‘He had concussion when he was twelve, playing football. He got in the way of a lad twice his size. He’s like that, my boy. When he was sixteen he was knocked off his bicycle by a lorry. Not a bone broken. He wanted a motorbike after that. The wife begged me not to let him have it. Said she wouldn’t sleep at nights if I did. I got him the bike in the end. He smashed it up, all right. But he wasn’t touched, himself. Hah!’ he laughed unconvincingly, ‘that boy of mine!’

‘I’ll go and put the call through,’ said Major Norman.

The colonel blew his nose.

‘He’s nineteen years old, Noel.’ His voice was suddenly that of a sad and frightened man. ‘Nineteen years old.’

Lying in the grass on the common was like being drawn down into the silent heart of a whirlpool of noise. Far away, beyond the dark treetops, the voices of the passing crowds could be heard through the dusk, faint, but startlingly distinct; the mumble of traffic, the occasional crash and clatter of a tram. But on the common, amid the gorse and the snowy hawthorn, Alfie and Floss, huddled together in the grass, heard no sound but that of their own breathing.

Alfie was frightened to speak. He did not know what he should say. She had been terrified; she had struggled, whimpering, beneath him for interminable minutes; then she had relaxed, clasped her mouth to his, put her arms tightly about him. Now the sudden, angry courage that had seized upon him was gone. He was empty and apprehensive, trembling a little as he lay with her breath warm against his cheek. The words would not come from his parched throat; he waited for Floss to speak.

She sat up, pulled her coat over her shoulders and squirmed her arms into the sleeves.

‘It’s getting cold.’ She was very quiet and calm. ‘Your last bus’ll be going soon.’

They clambered to their feet and brushed the bits of grass from their clothes. Alfie was still speechless, in an agony of uncertainty and contrition.

She moved close to him and touched the breast of his tunic lightly with her fingers.

‘Alfie?’

‘Floss?’

She played with a button on his tunic. ‘Do you really care for me?’ she whispered. ‘Or did you just want…’ she hesitated, and indicated the spot where they had been lying, ‘…you know?’

Alfie struggled to speak; for a moment he only made silly, embarrassed noises. At last, violently: ‘Oh, Floss,’ he gripped her arm, ‘you hated it, didn’t you?’ He felt sick with doubt.

She shook her head.

‘I don’t know. No.’

She was silent, then she laughed suddenly.