Determined the prospect of their parting should not be maudlin, he and Amelia eked out every moment they could of their last night together. They barely slept at all. They made love, certainly, but they talked too, not about anything particularly consequential, but about their favourite books and music, his passion for jazz, hers for orchestral, and they discovered a mutual love of poetry. They talked and laughed and loved, and then at midnight, they ate sardines on toast in bed.

‘King Oscar tinned sardines,’ she said, relishing the taste, ‘a childhood favourite.’

‘Yeah, for me, too, as a kid,’ he said, ‘although I can’t remember the brand. I don’t think ours were King Oscar.’

The same thought occurred to them simultaneously, although she was the one to voice it. ‘We haven’t spoken at all of our previous lives, have we,’ she said, ‘of our childhoods or our families, isn’t that strange?’

‘Perhaps.’ He was thinking there was a lifetime ahead to do all of that, or rather he was hoping so. If the war didn’t claim him anyway. He waited until they’d finished the last of the sardines. Then putting the plate on the bedside table, he casually asked, ‘Does that marriage proposal still stand, by the way?’

‘Oh most definitely. I’m all prepared. Look.’ She held out her left hand, splaying her fingers.

‘No wedding ring,’ he said.

‘I took it off last night before you arrived. You didn’t notice, did you?’

‘I didn’t have time. There’s been so much happening.’

They kissed, aware of the taste of sardines.

Around three in the morning they finally dozed off, awaking at dawn among the tangled sheets and toast crumbs to make love a final time. Then there was barely half an hour left.

‘I’ll make you a huge breakfast before you go,’ she said, ‘you must be absolutely starving.’

‘No, don’t.’ He pulled her back to him as she started to rise. ‘I’d rather stay hungry and stay here.’

‘Me too.’ She snuggled in close, and they both lay gazing at the ceiling.

‘I’ll be back, Amelia,’ he said, ‘you do know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do know that.’

They would ignore the threat of war.

Propping on an elbow, he looked down at her in a puzzling way that may or may not have been serious. She couldn’t be sure.

‘I have a secret I feel I should share with you,’ he said.

‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘My name’s not Robinson. It’s Rabinowitz. I’m Jewish.’

‘Yes,’ she said, studying the aquiline face that she found so attractive. ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘you look Jewish.’

EPILOGUE

1964

Lyndon knocked back the rum that remained in his glass; a third of the bottle was gone by now and Bobby had had only three shots, but Lyndon Johnson could hold his liquor well; he showed no ill-effects.

‘So there you go, Robert,’ he said, ‘that’s the story of the 96th Battalion and Townsville in forty-two. Another Bundy?’ He picked up the bottle, nodding encouragingly for Bobby to polish off what was left in his glass.