‘Have I?’ he said. She signed herself Betty. He put the letter in his pocket to read later. He’d relish the moment, like saving the cherry for last. It was double French for the sixth-formers and he let them hold a debate on France and the crisis in Algeria. There was a staff meeting at the end of the day, so it was past six o’clock before he got to his rooms in Bury Street. He could do with a beer, enjoy its bitter yeasty tang while he read the letter. He parked his bike and chained it to the railings, and went into the local opposite.

‘Evening, John,’ the landlord said as he entered. ‘Your usual?’

‘Thanks.’ He paid, and took it over to a small table by the window and pulled out the letter.

Dear John,

It took me some time, but I finally tracked you down. The secretary at your school was very reluctant to give me your surname. I have no idea why. I had to lie like mad for my reasons for wanting it! If you don’t want to hear from me, then please read no further. We met at the rally in Central Hall, you remember, and then had tea afterwards. I’m sorry I had to rush off, but I had a train to catch and was cutting it a bit fine!

I hope you are well and if I am not being too forward, I would like to take you up on your offer to meet again. If you’ve changed your mind, then please ignore this letter. If not, my address is at the top. It’s a work address, I’m afraid, but it’s the easiest way to contact me. Write, please, don’t ring. We’re not allowed to take personal calls.

Yours sincerely,

Betty Fisher

He smiled to himself. If he posted his reply tonight, it would get to her tomorrow second post, or Friday at the latest. That would give her time to reply. Saturday. Or Sunday. He’d collect her from wherever she lived. Or the station. She said she had to catch a train. They could go to the zoo. Animals were a good icebreaker. Elephants, big cats, creepy-crawlies. Monkeys. It was years since he’d been there. Or perhaps she’d prefer the pictures? They’d saunter afterwards to the Corner House in Marble Arch. Maison Lyons, no less. Have a slap-up tea in one of the restaurants there or, if he had enough money, go to the grill. He finished his beer, folded the letter, waved goodbye to the barman, and crossed the road to his buildings.

CHAPTER THREE

London: April 1958