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"Anywhere," I said, smiling at him.

"I know a place, quiet. Come on."

He hurried me along as if time was important and there was little of it left, and, taking me up an alley, he pushed open a door which led into a passage and guided me into a room where a fire was burning brightly.

There were half a dozen iron- legged and glass-topped tables and only one other couple in the room, an army officer and a smart woman with a heavily made-up face. Martin seated me in the corner with my back to the wall, and took his seat opposite to me.

"What are you going to have?" he asked.

I was about to say a lemonade but changed it to, "Oh, anything."

"Gin... gin and lime?"

Again I was going to say, "Oh, anything," but it was the smart woman's sidelong glance that made me say, "Yes, that'll do, gin and lime."

He was leaning with his elbows on the table, his face not far from mine, he was looking into my eyes as I remembered him doing that night, that night that was last night so near it was again, and in a whisper he said, "Oh, Christine. I've thought of you often."

"Have you?" My voice was soft, my whole being was soft and as wide as an ocean, and was flowing over him in great waves of love.

"Have you thought of me?"

I did not lower my eyes when I said, "Yes, all the time."

A little smile came to his lips as he whispered, "I can't believe that.... You married?"

"Married!" I screwed up my face then shook my head.

"No," I said quietly, "I'm not married." I did not say, "Are you?" I knew he wouldn't be married.

"Well I bet you've been swamped with boyfriends."

The conversation was not as I had imagined it would be, but perhaps he was just wanting to find out if I had a boy. I said without any subtlety, "I haven't a boy-friend. I've never had one.... Well, only...."

His face became straight and I watched him blink his eyes rapidly as he sat up straight in the chair. He was about to say

something when the drinks came, and after handing me mine he clinked my glass.

"Cheers," he said.

"Cheers," I said, and tasted my first gin, which I thought horrible.

He was staring at me from across the table now, when he said under his breath, "You mean to say you've ... you've ..." He dropped his eyes to his drink and twisted the glass between his fingers, and I could have finished the sentence for him, "You've had no one but me ?"

It was not in me to say "I've had dozen of chances," although it was true; nor yet to say, "I've waited for years for this day, just to see you." Nor could I say anything that would embarrass him further, not only embarrass but frighten him. A little flame of terror shot through me at this last thought. Whatever happened I must not frighten him away before he had seen Constance, for when he had seen her he would be mine forever. There was no thought in my mind of trapping him. I had no subtlety. My ideas were straight and simple, based, although I did not realize it, on the teachings of my religion. He was the father of Constance there had been no other man near me. In my mind he was my husband, and when he saw his child there could be no doubt in his mind either. Yet I could not mention her name here. Perhaps I was a little subtle, perhaps a little cunning.

Still with the smart woman's example before me, I tried to adopt a casual tone which would put him at his ease, as I asked, "What have you been doing all this time?"

I could see that his mind was not on his words as he tapped his uniform, saying, "Flying, since the beginning."

"Since the beginning?" My inflection must have implied how lucky he was to be still alive, and he answered this by saying, "I've been one of the favoured. I'm in with Him." He thumbed the ceiling and gave a little smile before adding, "I'm on training duties now."

"At the aerodrome on the fells?" I couldn't keep the eagerness from my voice. He shook his head.

"No," he said, 'the Littleborough drome. "

The Littleborough drome was about ten miles away.

"Have you been back here long?"

"Four months or so."

Four months and I hadn't seen him . ;. four whole months.

There followed an awkward silence, and he broke it by saying, "Come on, finish that and have another."

"No, thanks." I shook my head and remembered the butcher's, but I did not say, "I've got to go." It was he, pushing back his sleeve and looking at his wrist watch, who said, "Struth, I must be off I'm afraid. I was due in Littleborough at one. I won't make it now, but I'll have to go."

He did not immediately rise but leant across the table, saying, "It's been grand seeing you, Christine. We must meet again."

"Yes. Yes, we must."

He did not make any date and I became panicky inside. As I buttoned up my coat I heard myself saying rapidly, "I can't get out much now, my mother died and I'm looking after the house."

"Oh.... Do you still live in the same place?"

Yes. "

"I must look you up then."

"Yes... yes, do. Would you make it after seven o'clock?"

He gave me a look of startled surprise, then said, "Yes .."s yes, of course."

We were in the street now, standing facing each other once again, and I knew he was going to leave me without making any definite date, and the panic screamed in my head, "Ask him to come."

"When can I expect you?" I asked sedately.

oh, well now. " Again he pulled at the bottom of his tunic, and I remember thinking the action wasn't far removed from the coat-buttoning one that the lads indulged in, and I had once imagined he was as separated from such gaucheness as was God.

"Any night could it be? You said after seven?"

Yes," I nodded.

"Well, what about tomorrow? No, you'd better say Wednesi day. How's that?"

"Yes, that'll do fine."

"Good-bye then, Christine."

He held out his hand, and I placed mine in it and said, "Good-bye, Martin."

It was he who turned away first. Even his walk thrilled me is5

- the movement of his legs was more intoxicating than the gin that I had just drunk. My road lay in the same direction that he was taking, up the street and round the corner, but I let him get a start for he had not inquired which way I was going, and I would not see this as symbolical of the future.

I cannot tell you what my feelings were as I stood alone in that street. Not of joy, but definitely not of sorrow. Not full of new hope, but definitely not of despair. I felt no newborn courage, nor yet a chilling fear. I only knew that Martin was in my life again as I had known that one day he would be. That book of Ronnie's had been right. Desire something with all your heart and you'll get it.

When I got to the butcher's Rex Watson wasn't there he had gone to his dinner and Mr. Jameson said they had nothing but mutton. So I took our rations in mutton, and when I reached the house I couldn't remember having walked from the butcher's.

Dad was disappointed and said, "Wait till I see Rex Watson," and he had let the stew set on, but the burnt taste made no impression on me.

On the Tuesday night, with the house to myself, I washed my hair, bathed myself and did my nails, and on the Wednesday morning I practised making up my face, not heavily, but just enough to give me a touch of sophistication, for that is what I knew I lacked.

Sam, like Dad, was on night-shift, and for this I was thankful, for I would have had to get rid of him somehow. Not that he would have stayed once he had seen Martin, but I wanted no one here when Martin came, for it was absolutely necessary that I had him alone.

The last thing I did before getting myself ready was to prepare Constance for bed, but I did it as if she were going out for a special occasion. I curled her hair and did her nails and put her on a clean nightie, and every stitch on her bed was fresh. The only thing I couldn't do was make Ronnie's room, where she now slept, look like a nursery. I could do little with the house, the things were shabby, but everything was as clean as soap and water and polish could make it.

At five-to-seven I stood on the mat, my back to the fire, and wished that I smoked or drank or had some other means of settling my nerves.

At seven o'clock there was no knock on the door, but I heard Don Bowling's cough coming through the wall, and involuntarily I shuddered.

Would he come in? But no. I knew his routine pretty well now. He would be off down to the house in Bog's End.

At half past seven I was sick in every pore of my body. During the eternity from seven o'clock I had never moved from the mat and now I felt I could collapse at any moment. Then there came the knock on the front door and I went to open it.

"Hallo."

"Hallo," I said.

He was in the front room, and I noticed his eyes flicking from the brass bed to the other articles of furniture that crowded the room. He had his cap in his hand and seemed ill at ease.

"Will... will I take your coat?"

Slowly he took off his coat and handed it to me and I laid it on the bed.

When he stood in the brighter light of the kitchen he said, "I'm sorry I'm late. I thought I wasn't going to be able to make it at all."

"Sit down," I said. And as he sat down by the side of the table I asked, "Would you like a cup of tea ?"

"No thanks," he answered, and gave a little laugh. I sat down, too.

The table was between us, and so was something else. A great, solid awkwardness. He did not seem to possess the ease of manner and fluency of speech that I remembered.

His thoughts, too, must have been on how he remembered me, for he now said as he looked into my face across the space of the table, "I thought when I saw you the other morning that you hadn't changed, but you have. You're better looking than ever, Christine, And you've grown sort of filled out." He again gave a little laugh, and I thought if Don Dowling had said these words I would have taken them as an insult, something bad, but nothing Martin said could be bad to me.

Then he added, "What have you been doing with yourself all the time?"

It was such a trite question that some small part of me that held the same vein of character that had run through our Ronnie cried voicelessly, "Having your child and looking after it.

The thought brought me to my feet, and I went to the fire and poked it, and as I poked I felt his eyes on me and I knew that I must come straight to the point, I must show him Constance. I placed the poker very gently on the hearth and, turning about, said, "Martin, I've got something I want you to see."

"Yes?" He was looking up at me, and we were about an arm's length away from each other, and I wanted to fling myself on him, and into him, never to come out as myself again.

"You sound very serious all of a sudden."

"Would you mind coming upstairs?"

He was on his feet now, his face straight and not pale any more but tinged with colour. His eyes were hard on me and he asked in a flat voice, "What's this?"

I did not answer but led the way up the narrow dark stairs and into the bedroom where I had left a night light on.

I felt him hesitate on the threshold, and I turned and looked at him, and he came into the room. I had to close the door behind him before he could see the cot, and I could see that he was puzzled, even amazed at my action. And then he saw Constance. She was lying on her side, her hair no longer tidy but tousled about her head. She had pushed the clothes down from about her, and her pink nightie was rumpled around her waist. I dont know how long he looked at her, it might have been seconds or minutes, but when he turned to me his face was a deep dark red. He did not say, "Now look here, you can't pin this on me."

Nothing like that. He had only to look on the child to know it was his her skin, the shape of her face, her hair were all his. He turned fully to me and moved his head once from side to side, then dragged his lips between his teeth before speaking my name in a dazed kind of way.

"Christine."

My eyes dropped before his gaze.

"Good God!"

I did not speak, I just waited for his arms to come about me.

"Christ!"

He was swearing like any man I knew, and because of it was nearer to my life.

"But, Christine ... only that ... that once." The last word was just a whisper and he stumbled on its utterance, then slowly he put out his arms and drew me to him, and I lay where I had wanted to lie for so, so long. And it was too much for me.

I had rehearsed our meeting step by step and what would take place, and crying had no part in it, but now I was sobbing into his neck as if I would never stop. Yet, even at this moment, I told myself to be quiet in case they heard me next door.

His mouth was moving near my ear and he was repeating my name:

"Christine. Oh, Christine," and by the depth of regret in the tone I was repaid a thousand fold for all I had gone through.

It was he who led me down the stairs, but we did not relinquish our hold on each other, and in the kitchen he again took me in his arms and soothed me, saying, "Oh, my dear." And when he asked, "You waited all this time?" and I nodded my head dumbly against his coat, his voice sounded agonized as he muttered, "Good God!"

He sat me down in the armchair by the fire, then pulling a little crack et forward with his foot he seated himself by my knees and held my hands tightly. And I looked down into his face, which seemed changed and full of trouble, and now it was my turn to comfort and I touched his cheek, and said, "Don't look like that. It happened and there it is, and I'm not sorry, not a bit."

Suddenly he dropped his head and buried his face in my lap, and the happiness I experienced as I stroked his hair was new, like the love that I had for Constance intensified a thousand fold It had nothing to do with the body.

When after some time he looked up at me, he said softly, "Christine, we have got to talk."

"Yes, Martin."

I did not want to talk. I just wanted to sit and hold him and he to hold me. I wanted to feel his mouth on mine; he had not yet kissed me.