“There’s nothing very exalted about sizing wedding bands or altering watch straps,” he said. “But it’s my bread and butter, so I can’t complain.”

“When you spend all day at a typewriter, the idea of making something real with your hands is very appealing.”

“I’m sure most people would think your world the more exciting,” he replied.

Jean shook her head. “Fleet Street, maybe. But the North Kent Echo is very staid. It makes the front page if somebody breaks into the British Legion and pinches a bottle of gin.”

She thought of the piece she had dashed off that morning to mark National Salad Week:

The humble lettuce, if properly dressed, can be the foundation of many nutritious family meals. Try serving with baked or fried forcemeat balls for a crisp new touch . . .

“You don’t wear jewelry yourself, I notice,” he said.

Jean’s hands, wrists and neck were, as always, unadorned.

“No, but not as a matter of principle. I just don’t own any. It’s not the sort of thing one buys for oneself.” She stopped, conscious that she was straying into territory that was more personal than professional.

“I suppose not. Though there’s no reason why.”

“And if I did, I would probably never wear it, just keep it in a box and look at it from time to time.” She knew this much about herself.

“That would be a waste. It needs to breathe.”

Jean felt her own breath tighten. This was the most intimate conversation she had had with a man for years.

The shop bell rang again. Jean took this as a signal to leave. She had satisfied herself that husband and wife were in perfect accord over Mrs. Tilbury’s approach to the Echo, and that he had not brought any pressure to bear on her. Of course, it was impossible to know what went on in a marriage behind those neat bay windows, but she had met bullying men before, at work and elsewhere, and Mr. Tilbury was quite unlike them.

“I must let you get on,” she said.

He sprang forward to help her out of the chair. There was a dangerous moment as she took his hand and pulled herself up rather heavily, when their balance faltered and it seemed as though she might topple back and drag him down on top of her. A look of panic passed between them and then he planted his feet more firmly and gripped her hand until she was steady again.

“Goodness, we made heavy weather of that,” Jean laughed. “I told you I was clumsy.”

“I don’t feel I’ve been much use at all,” Mr. Tilbury said. “But I’ve enjoyed talking to you anyway.”

“There is one other question,” Jean remembered. “Your wife said she was in a clinic or sanatorium before Margaret was born. I wondered if she was still in touch with any friends from that period of her life. Or anyone who knew her as a young girl.”