‘I thought I’d better take it in for safekeeping,’ she said.

‘Oh – thank you.’ Molly took it and went up the bare staircase to her room.

Safekeeping my eye, she thought. Does she really think someone’s going to come in and steal my post? She was just being nosy as usual, poor old thing. She’s not got much to liven her life up. But then – Molly laughed at herself – neither have I, come to think of it! Despite the perishing cold, she was feeling quite cheerful.

Her digs were on the first floor of a house in Camden Town. Above her lived a shy, mousy-haired, but sweet-natured typist called Sarah. Below were Mrs Hodgkins and the suffering Bert. Molly had heard him groaning once or twice. Mrs H was nosy and a bit miserable, but she wasn’t a bad cook, the rent was reasonable, at eighteen shillings, and the house bare, but clean.

The room was very cold and, without taking off her coat, Molly filled the kettle, set it on the single ring heater. She badly needed a cuppa and a smoke after that freezing wait for the bus and the miserable crawl home! She sat on the bed, lit a cigarette and looked at the card, across which, in blue-black ink, was strung Phoebe Morrison’s unmistakable bold, square hand.

‘Molly . . .’ it began. (It had taken the two of them a long time to get used to each other’s first names. Molly struggled with ‘Phoebe’, and she was sure her former Subaltern had to think twice to prevent herself barking ‘Fox!’ at her.)

Molly – can you meet me on Saturday morning – usual place, 10.30? I’ve news for you.

Phoebe.

Molly laid the card down with a sense of mild curiosity and went to make herself a much-needed cup of tea. Mug in both hands, sipping the hot liquid, she thought: Well, I wonder what the Gorg’s got to say?

The relationship of commander and subordinate had never vanished entirely from their friendship, but since Molly had been living in London more permanently she had seen Phoebe Morrison quite regularly and they had become more relaxed with one another. They almost never went to each other’s lodgings – Phoebe in any case lived some way away in Highbury. And she was rather awkward company. So they met to do something: usually to go to the pictures and for a drink afterwards to chat about the film, while Molly stuck to lemonade and Phoebe smoked like a chimneystack. That worked well. Though the two of them had never had a very close or confiding conversation, Molly really looked forward to their outings. It felt like something sure and stable in her life, and she could tell that Phoebe, in her stiff, repressed way, valued it too. She certainly went to pains to keep in touch.

After another summer of the holiday camps, Molly had decided to try and get a grip on things. She was getting sick of her life of shifting work and of brief, pointless affairs with men who just happened to be around.