The corporals rose and pulled their berets from under their shoulder straps. ‘What’s the damage?’ said Corporal Warne.

‘Two cups of tea,’ said Dinah. ‘Let’s say fourpence and forget the rest. Where you off to now?’

‘Canteen,’ said Corporal Warne. ‘They serve you a good meal there. See you at six.’

***

It was hot in the Town Hall. Alfie Bradley, standing against the wall watching the dancing couples drift by, his tunic unbuttoned halfway to the waist, was scarlet and sweating and lonely.

On the dais at the end of the ballroom a six-piece band thumped and brayed epileptically, its noise mingling dizzily with the babble of conversation and the clatter of crockery in the refreshment bar. Hundreds of little Lana Turners smiled up at the faces of their soldier partners; dozens of Betty Grables leaned languidly on the chests of lank Americans. There was a waltz, the lights dimmed, the couples moved dreaming in the darkness, treading on clouds, their faces turning bright yellow, wine-red, bilious green under the revolving limelight. There was a quick-step. Charlie Venable came whirling by like a Dervish in battledress.

‘Come on, Alfie boy,’ he yelled, ‘let’s have some action.’

Alfie grinned feebly, afraid to look down at the girls who sat primly and expectantly against the wall.

He had to dance; he knew he had to dance, with Charlie here watching him and half the platoon in the hall. That girl there, he thought; no, she’s too old. That one, then? No, don’t be silly. She dances too well. What about that one? He moved towards her, then relaxed – vastly relieved – against the wall as she was whisked from her chair by a sailor.

But this one, Alfie, this one, this one. She was sitting just across the hall, her hands on her lap, watching the dancers with a fixed smile of misery on her face. She looked young, terribly young, even younger than Alfie; she had a plain blue dress on, an unremarkable dress, and unremarkable brown hair. She was thin and pale and badly made up. She leaned forward a little on her chair, her shoulders rigid. She did not dare to look about her. She was waiting for someone to ask her to dance. She must have been waiting a long time.

Alfie charged clumsily across the hall. He was standing before her now, bold with fright.

‘Dance?’ he asked huskily. He waggled his thumb stupidly at the crowd of dancers.

‘I don’t mind,’ she whispered.

He took her and held her loosely, a foot from him, and steered her into the press of dancers.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Floss,’ she whispered.

He took her round in an awkward turn.

‘My big feet,’ he said. ‘Did I hurt you?’

‘Oh, no,’ she whispered. ‘You dance lovely. What’s yours?’

‘Alfred.’

‘You in that lot up the camp?’

‘Yes.’

‘The Wessex, aren’t you?’