Saturday was very cold and foggy, and Molly set out through the shrouded streets to meet Phoebe Morrison at their usual cafe. In the fog the blackened buildings, many of them bomb-damaged, loomed ghostly around her. Buses appeared suddenly out of the gloom. It was so cold it had been a struggle to get out of bed, stepping out onto the cold lino and quickly shoving coppers into the metre to get the gas fire on.

‘I’ve had enough of this winter,’ Molly murmured to herself, through her scarf. It was even colder and danker down in the Tube. Everyone looked pale and exhausted, and Molly supposed she must look worn-out as well. She could have done without having to go out today.

By the time she met Phoebe in the steamy atmosphere of the little greasy spoon where they liked to meet, Phoebe was already stubbing out her first cigarette.

‘Molly.’ She waved from a round table at the back. Molly couldn’t remember now why they had chosen this place. It was quite easy for them both to reach and, in its scruffy way, quite cosy with its stained tables and rickety chairs. It was hardly worth trying to put sugar in your tea, as there was scarcely ever any to be had, and it was a challenge even to find a teaspoon to do it with.

‘I got you a cup while I was at it,’ Phoebe said, indicating the white cup in front of Molly, full of sludgy-looking tea.

‘Thanks,’ Molly said. Phoebe was still bundled up in her green coat and Molly kept hers on too.

‘Had a good week?’ Phoebe tapped another cigarette out of the packet and put it in her mouth to light, leaning her head back slightly. Then she straightened her head and briskly breathed out a lungful of smoke.

‘Yes, not bad,’ Molly said. She was hugging herself. ‘Blooming freezing, though, isn’t it? I can’t seem to get warm.’

‘Try and relax. It helps.’

There was a silence, so Molly said. ‘How’s your week been?’

‘Oh – the usual. We’ve been pretty pushed actually.’ Molly knew that Phoebe worked in the government department dealing with roads and transport, though she had no real idea what she did there and Phoebe showed no enthusiasm for it.

Molly sipped her tea, wondering just why Phoebe had asked her to come. She didn’t seem to have anything to say, and yet, somewhere in the woman’s manner, she could sense something: a kind of excitement.

‘So,’ Phoebe said. ‘Have you heard?’

‘No. Heard what?’

‘About the army. Recruiting women again. Of course, a few ATS have been hanging on, scattered about the place. But now it’s serious – they’ve just got royal approval. They’re calling it the Women’s Royal Army Corps.’

Phoebe sat back with a what-d’you-think-of-that? look on her face.

Molly stared at her over her cup. Her mind was spinning. It had been over, for them – for all the women. Go back home, get on with another sort of life: we don’t need you now. We only need the men. That had been the message. But now . . .