He’d tried, for about ten minutes. Then, lulled by the plush seat and the warm hall, he’d dropped off and Pam had kicked him hard on his shin to wake him.

She’d turned back to watch the performance, mouth set, arms folded and not looking half as pretty. She’d barely spoken to him for the rest of the night.

Things had been a bit prickly between him and Pam for a few weeks after that. He was sure Pam had spread the word that he was uncouth. He’d fallen asleep in the opera, after all.

It had probably been a mistake to think about dating someone from the bank. Lesson learned; he wouldn’t do that again in a hurry.

‘Would this one do, Pam?’ Nancy was asking, holding up a book.

‘Needs to be bigger,’ Pam said. ‘And heavier.’

‘What are you looking for? A doorstop?’ Ray asked, keeping his eyes on the shelf in front. He was feeling more chipper since he’d stopped looking down.

‘Books!’ Nancy said. ‘It’s for deportment. We’ll start with one on our heads and build up to a whole stack.’

Ray frowned. ‘Now why,’ he muttered, ‘would you want to do that?’

He tucked his find under his arm, took a deep breath and stepped carefully down the ladder.

Maggie was standing nearby. ‘Because,’ she said quietly, ‘Miss Sharp says it’ll teach us to walk gracefully, as though we’re gliding across the floor. And apparently—’ her voice dropped to a whisper ‘—Elsie walks like a man.’

Ray laughed.

The other girls were marching past, each with a stack of books in their arms.

‘Let’s see what Cynthia has to say about this lot!’ Nancy said, as they filed through the door.

Maggie paused. ‘What have you got there?’ she asked, nodding at the book he’d brought down with him.

He held it up. Gloucestershire: A Shell Guide. It was full of maps of the county in beautiful bright colours. It was exactly what he’d been hoping to find.

‘I came to find an atlas,’ Ray said. ‘I thought it might help. See, I’ve looked up that village, where your sister’s living. I saw the address when I posted your letter and it’s in here.’ He tapped the book’s cover. ‘I reckon it’s about twenty miles away.’

Maggie’s face fell. ‘Twenty miles?’

‘Not too shabby, is it?’ he said encouragingly. ‘You could bicycle there. Set off early on a Sunday morning and you’d be back before dark.’

She shook her head. ‘That ain’t – no, I don’t think so!’

She picked up the pile of books she’d collected and hurried from the room.

‘Hey!’ he called after her. ‘Don’t shoot the bloody messenger, will you?’ And then, to himself, ‘Thanks very much Ray, for going to all that trouble.’