‘Excuse me,’ she said to the man next to her, pointing to the exit. ‘Would you mind?’

He stood up with a clumsy gesture while she pressed past him, her coat over her arm, hat and scarf in her hand. She pushed to the end of the row, threaded her arms through her coat and, buttoning it up, walked towards the door. She sensed him stand up and follow her. The crowd was pressing in and she had difficulty walking. She had to elbow her way through, excuse me, excuse me.

‘We’re all trying to leave,’ a man said.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She didn’t want to talk to the angry man. ‘I have a train to catch.’

She pushed out into the open air, stepped into Storey’s Gate, and cut into Great George Street. The crowd was less dense there. The February night had turned for the worst so she stood on the corner, tying the belt of her coat tight, clamping her red felt hat to her head and muffling her neck with her scarf. The street lamps glowed soft and yellow and she caught a glimpse of the man she’d sat next to, wrapped up in a dark overcoat, heading in her direction. Perhaps she should apologise, step in before he berated her. Or ignore him. She’d probably never see him again.

She hurried into Parliament Street, crossed the road and walked down Whitehall. There was a gathering in Downing Street with banners, home-made jobs on cardboard. She could make out Ban the Bomb in the lamplight. She walked past them, looked back. He was still following. The crowd had thinned by Horse Guards and she sped up, walking fast towards Charing Cross. There was a Lyons Corner House by the post office. It was still open. She had time for some tea before the last train.

Betty could see the man running across the road, entering the shop after her. Oh Lordy, she thought. The nuns at school had warned her about men who followed women, though honestly, what did they know? Still. The café was crowded but there were a few spaces free. She sat at a small table in the centre of the room, head down, rummaging in her bag, and watched as he sauntered past her. Phew. Then he stopped and turned.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Weren’t you at that meeting?’

‘Which meeting?’ She was peeling off her gloves, finger by finger. Poised and sophisticated, not gauche and clumsy.

‘In the Methodist Central Hall. The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament.’

‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘Yes.’

‘What did you think?’ He pulled out the chair opposite her. ‘Mind if I sit down?’ His eyes were a soft green-hazel and gave nothing away. ‘Or are you meeting someone?’