‘You have no idea, darling.’

I finished dressing; she wrapped the kimono around herself and followed me back to the sitting room. Maud was upright on the sofa, the newspaper folded neatly in her lap.

‘Sorry we were gone so long,’ I said. ‘Been reading?’

‘Yes.’ Her cheeks flushed and I remembered, guiltily, how thin Sylvie’s walls were.

Sylvie crossed to the drinks cabinet, poured herself a drink and turned to face us. ‘You know, Maud – you could campaign against him if you wanted to.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.

Maud shook her head. ‘I can’t campaign.’

‘Protest, then. Start a petition.’ Sylvie smiled. ‘Just don’t make the mistake of thinking you’ll be thanked for it – people don’t like it when others know what’s best for them.’

‘I wouldn’t do it for thanks.’

‘I know you wouldn’t.’

There was a moment of silence.

‘We’d better go,’ I said eventually.

Sylvie came out onto the veranda with us and kissed Maud’s forehead. ‘Take care.’

‘You too,’ Maud said. They held hands for a moment, then Maud climbed down the stairs and walked to the car.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ I said, leaning in for my own kiss.

She turned her cheek. ‘See you, darling.’

Letters were written to the East African Standard, some of which were published. They criticised the Blackshirts’ links with Hitler and Mussolini, who were planning, they pointed out, to take over Kenya’s neighbours, Tanganyika and Abyssinia.

We all know what would happen next, one reader wrote in. We would be divided up between them, or, more likely, go to Germany and Herr Hitler. This is our land, will the government let that be undermined by Sir Oswald Mosley and the Earl of Caithness?

Douglas continued to write to me, letting me know the situation as the civil service saw it. MacDonald is a strange one, he wrote. He built the Labour Party up, only to split it; only two colleagues joined his National Government. He’s holding us together in some pretty dark economic times, but he doesn’t seem to be able to do anything else. Public opinion is against most of his instincts. I worry that he’ll go and someone like Mosley will capitalise somehow.

I didn’t tell him about Freddie. I didn’t believe Freddie was wedded to Fascism. He’d jumped on a movement that would have him and that he thought had popular potential. But people like Douglas and Maud didn’t understand it would always be about him, not the party. I knew he’d be good at politics – he was a fresh voice, and compelling – but the more I read about the Blackshirts, the more I wished he’d chosen someone else to align himself with. Still, at least Freddie was active. Compared to him, my long, unfulfilling days at the railway office seemed even more directionless and pathetic.