The flat looked out over Fortune Green. It lifted her spirits to see the trees and grass, and she could send the boys out to play there when Dee and Kevin came over. She pulled the envelopes out from her pocket. One had a London postmark, official-looking, with a typed address, the other was handwritten, the postmark indistinct.

She slit open the official-looking letter with her finger, pulled out the contents, opening it up, staring at its letterhead, The Daily Herald, skimming to the signature, Yours sincerely, Douglas Machray, Editor.

Dear Miss Fisher. The letter was fluttering in her fingers as she read to the end, then back to the beginning, taking it in. I have read with interest your features in Peace News, in particular your articles on the recent march from Aldermaston, which in my view captured the fervour and the fun of the enterprise in ways which were both novel and enchanting. I wondered whether you would consider submitting some articles to the Daily Herald? We would be looking to publish a weekly column. As you may know, we have recently adopted a unilateralist stance on nuclear disarmament, and would be interested in what you have to say about issues relating to war and peace. We pay one guinea per 100 words, and would be looking for articles of approximately 500 words. If you are interested please contact my secretary on Fleet 6001.

Interested? A personal invitation from the editor? She wanted to pinch herself, scream with excitement. The Daily Herald too. A respectable paper, with an independent line. She’d ring him straight away. There was a telephone box on the corner. A weekly column would pay more than she earned as a typist. She squeezed her eyes, opened them, checked the letter one more time. She’d add a desk to the list of basics needed at the auction. And a typewriter. She couldn’t wait to tell Dee.

She put the letter in her pocket and pulled out the other, turning it over in her hand, looking at the handwriting, the unfamiliar address. It had been sent to her work, and they had forwarded it to her.

Dear Bette. He used her German name. This is by way of an olive branch, an apology, an excuse. She breathed out, unsure of herself. I was a small man caught up in large events. And I was as surprised as I am sure you must have been at the decision not to investigate your father’s death. I thought of you then.

I am now head of a modern language department in a grammar school in mid-Wales, and have bought a run-down cottage where I live with a border collie called Bess, a rooster and five laying hens, Eins, Zwei, Drei, Vier and Fünf.