He worked his way along Library Terrace, opening and closing the black iron gates with care, and assessing the capabilities of these same maids by the level of shine they had achieved on the brass door knockers. The main door of number 23 was painted a deep navy blue and the front garden was festooned with early sweet peas and scented nigella. The brasswork gleamed and the stained glass in the inner door was polished to a sheen. He lifted his hand to knock and paused as he thought he caught sight of a figure walking in haste across the hall. His cousin had been a maid before the war, and he remembered her telling him that every fingerprint on the polished brass had to be rubbed away. He was glad the census had been delayed. Collecting completed forms in June was easier than it would have been during the civil unrest in April. He was all for the quiet life.

No one came to the door. He knocked, knuckles on wood, unwilling to add to the maid’s workload, and waited.

There was no reply. He knocked a second time and was rewarded by a flurry of activity in the hall. The door was opened by a woman of about forty, wearing a pink dress and carrying a coat draped over one arm. He couldn’t for the life of him think why she would want a coat when the sun was splitting the sky, but women were a mystery to him; they had so many rules for everything.

‘Yes?’ She looked at the bag slung across his shoulder. ‘If you’re looking for Jane she’s hanging out the laundry in the back garden, but I’ve asked her not to have callers unless it’s her day off.’

‘I’m not looking for Jane,’ he replied. ‘I’ve come to collect the census form your husband would have completed last night?’ He made his voice go up at the end, so the statement sounded like a question. If the form hadn’t yet been completed, it was less contentious.

‘Ah yes, of course. It’s in the dining room. One moment.’

He waited for what seemed like five minutes or more with the sun beating down, warming his back, and reminding him that he hadn’t had a glass of water since breakfast. This delay invariably meant that the form hadn’t been completed and there was some hasty scribing going on inside the house. Eventually, the woman reappeared, accompanied by a stocky, grey-bearded man.

‘My father was just looking for his pen to sign in the correct place.’ She handed him the form and he looked through all the entries, noting the smudged ink in a couple of places.

‘That all seems to be in order. Thank you. I’ll be on my way.’