Betty was late. She hesitated at the door, in two minds whether to go in. She hated drawing attention to herself, but she’d come this far. She sidled through, stood at the back, spotted a vacant seat, tiptoed to the row, head bowed, squeezing herself along, excuse me, sorry. Excuse me. Thank you. Her coat snagged on the armrest. She pulled it free. The man in the row in front turned and glowered at her. Sorry. He wouldn’t understand why she had to be here, how personal this was.

She sat down and fanned her face with the programme. She’d had to run most of the way and even though the February day was frosty, she was sweating. She unbuttoned her coat, wriggled her arms free and rolled to one side and the other, pulling the coat’s skirt from beneath her. The man next to her glared and tutted.

‘Sorry.’ Clenched her teeth, opened her lips. Can’t help it.

She folded her coat and bent over, slipping it under her seat, took off her hat and scarf, and laid them on the coat. Sat back, lifting her hair off her neck, enjoying the air on her skin. Leaned forward as she rummaged in her bag, pulled out a notebook and a pencil and began to flip the pages, crackling the paper. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her neighbour twist towards her and put his finger on his lip. She pretended not to see, though she felt his eyes on her, monitoring her. She licked the tip of her pencil, sat upright and began to write.

That historian, A.J.P. Taylor, said MPs who supported the bomb should be hailed as murderers. He was about the same age as her father, in his fifties. It’s not just young people who think like I do, Betty thought. Middle-aged men do, too. She stood up and applauded. Her notebook and pencil tumbled to the floor so when they sat down she had to crawl between the seats to retrieve them.

‘For goodness’ sake,’ the man next to her said. ‘Keep still.’

‘Sorry.’ She smiled, forgive me. He nodded, pursed his lips. He was older than her. There were even a few strands of grey at his temples. He was angry. Was that what happened as you got older? You got moody? Short-tempered? He wore a beige Fair Isle pullover, hand-knitted, out of place among the navy duffel coats and black polo necks. Her mother used to knit her jumpers and cardigans, two ply lambswool which she bought in a skein and called on Betty to hold taut while she rolled it into a ball. Her mother knitted everything, far more than she needed or Betty could use, come to that, chain-smoking as she worked so everything whiffed of stale cigarettes and lavender talcum powder. She hadn’t smoked until the war. The war had changed everything.