‘Oh hullo, Ray,’ Pam said, craning her neck to look up at him. ‘We wondered where you’d got to.’

The girls spread out, stepping between the shelves and pulling out books with barely a glance at the titles or covers.

‘We got rather bored of magazines and the wireless,’ Pam said, by way of explanation. ‘Cynthia’s had a much better idea.’

Looking down at them, Ray started to feel queasy. The patterns in the parquet flooring were getting bigger and then smaller, swirling around, making him dizzy. He quickly pulled his head up again.

‘Found anything good?’ Pam asked from somewhere to the left of him.

Ray had spotted something earlier that would be just up her street: The Complete Opera Book by someone called Gustave Kobbe. He could remember which shelf it was on, too; the one to the right of the fireplace. But he wouldn’t tell her. No doubt, if he mentioned the word ‘opera’, she – or Nancy, who was bound to have heard the whole sorry tale – would only make some sarky comment.

His trip with Pam to the opera – a ‘date’ he supposed he should call it – had been a few months back, before the bombing closed the theatres. He wished he could erase it from his memory but something was always cropping up to remind him.

Why had he even agreed to go? Pam had said she had a spare ticket because a pal had let her down, but he’d doubted that was true. He’d been flirting with Pam for a while, wondering if a well-to-do girl like her was really interested or just toying with him. Finally, before he’d plucked up the courage to ask her out, she’d got fed up and asked him herself. Fair enough, he supposed, although it really ought to have been him doing the asking.

But as for that bloomin’ opera! He couldn’t even remember the name of it. He should have guessed it wouldn’t be his sort of thing. Call that a night out? Give him a variety show and a laugh and a sing-song over that, any day. But he’d been flattered to be asked and he’d rather hoped something might come of it. Courting a girl like Pam, well, it would be a feather in his cap. He’d definitely have been punching above his weight.

But, honest to goodness, the opera had been so dull. Who could possibly enjoy that?

Pam might have warned him about the singing (caterwauling more like). He’d half expected the window panes to start shattering.

‘What are they saying, for Pete’s sake?’ he’d asked, as the shrieking went on. Pam had shushed him and whispered, ‘It’s Italian!’

Italian? What on earth was the point of that? No wonder he hadn’t a clue what it was all about.