It was almost midsummer, and the day was fading into dusk, the clouds filtering the late sun and turning the sky red. He pulled up the window sash and leaned out. The air was warm. A bee buzzed in his window box, a soft muted sound but clear as a bell against the hum of London traffic. Strange how nature could hold its own. He’d spent time in Kew Gardens when he worked at the War Office, curating his memories, filing them away in collector’s drawers where they would muster, out of sight, out of mind. The gardens had calmed him, transported him to another world where the vast redwoods reminded him that they had seen it all and were still there and the autumn beeches promised they would return, green and strong in the spring. In the winter, when the hoar frost made lace from spider webs and a single snowflake had a thousand shapes, he’d found refuge in the Palm House, in the lush velvet of the damp air, against the stark axe-cold outside. Once, a robin had ventured in from the frost, sat at the top of an ancient cycad and sang his heart out. He could be heard over the buzz of conversation and the hiss of the humidifiers.

He wanted to share all this with Betty and lay the ghosts of war to rest. He still had nightmares. Running away from something, but never moving forward.

Anxiety dreams, Norman said in the staffroom the next day. ‘You know, turning up for an exam on the wrong day. Mine is 3C for a double period on a Friday afternoon.’ Norman taught history. He added, ‘And no lesson plan.’

‘Or feeding the five thousand with only five loaves and two fishes,’ the technology teacher said, winking at the vicar from St Michael’s who came in to give the RE lessons.

Staffroom banter. It kept them all going while they dipped their Marie biscuits into their tea. The phone rang. John was the nearest, and picked it up.

‘Just the person,’ the secretary said. ‘There’s a call for you. I’ll put it through.’ John could hear her voice in the distance. Hello. Caller? Are you there?

‘Sorry, John,’ she said. ‘Whoever it was couldn’t wait. The line’s gone dead. I expect they’ll ring again if it’s important.’

‘Did they leave a name?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It was a man, though.’

John wondered who was trying to reach him. The bank manager? Had he dipped into the red? He was careful with money and wasn’t extravagant with clothes, had stopped going to his father’s tailors for his shirts and bought the new St Michael drip-dry ones from Marks. Perhaps it was someone from the CND, though they were unlikely to ring him at work. Nor would the bank manager, come to think of it. He would write.