A distinctive scent slices through the warmer fog of tea, bacon, toast and tobacco.

Harriet turns, half-expecting to see Ruby standing behind her, but the only person there is Ralph.

‘I’m famished,’ he says, as they make their way to a wooden table in the corner. ‘Eggs and bacon it is. Are you sure you won’t join me? Just a pot of tea?’

‘Quite sure, thank you.’

‘Is everything alright?’ he asks, leaning across the table to grasp her hand. ‘You seem out of sorts.’ She shakes her head, uncertain of the sensation she feels. ‘But you came over to see me,’ he presses on. ‘I was too distracted by hunger, I’m sorry. What brings you here?’

She perches on her seat, her handbag on her lap, wondering what to say and how to phrase it.

‘Your father tells me you’ve chopped your hair. Is that what it is? Are you needing some sort of approval – I meant it when I said I really didn’t mind what you do with it.’

‘No, that wasn’t it,’ she says. ‘But –’ She removes her hat, glancing about to make sure that none of the other diners will mind. ‘What do you think? Mummy was furious, of course. You would have thought I’d committed a murder.’

‘Well, I think it looks lovely. It rather suits you.’

‘Thank you. I never cared for all those pins,’ she says, replacing the hat. ‘And the endless combing and brushing. It feels quite liberating.’

Ralph’s plate arrives, and she pours the tea. He really is hungry and devours the bacon with the speed of a schoolboy. His own hair is uncombed and ruffled; he looks as though he’s been out for an exhilarating drive in the country.

‘But, no… I came to ask about Peter Lazenby,’ she says, touching the handle of her teacup with a fingertip.

‘Lazenby? Why?’ He continues to attack the meal.

‘How well do you know him, Ralph? Really?’

‘As he told you, we were in France. War tends to bring you close to other men, for a time, although we’re less involved now, of course. I hardly see him, really.’ He sees the serious expression on her face and lays down his fork. ‘What’s this about, Harriet? Why the sudden interest in Lazenby?’

She frowns at the teacup. ‘I’ve heard some stories about him, Ralph. They bothered me. I don’t think you’ll like it, but I need to tell you that he is involved in some very dark affairs. Drugs, stolen goods – prostitution even,’ she whispers the last word. ‘I’m so sorry. I know he is – or was – your friend, but that’s what I’ve heard.’

Ralph returns to his breakfast, cutting the crisp white of his second egg, deep in thought.