Carefully, he puckered his lips and touched them to the bark of the tree. He experimented with wider and narrower kisses, finally letting go with a little scowl and shrug. He didn’t remember kissing anybody since Verity. Surely there must have been. There’d been somebody called Barbara, hadn’t there? In Rome⁠ — an Italian? But he’d never been to Rome. He must have read it in a book, probably one of those Arnold Bennetts that were keeping him awake at night.

All in all, it was a good thing that he wouldn’t be doing any kissing tonight either.

He spun on his heel and doubled his speed along the road.

Joan opened the door of her little house to him and took his hat, popping it on the peg in the hallway. ‘What a K-nut you look! It’s nearly ready,’ she told him. ‘I hope you like fish?’

‘I don’t know,’ Smith grinned. ‘What sort of fish is it?’

‘Cod in a white wine sauce, new potatoes and mixed vegetables. I am not exactly Rosa Lewis, but⁠ —’

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. How was your day?’ Smith wandered about the room, examining the pictures and ornaments that decorated the front room. He took off his gloves and put them down on a bureau. As Joan turned back to the kitchen, he raised a small display case that seemed to have fallen over on the mantelpiece, saw that it contained three medals and put it back down again.

‘Fine,’ Joan called. ‘Lab all afternoon, and you know boys and chemicals, they love mixing things up and making clouds of smoke. Talking of which, did you see the fire in town today?’

‘No.’ Smith settled into an armchair. ‘Cricket practice. What was burning?’

‘Mr Blum the fishmonger says that it was St Catherine’s. We will have to see what the paper says tomorrow.’

‘The hospital…’ Smith pondered, hefting a gunmetal paperweight in his hands.

There was an insignia of some kind stamped in the metal, a few numbers and letters. He quickly put it down as Joan came back into the room.

‘It’s ready,’ she said. ‘Come on through.’ The meal, as it turned out, was excellent.

Afterwards, Joan set up a little table in the front room, and they played a few of their customary hands of whist, at which she was supreme, as always.

Smith threw up his hands and let his cards fall to the table. ‘You’re too good for me. Is there another game we could play?’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘You sound like a young rake.’

‘I, erm, ah, well, I was wondering if you played chess?’

Smith fumbled with his collar and succeeded in unfastening a button.

‘Not very well, but I do have a set.’ Joan exited for a moment then returned, blowing the dust from a fabric-bound board. ‘Under the bed, and rather distressed.’