‘Speak up,’ the man next to him called out. ‘We can’t hear at the back.’ The speaker pulled his shoulders up, lifted his chin. Some of the audience had turned to see who was calling out. A fleeting glance before she twisted back and faced the front. Her chestnut hair was flicked up at the ends and secured from her face with an Alice band. She wore the same skirt and blouse as the last time he’d seen her, fidgeted in her seat like the first time they’d met. He focused on her, the slender neck, the contours of her shoulder blades. If she’d spotted him she didn’t show it, didn’t turn round to check if it had been him she’d glimpsed.

The talk was of a week of activism, to end the tests, of the midnight procession to London Airport at Hallowe’en to support the women flying off to lobby the Conference in Geneva. He could go on that, walk side by side with Betty, with the flares and torches. Would he hold her hand? He yearned for her touch, the feel of her flesh, the taste of her mouth. The last four weeks in Wales had left him with a craving he couldn’t satisfy. Now she was here. He had to have her. They’d fly away to Wales, rent that cold, damp cottage and hunker down all winter, safe under the blankets while the hare changed its coat and the snow fell on the Cambrians.

‘…the homeosaurus. Even Betty could lift it.’

He heard her voice. ‘Oh shut up, Nick. A child could lift it.’ He had no idea what they were talking about. ‘The homeosaurus is for the schools and parks. Not parliament, not the vigil. I’ve said that so many times.’

Could he reach over to her, sidle down the aisles and beckon her out? There was an argument going on. Homeosaurus. That was madness. What had palaeontology to do with CND? He should listen, note it down, the week of action, the vigil, the midnight procession. There was an announcement, an emergency meeting of the New Left Club, to talk about the riots in Notting Hill. Tuesday, six o’clock. The meeting began to break up, men and women sauntering down the aisle, some standing in small groups, chatting, others pushing forward, anxious to leave. John moved to the door. Betty was talking to two men, her face animated, angry. She looked as if she was going to cry. She turned, pushed past the chairs, walked fast towards the exit. He stepped forward.

She stopped, raised her hands at him. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I want to talk,’ he said.

‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘And certainly not now.’

‘Later?’

‘Never.’

She pushed past him and ran down the stairs, stopping at the bottom, turning round. ‘Don’t follow me.’