Betty nodded, but she wasn’t sure she liked him after that comment, even if his idea was exciting.

‘But, comrade, how long will it take to make?’ Betty turned and looked at an intense young man with black hair and a deep voice, an oboe of a voice, she thought.

‘A few months,’ the young man replied. ‘Section by section. But we need a workshop…’ He looked around at his audience. ‘Anyone have a garage, a shed?’

Betty followed his eyes. They were all young. None of them would have that kind of space.

‘I know,’ the man with the oboe voice said. ‘The Theatre Royal, Stratford. They’ll have room. I can ask Joan…’

The young man smiled. ‘That’s brilliant, Ralph,’ he said. ‘They’ll have a proper workshop. Props. Of course.’ He slapped his forehead. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

He lifted the homeosaurus and put it in a shoebox. ‘I’ll need help, though.’

She longed to do something practical with her hands. It would take her mind off things.

‘I’ll volunteer,’ Betty said. And then it came to her. ‘Why don’t we make its head look like Macmillan? Could we do that, in papier mâché?’

She could hear others laugh, but they were nodding.

‘Genius,’ the young man said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Betty.’ She smiled, at home, here in the Partisan.

§

Perhaps she was just late. She’d had a few shocks lately. That could have an effect. She looked at herself in Dee’s bathroom mirror. She didn’t look any different, not on the outside, at any rate. Lieselotte had looked the same too, standing in the window of their bedroom, her flimsy frame silhouetted against the sun.

‘I’m pregnant, Bettelein,’ she’d said, just like that, matter-of-fact. She was wearing her faded cotton skirt, and a clean blouse, her hair pinned back from her face with Mutti’s tortoiseshell comb. ‘I’ve heard of a doctor who’ll help.’

Betty had no doctor to help her. Or anyone. None of her friends were fast, had ever needed those kinds of services. Or if they had, they’d never admitted it. Perhaps she should approach one of those call girls in Soho. They’d know who to go to. But how would they know she wasn’t a policeman on the sly? They wouldn’t talk to her, and in any case Betty wasn’t sure she could go to some backstreet abortionist. There were terrible stories about them.

‘Hurry up, Betty.’ Dee was banging on the door. ‘I need to clean my teeth.’

‘Sorry,’ Betty said. ‘You can come in. I’m just putting my face on.’ She reached over and opened the door.

‘Dee,’ she said, dabbing on lipstick, ‘I’ve got to talk to you.’

‘Fire away.’ Kevin was downstairs making tea. A door slammed and Martin burst into the bathroom.

‘Mu-um,’ he said. ‘Graham said I was a selfish, fishy-faced idiot.’