk to bring in such luxuries. Our world has contracted, she thought. This little island really is an island now, the horizons drawn in, the walls building.

Nora opened the front door and beamed at her. ‘Come in, Doctor.’

Amy followed her into the kitchen. ‘You seem very happy today, Mrs Lewis,’ she said. ‘Have you had some good news?’

Nora nodded. ‘Sara’s home. She came back. I didn’t know how much I missed her till she came back.’

‘Is she here?’ Amy asked.

‘No. She’s back at school. She’s as happy as could be to be back there. The other school was no good for her – just a little village one. You know what she’s like.’

Amy smiled. ‘A lot of the children seem to be coming back. I’ve been seeing them in the clinics.’ Some of the older ones, she was well aware, didn’t want to come back – back to the poverty and squalor of the
slums. Many of them had arrived home clean and nit-free and wearing new clothes, and angry, aware for the first time that other people didn’t live like their families did, dirty and hungry, squashed in a couple of squalid rooms, helpless and hopeless. She’d had a letter from Mrs Parks in Marlow. They’d had a little girl from the East End, six years old, billeted on them, she’d written. She was filthy and covered in head lice, half-starved by the look of her, and she didn’t know how to use a toilet. ‘It’s a disgrace,’ she wrote, ‘children like this, in a so-called civilized country.’

‘You’ve come about the job, I expect,’ Nora said. ‘I’d like to take it, if that’s all right. At least, I could do a month, say, and see how we get on.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Amy said. ‘When can you start?’

‘Next week?’ Nora said. ‘I’ll just get Sara settled down. I’d rather live here, if that’s all right. When Jim comes home on leave he’ll want to be in his own home.’

‘We can get our own breakfast,’ Amy said, ‘so you can get her off to school before you come.’

‘Sara would have to come to your house from school,’ Nora said, ‘but she won’t be in the way. She’ll only be doing her homework.’

‘That’s fine,’ Amy said. ‘You can both have dinner at my house, if you like, and you can leave a meal ready for my husband and me. Have you told her? Is she happy about it?’

Nora gave a broad smile. ‘She’s thrilled to bits. She’ll be living surrounded with doctors.’

Amy laughed. ‘So she’s still determined?’

‘Yes,’ Nora said. ‘Just the same.’

‘Fine,’ Amy said. ‘Can you come Monday morning, Mrs Lewis, about nine o’clock? I’ll take an hour or two off and settle you in.’

‘I’ll be there,’ Nora said, ‘and call me Nora.’

A
t last Charlie and Tim were posted to an operational squadron.

‘Spitfires,’ Tim said. ‘Just look at them.’

The planes were lined up along the airfield. The sleek lines were beautiful, Charlie thought, but the aircraft was intimidating. Its beauty hid a mighty beast, one that he would have to learn to control.

They had more lectures – Tim complaining again – then they actually sat in the cockpit of a Spitfire. They must learn where the controls were: know them with their eyes shut, literally. Charlie chose not to think about smoke-filled cockpits, or worse. They practised taxiing. The Spit had a long nose with no forward vision and they had to swing from side to side to see where they were going.

Then at last on a clear blue-sky day, they went solo. Charlie was strapped in at the edge of the runway. ‘Can’t give you any dual training, obviously,’ his instructor said cheerfully. ‘You’re on your own. Just get in and get on with it.’

Charlie opened the throttle, not knowing quite what to expect. The Merlin engine roared in front of him. He reached flying speed and the Spitfire rose gracefully into the air. The aircraft was a complete surprise. This great machine responded like a dream – no pushing or pulling on the controls. A gentle touch was all that was needed. Now he knew why they said that playing the piano was good training – flying a Spitfire was gentle, sensitive, like touching the keys. You just had to stroke it, breathe on it, and it obeyed you. It turned on a sixpence and it came out of a spin like a lady. He climbed to 5,000 feet and threw it about the sky a bit. It was far, far better than he’d ever expected. He flew lower and looked below him at the English
countryside
,
at the neat fields and the farms and the woods. Now, in this fabulous machine, he really felt like a dragon-killer. It reminded him of Arthur. He wondered what he was doing now.

They gathered in the mess in the evening. ‘What do you think?’ Tim said.

Charlie smiled, a daft, dreamy smile. ‘Brilliant. I think I’m in love.’

Tim laughed. ‘We can play dogfights tomorrow. Chase each other around. Bet I shoot you down.’

‘Two pints says you don’t.’

They ceremoniously undid the top button of their uniform jackets – the self-awarded privilege of being fighter pilots.

A new pilot had joined the mess, posted back from France. He was the only one they’d met who’d actually been in combat. They gathered round him, eager to hear what he had to say. ‘I think I got one,’ he said, ‘a 109, but you can’t be absolutely sure. It’s like a madhouse for a bit, and then it all stops – everybody disappears.’ He swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘Don’t underestimate them – the Germans. They’re good. They’ve been well trained. I think their 109s are a bit faster than the Spits but the Spit will out-turn them every time. Get above them, come in out of the sun and get in close. Two hundred yards is a reasonable range, or even closer if you can. No further out.’

They plied him with beer. He became faintly philosophical. ‘Don’t be mistaken about them,’ he said. ‘Don’t let anyone tell you that they’re good chaps and just like us. They’ve been shooting up refugees on the roads – women and children. They’re bastards. We’ve got to get them – do what our squadron leader said – get in amongst them and shoot them down.’

Charlie managed to get a word with him on his own. ‘What’s it really like?’ he said.

‘Piece of cake,’ the pilot said. He grinned. ‘Haven’t had any brown trousers yet. You’re too busy. I suppose you get a bit sweaty afterwards. But it’s all right. It doesn’t last.’ He was smiling, but the smile faded suddenly. Charlie asked no more.

The next day Charlie met his instructor on the field. ‘I’m coming up in another aircraft, Charlie,’ he said. ‘And I’m going to shoot you down.’ He grinned. ‘Theoretically, of course.’

They took off together. Charlie climbed away at once and did a neat stall turn. He looked around him, circled, flew lower, trying to remember the lectures on combat manoeuvres. There seemed to be no sign of his instructor. Have I lost him, he thought? Already? That didn’t seem to be too difficult. He began to feel rather pleased with himself.

The voice came over the radio. ‘Takatakatakatak. I’m on your tail, Charlie. You’re a dead man.’

‘God,’ Charlie said aloud. If he hadn’t been strapped in he’d have jumped out of his seat.

After a few more abortive attempts on Charlie’s part to escape his instructor, they landed and debriefed. ‘Not bad, Charlie,’ his instructor said, ‘but it needs more work. Do not ever hang about wondering who’s there or where they’ve gone. Do your bit and when you run out of ammo get out. And never, never, follow a damaged aircraft down. Let it go, or you’ll be a sitting duck and some other crafty sod will get you. Don’t do anything predictable, don’t fly straight and level for more than a few seconds.’

March wore on; the weather grew warmer. The pilots stripped to the waist and spent their spare time filling sandbags to build up protective walls around the aircraft. There were sporadic reports of encounters in France: some pilots dead, some safely bailed out, some taken prisoner. The loss of pilots was already deeply worrying. Where were their trained replacements to come from? It was all taking too long. The losses in France were too many, for very little tangible return. The Germans weren’t retreating.

Charlie flew and flew. He began to feel that his aircraft was part of himself, an extension of his will. He began to feel that he might be ready. More than ready. He wanted to get in there, have that first real experience, prove to himself that he could do it, prove himself in battle. But still their bombers didn’t come.

Tessa joined Rita in the dissecting room. ‘We’ll start on the lung, shall we?’ she said. She pointed with her forceps. ‘That must be the pulmonary artery.’

Rita seemed distracted, distressed. She opened her book, but closed it again, and began to cry.

‘Rita,’ Tessa said. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

‘I can’t do this,’ Rita said.

‘What? Dissection? What’s happened? It’s never bothered you before.’

‘No, it’s not that.’

Rita wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘My fiancé wants us to get married now, right away. He’ll be going to France any minute. I can’t say no, can I? And I don’t want to.’

‘Let’s pack this up,’ Tessa said, ‘and go back to college. We can’t talk here.’

They sat in Tessa’s little room. ‘I’m going to marry him,’ Rita said. ‘He’s going into all that danger. I can’t make him wait. He might not …’ She began to cry again.

‘Look,’ Tessa said. ‘I’m sure you won’t have to leave. Surely they’ll let you stay, under the circumstances? The war won’t go on for ever.’

‘He wants to have a child,’ Rita said, ‘before it’s too late. I can’t do this and have a baby. I’ve made up my mind.’

Tessa found that she was, to her surprise, rather shocked. ‘Does he really want you to give up all this?’

Rita stared at her, her face drawn. ‘He might be giving up his life, Tessa. You don’t seem to understand. What can I give, compared with that?’

Tessa was ashamed. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She took Rita’s hand. ‘That was a stupid thing I said. I don’t know much, do I? I’m sure you won’t be the only one leaving. Would you like me to come with you to see the principal?’

Rita got up. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it myself, but thanks.’ She smiled a thin smile. ‘I just want to make him happy. I love him, you see. More than anything.’

Tessa sat for a few minutes after she’d gone. Rita was right, she thought, and how could she have been so insensitive? Was she really that hard? She was terrified by the thought that something might happen to Charlie, or her parents or Grandpa. But a man – a lover or a husband? She had no experience, had never loved anyone in that way. She couldn’t imagine herself having to make such a choice. Doing medicine was all she had ever wanted. She got up and moved restlessly
around the room, straightening the books on her table. The answer was not to get involved with anyone, not with what was going on in the world. It would be difficult enough, without that. And yet she felt a kind of emptiness; a longing, an isolation.

She stared out of the window at the college garden, coming into bloom now, the buds of spring tentatively opening. Despite the war, she felt that lifting of the heart that spring always brought: new hopes, new beginnings. She leant her forehead against the window. Not to get involved, that was the thing, not step over that line. But she was well aware that she’d been thinking about Tim almost continuously since they’d met, half-hoping that he would contact her in some way. More than half-hoping. He seemed nice, that was all: a nice friend. Charlie’s friend.

On Saturday there was a knock at her door – one of the college maids. ‘There’s a gentleman downstairs asking to see you,’ she said. ‘He’s in RAF uniform.’

Tessa felt fear flare up, a new and horrifying fear. What was it? Something to do with Charlie? Had something happened to him? Had they sent someone to tell her? Or had Charlie come to tell her some awful news from home? She hadn’t heard of any raids on London. She hurried down the stairs.

Tim was waiting in the entrance hall, smiling. ‘Hello, Tessa,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a twenty-four-hour pass, so I thought I’d come to see you. Do you mind? I can go away again.’

She was flooded with relief, and with something else: pleasure at seeing him, pleasure at knowing that he wanted to see her. ‘No,’ she said, smiling back. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘Can you come to lunch?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think so. Will you wait? I’ll get my coat.’ She ran back up the stairs. He’s come, she thought. I knew he’d come.

They lunched at the University Arms hotel. Tessa found herself feeling unusually shy, not her normal free-and-easy self. She found it difficult to meet his eye. Every time she did he smiled at her – a warm smile.

‘How’s Charlie?’ she asked.

‘He’s fine. He’s fallen in love with his Spitfire. Utterly besotted.’

Tessa laughed. ‘So I understand.’

‘He’s flying this weekend, so he couldn’t come, but he knows I’m here. He sends you his love.’

They chatted, through lunch, of life before the war. ‘Charlie said you were up at Oxford,’ Tessa said. ‘What were you reading?’

‘PPE,’ he said. ‘Philosophy, Politics and Economics. My father seems to have some idea that I might go into politics.’

‘Might you?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Who knows what the world will be like after the war. The old kind of politics might not do.’

‘If we win.’

He grinned. ‘Oh, we’ll win. They’d have to get past Charlie and me.’

She laughed. ‘I’ll stop worrying, then.’ She stirred a small spoonful of sugar into her coffee, surprised that it was still being offered. ‘Things will have to be different, though. My mother says some of the slums are terrible. Those children …’

‘We’ve got a job to do first,’ he said. ‘That’s all I can think about at the moment.’

She pushed her coffee cup away. ‘I feel so useless here. There’s you and Charlie flying, and girls working in munitions factories and on the land, and I’m just here, as usual, as if nothing had happened.’

‘You’re not doing nothing, Tessa,’ he said quietly, ‘you’re keeping going – doing what you have to do. You’ve no idea how important that is, keeping normality, keeping the country as it should be, as we remember it. You’ve no idea how lovely it is just to be here, in this spectacular old town, with a – a friend.’

She sensed something in his voice, some reticence, some withdrawal. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Has something happened?’

He forced away the memory of the accident. ‘No,’ he said, smiling. ‘Flying’s wonderful. I’m just as besotted as Charlie.’ He glanced away from her, but she caught something in his eyes, a look that struck her as strange – perhaps some kind of bizarre amusement.

They walked along the Backs in the thin sunshine, the river flowing quietly past the great, ancient buildings, King’s College Chapel catching the rays of sunlight. She thought of the masons who had built
it, generations of them, most of whom never lived to see it completed. They built for the future, for a thousand years. They had never imagined that someone could drop a bomb on it from above, and destroy it in one horrible second. She stopped and looked at it, a lump in her throat.

‘I know,’ Tim said. ‘It isn’t going to happen.’

‘I hope not.’

They had tea at the Copper Kettle.

‘Where do you live, Tim?’ she asked.

‘I have a little flat in London,’ he said. ‘My parents are divorced, so there’s no real family home – or perhaps I’ve got two.’

‘Oh.’ Tessa was surprised, and then annoyed with herself for showing it. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s not exactly happy families, is it? I don’t mind now. They made sure I was well looked after – the right school and all that.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t think it’s done me any harm.’

‘I’m sure it hasn’t,’ she said.

‘Not that it matters much now, does it?’ He looked away, over the river. ‘It doesn’t matter much about your background now. All roads lead to war.’

‘I expect you’re right,’ she said.

‘I’d better get back,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ll get a taxi to the station.’ He walked with her back to college and they stopped outside the door. ‘It’s been a lovely day, Tessa,’ he said. ‘May I come to see you again?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d like that.’

He touched her hand and walked away down the street, not looking back. What must it be like, she thought, to be like Rita and thousands of other women, to see someone you love walk away like this into God knows what? I don’t think I could do it. How would you bear it? She went up to her room, took off her coat and sat down at her table with
Gray’s Anatomy
. Then she got up and looked out of the window. He said he would come again.

Nora started work on Monday morning. Amy showed her round the house, and the flat, in case she ever wanted to use it.

Nora looked around her with considerable pleasure, and some
relief. It was a comfortable home, that was all, not some kind of inhabited museum like some of the houses she’d seen. She thought she could cope with this.