She was pulling away, furiously. ‘So that’s what you think!’ she flared at him. ‘So that’s what I am, isn’t it: a bloody little typist!’

‘No, no! That’s not what I mean. I put it all wrong. I just mean – oh, you know, she’s one of those women – compared with you she’s . . . I mean, you’ve got class. You’re different altogether. It’s not because she’s a typist, as such, it’s just . . . She’s not in your league at all. Don’t be cross, Squeak – I wasn’t getting at you.’ He gazed at her with round, little-boy eyes until she forgave him.

Spring days came at last, warm and full of green promise.

‘One day,’ Simon said, as they lay naked together in his bedroom, ‘in fact, not one day – lots of days! – we’ll go out when it’s warm, and we’ll make love out in the open air.’ He trailed his hands across her ribs and she giggled at the way it tickled. ‘We’ll make love in haystacks and fields, on the cliffs, on the beach, up trees . . .’

She was laughing now. ‘Up trees! Can you imagine!’

He turned to her exuberantly. ‘I can’t ever have enough of you, my Dark Lady. I want to make love to you everywhere and every way . . . Hey, I’ve just thought!’ He pushed himself up. ‘We can go in the garden!’

‘What, now? Don’t be daft. It’s freezing!’

‘It’s nearly May – that’s almost summer!’

‘Well, it may be May, but “the May isn’t out”. And it’s cold. You go in the garden stark naked if you want, but I’m staying in this nice warm bed!’

‘Oh, I see – well, would her Ladyship like her Bear to bring her a cup of tea in her nice warm bed?’

‘Yes – she would, please.’ As he got up, Katie reached up and smacked his bare bottom. ‘Double-quick time!’

Sometimes it felt as if the war would just go on and on, and nothing would change. Apart from a couple of lone bombing raids over Birmingham over the past months, the fighting was all far away, and what was close up meant endless inconveniences: the blackout, the shortages of food and cigarettes, razor blades, booze and petrol – small or large considerations, depending on who you were.

And then suddenly the reality of war would burst in and come up close, as it did that morning when they were all working away in the office, Mrs Crosby miserably mopping her nose because of a spring cold and Katie typing until her fingers ached.

They heard running feet and Mr Graham cannon-balled through the door, more animated than Katie had ever seen him, going so fast that he had a job not to crash into Lena Crosby’s desk.

‘Have you heard the news?’ Obviously they hadn’t. He was hopping from foot to foot. ‘They’ve surrendered, those Kraut bastards! In the desert – in North Africa. The whole bloody sodding lot of them. Monty’s done it!’