There were more dances and more intervals. Alfie sweated, trembled inside his battledress, lost track of time.

‘I’m not much of a one for dancing,’ said Alfie, dancing, ‘it doesn’t mix with football.’

‘You’re doing very well,’ she said solemnly, not whispering now.

‘You been to pictures this week?’ she asked, following him to the bar again.

‘Went today,’ said Alfie. ‘Up the Regal. Saw Rita Hayworth.’

‘Do you like Rita Hayworth?’

‘Mmm. Smashing. Smashin’ dancer. Not as good as you, though.’

‘Go on, pull the other one.’

‘I will if you’ll let me.’

‘That’s enough from you.’

More dancing. More searching frantically for something to say. More long pauses when they both sang with the band to cover their shyness. Then Alfie managed to say it. He had been trying for an hour to say it.

‘Comin’ outside?’

Outside meant the dark gardens around the Town Hall, the dark lawns and shrubberies, where the soldiers went with their girls. Outside was what Floss had been dreading; Alfie, too, had been dreading it, but something was driving him forward, Charlie Venable whirling past and half the platoon in the hall watching him; oh, to walk out through that door with a girl on his arm and half the platoon there to see.

‘Comin’ outside?’ His throat was parched and painful.

‘Yes.’ She was whispering again.

They were walking, now, in the cool darkness, watching the cigarettes glowing like fireflies in the shadows, and away through the distant trees, the yellow-lit trams go clanging by. They were listening to the sound of their shoes on the concrete path, pretending not to see the couples huddled on the benches or to hear the whispering and scuffling and giggling in the night. Neither of them could think of a thing to say.

‘Floss.’ He halted her and thrust her to the side of the path. He spoke in a rasping whisper. The back of his mouth seemed to be all stuck together. ‘Floss, do you like me?’

Floss whispered something; he could not hear it. He pushed his face against hers suddenly and kissed her. She did not put her face up, and he kissed her on the side of her nose; he could taste the powder.

He found her mouth and kissed her again, pressing her soft and unresponsive lips back hard against the gums. It wasn’t very thrilling. He grew angry and pulled her hard against him, groping with his hands. Her body was rigid and resistant. She began to tremble violently and wept quietly. The quick anger faded suddenly and he was terrified again; he, too, began to tremble.

‘Don’t cry.’ He could think of nothing less awkward to say. She still wept. He wiped her eyes clumsily with his handkerchief. ‘Don’t cry, Floss. It’s all right. I didn’t mean anything, Floss.’

She snuffled once or twice more, then blew her nose and was quiet again.