He spoke softly, as if recalling a particular moment. Of course, she thought, he’d probably been there, in Europe. He’d know. She was twisting one corner of the napkin, rolling it in her fingers. The last thing she wanted to talk about was the war. She looked away, spotted the waitress bearing a tray.

‘I think our soup is here,’ she said, leaning back so the waitress could put the bowl in place. Tomato soup. Betty could tell from the smell it came from a tin, but no matter. It was her favourite. He swirled the soup and made a vortex and she wanted to say, Be careful, you’ll spill it.

‘Where were you before?’

‘Before what?’

‘Before you moved to Hatfield.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well.’ She hadn’t told anyone that. ‘Well, everywhere, really. We moved around.’ That was the truth. She stirred her soup, took a sip.

He leaned back, dabbed his mouth with the napkin.

‘Was your father in the army then? Moving around?’

She looked up, her soup lumping in her throat. ‘Everyone was in the army,’ she said, feeling her cheeks redden. Well, it was half true. She shrugged, added, ‘I was only a child.’

‘What does he do now?’

‘I don’t know exactly,’ she said. ‘He works with de Havilland, something to do with aeroplanes. It’s all very dull and suburban. Shall we change the subject?’

‘I’m sorry.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t mean to give you the third degree.’

Betty shrugged, her shoulders tense. ‘That’s all right.’ She scraped the last of the soup from her bowl. ‘I just don’t terribly want to talk about it, that’s all.’

The waitress removed their plates, brought their main course. Chicken. Mashed potatoes. She wondered whether they were powdered, like the ones in the canteen at work. Carrots. Tinned.

‘Your turn now,’ she said. ‘For the third degree.’

She picked up her knife and fork. She was, she realised, hungry.

‘I was brought up in Surrey,’ he said. ‘Purley. Ghastly place. Couldn’t wait to leave.’

He sat, chicken and potato poised on his fork. ‘Minor public school.’ He pushed the food in his mouth, added, ‘Very minor. Then I was called up. I was eighteen, never really left home except for a few months when the school was evacuated to Somerset. Straight into the army. They gave me a few tests, said I was officer material. I mean…’ He rolled his eyes. ‘What did I know about leadership?’ He pushed some carrot onto his fork, popped it in his mouth, turned to cut at the chicken leg with his knife. It slipped, splashing gravy onto the tablecloth.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’d prefer to use fingers, but…’ He looked around him, leaned forward. ‘It wouldn’t be very U.’

Betty laughed. He was an awkward man, intense, but he made her smile. Perhaps, she thought, he’s just shy.

‘Where did they send you?’