He stands for a moment with his arms folded, then flourishes the rolled-up note like a dandy flourishing his fan.

‘Now will you stop snivelling and blow your nose and take this fucking line?’

I retreat into the kitchen, almost colliding with Simon, who has been doing the washing-up and is still wearing an apron. I pull him after me, and close the door, turn off the light, and spy on Stephen and Jonathan through a gap in the hatchway.

They sit in facing armchairs, dabbing at their noses, not speaking.

After a while, Stephen gets out his cigarettes, and offers them to Jonathan. There is a little whispered conversation, and – did I hear right? – a certain amount of giggling. A lighter clicks, a flame flares, sucked in once, twice, and smoke begins to fill the room.

Simon and I finish the washing-up, the wiping up, the putting away, we clean the surfaces and empty the bin, and when there is nothing more to do we pour a glass of wine, toast each other, kiss and drink in silence.

The living room is dark, but for the glow of the television. Jonathan and Stephen are sitting on the sofa – not quite together, there’s still a foot or two between them – smoking and drinking and sniggering. It’s the new series of Star Search, and they’re busy picking their favourite.

‘Oh, I say! He’s nice.’

‘Him! Oh, come on. Look at his hair!’

‘No, but he’s got a sweet face.’

‘He can’t sing a note!’

‘Who fucking cares about that?’

And so on.

It’s after two when I finally take Stephen down to his cab. He’s unsteady on his feet, but his eyes are shining.

‘And what about you, Stephen? When you got out of prison, what sort of life did you have? Did you work? Did you have a lover?’

‘A lover, dear? I had plenty, don’t you worry.’ He gets in the car, winds down the window. ‘But that, as they say, is another story for another day.’

And the car pulls away, Stephen’s hand at the window blowing kisses.

Acknowledgements

This book could not have been written without a number of people who shared their memories, archives and expertise. I would like to thank them all, in particular Harry Woodman, Ronald Wright, Adrian Street, Adan Julian, Brian Robinson, Spencer Churchill, Stuart Waterman, Tony Parker, Alan Edwards, Michael Dee, John McKay, Tony Field, Edward Smith, Tim Wilbur (www.timinvermont.com/vintage), Norman Hibbert, James Gardiner and the late Victor Burdett. Thanks also to my agent Sheila Crowley at Curtis Brown, and to Peter Burton for his support and advocacy

The research for this book was supported by the Arts Council of England. Many collections and archives were consulted, including the Hall Carpenter Archives, the Imperial War Museum, the RAF Museum and the British Library.

About the Author

RUPERT SMITH is the author of ten novels, in his own name and as James Lear and Rupert James, and of several biographies and books about television. He was born in Washington DC, grew up in Surrey and has lived in London since 1978. As well as writing fiction, Rupert has a long career as a journalist, contributing to dailies, weeklies and monthlies in Britain, America and Europe, www.rupertsmith.org.uk