‘Germany.’ He looked down at his plate, picked at the chicken leg with his fork. It was a while before he lifted his eyes and Betty thought for a moment that they were glassy. He sniffed. ‘Enough of this. Listen. Are you free this afternoon?’

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘That depends.’

‘Have you been to the British Museum lately?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m ashamed to say.’

‘Then you’re in for a treat. There’s a whole section on recent discoveries in Ife.’

‘Ife?’

‘Nigeria.’ He held up his two forefingers. ‘You’ll be interested, as a would-be anthropologist. It includes the Ife head. You must have heard of that? Bronze. Fourteenth century. Phenomenal. They’ve got other bronzes too. And terracotta. You’ll love it.’

‘I’ve heard of the Benin bronzes, of course I have, but I’ve never seen them, not in real life. Only pictures.’

‘Then gobble up your chicken,’ he said. ‘We can stop somewhere for an ice cream on the way. Call it pudding.’

‘I’d like that too,’ Betty said.

The years don’t matter, she thought, when you like someone.

‘Well,’ she said. They were standing outside the museum. The sky had been cloudless earlier, the sun warm and welcoming. Showers had been forecast and now the sky was fat with rain clouds. ‘Goodbye then. And thank you.’ She shifted her weight, switched her bag from one hand to the other. ‘I had a lovely time.’

She saw him fiddle with the lip of his jacket pocket.

‘Goodbye.’ He took a breath, and she watched as a blush swirled round his neck, rushed up his cheeks. Held out his hand and took hers. It was surprisingly large and she felt like a bird in his palm, a robin or canary, with frail limbs and honey plumage.

‘Actually, Betty,’ he said, ‘may I see you again?’ She was standing on a magic carpet, holding on to air. ‘If you’re agreeable, that is.’

She frowned.

‘I mean,’ he went on, ‘I quite understand if you say no. In fact, I probably look a bit of a fool, asking you like this. There’d be no hard feelings. So, just say if—’

‘I’d like that, John.’

Betty saw his blush return, circling his forehead and nose.

‘I can’t give you my phone number,’ she went on. ‘My father’s a bit funny about…’ She pursed her lips and twisted her head. ‘About people calling and stuff. But I can ring you, if you have a phone.’

CHAPTER FOUR

London: June 1958

The memory of that touch lingered. That she wanted to see him again was a miracle. She would be his healer, he knew, turn his brittle soul into a soft, malleable thing that could fly to a heaven of their choosing.