The war was turning: Paris had been liberated in August. But it all felt so sad and futile. Life was empty of the people I cared about. The one thing which warmed me at this time was that Lisa told me she was going to have Daisy baptized.

‘I wanted to ask you,’ she said shyly, ‘if you’d be her godmother?’

In the middle of all this came a telephone call from Douglas. Although I’d given him my address at Marjorie’s party he had never got in touch, and he had slipped again from the forefront of my mind though I had quite often noticed his name in the Mail. In a way I was relieved. I didn’t want my feelings complicated further.

My mother took the message. Would I meet him after work later that week, at Snow Hill Station?

Work was a distraction at that time, being able to go out and immerse myself in it. I didn’t feel like going out socially and making an effort with someone I barely knew, but I felt that telephoning him to refuse might prove even more awkward and would hurt his feelings.

I waited for him under the clock in Snow Hill Station as arranged, nervously tapping my umbrella against my legs. Above the cluster of people standing there, the huge hands of the clock jerked the minutes round. I was wishing like mad that I hadn’t agreed to meet him, that I could be at home, able to think quietly on my own. But as the big hand clicked over the twelve – seven o’clock – I saw Douglas come limping across the station forecourt, his camera over one shoulder, held close to his body. When he caught sight of me his smile lit his face with a warmth that lifted me.

‘Katie, my dear – I’m so sorry.’ He took my hand and his voice was the gentlest I’d ever heard it. I had left him a note at his office in Corporation Street, agreeing to meet him for a short time and telling him about Daddy. ‘You poor girl. You’ve had enough knocks already. I mean look at you – you’re a shadow of that bustling nurse who came along and swore at me.’

I smiled wryly. It was true. My clothes were hanging on me. I’d had to put a tuck in the waist of my blue uniform skirt and my face was pale, shadowed under the eyes, and too gaunt for my bone structure.

‘Oh, well’ – I made a Douglas-like quip – ‘I always did want to be a beanpole.’ Pointing at the camera, I said, ‘D’you take that everywhere with you?’

‘Yes, pretty much. Just in case.’ He looked at me, concerned. ‘I’ll bet you haven’t eaten yet. Come on, let’s find somewhere to go.’

The thought of intimate conversation across a table suddenly filled me with panic. ‘D’you know what I really feel like?’ I said quickly. ‘Fish and chips.’

Douglas laughed. ‘There was I thinking of something really sophisticated. Oh well – fish and chips, then. At least we don’t need our ration books for that.’