The fog that had taken frequent possession of Birmingham was not in evidence in Oxford, but the sky was like a steel grey helmet as they set off to walk from the station into the town. It was already the middle of the afternoon and Margaret felt irritated with the whole project. They would scarcely have reached his grandmother’s house when they would have had to turn round again. What on earth had he been thinking of?

‘We could cut along Walton Street,’ Charles said. ‘But you have never been to Oxford before, have you? I’ll take you along through the heart of the town so that you can see.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘If it’s not far.’ She was interested to see this city of learning, but her irritation was further increased by the way Charles was holding her elbow, as if steering her.

‘Would you mind?’ She stopped, extricating herself from him. ‘Please let go of my arm. I should prefer us to walk separately.’

He shrugged and smiled and said, ‘Of course,’ as though he had not noticed that he had been bearing her along like this. They passed a wall with a keep, the remains of a castle, and went on to the middle of Oxford and the soot-encrusted stone of the ancient colleges.

‘Do you know any of their names?’ Margaret asked. She thought the place looked rather dour and intimidating in its grandeur.

They stopped, having reached a crossroads.

‘Well – along there is Christchurch,’ he said. ‘Behind are others – Merton, Corpus Christi . . . But we need to go this way.’ Once again, he took her arm. As soon as she could she pulled away.

‘We must not stay long,’ she said. ‘I must be sure to get home in time so as not to alarm them.’

‘Of course,’ Charles said. ‘In any case, she is an elderly lady – she will not be able to stand company for too long. Perhaps a quick cup of tea, that’s all.’

As they walked along a street of shops, the rain began, soft at first, then more heavily.

‘Heavens, we shall be soaked,’ Margaret said, lowering her head to shelter under her hat brim. ‘Is it much further?’

‘A little way, not too far . . .’

They were walking past a church and she plunged towards the door. ‘Let’s go in here – just to shelter from the worst,’ she said.

‘In there?’ he protested. But she had already gone in, the heavy door giving way to her hand.

They stood in the smell of stone and mustiness, looking about them with a kind of horror.

‘Is it Catholic?’ she said, afraid. ‘I thought it was the Church of England.’

‘It is – in the Catholic style,’ he said, the disgust plain in his voice. ‘Look at it – signs of the whore of Babylon all about us. Let us go . . .’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s too wet.’