‘I’ll see if he’s in,’ he said. ‘Hang on.’ Of course, John had a neighbour.

Minutes ticking.

‘Do you wish to continue, caller?’ the operator said. Betty had laid out her change on the top of the telephone box. She had one more shilling. Trunk calls were expensive, and John usually rang her back. If he didn’t answer now, then what? She didn’t want to go home, not with her father in that mood. And she was angry. With her father, and his version of the war that held no one to account, least of all him.

It was still early. She could go to London anyway. See a film, perhaps, get the last train. Dracula, if she dared. The evening was hot. She wouldn’t need to go back and fetch her cardigan. Her feet were filthy.

‘Insert more money, caller.’ She pushed the shilling into the slot. Please be there, John, please answer.

The receiver clunked, as if it was being picked up by the cord and swung.

‘John Harris speaking.’ His voice was breathy, rushed.

‘John,’ she said.

‘Betty?’ He sounded puzzled, distracted, as if he was being interrupted.

‘Is this a bad time?’ They rang at a prearranged time each week, never spontaneously. Perhaps he was busy, about to go out, meet friends. Her stomach tightened, swallowing her disappointment. What if he had a girlfriend? A proper girlfriend, one he spent the weekends with, not snatched evenings on Mondays and Wednesdays. She hadn’t thought of that. She knew so little about his life, when she thought about it.

‘No.’ His voice was flat, uninterested. He wasn’t pleased to hear from her. She was deflated, humiliated even. She’d made a fool of herself. It was nonsense to think of John as a boyfriend. It was based on nothing. He was an older man, a mature man. A fantasy, a teenage crush.

‘I’m surprised, that’s all,’ he went on. ‘I didn’t expect to hear from you.’ Silence. A beat. She’d run out of money soon. She should make her excuses, ring off. ‘But I’m thrilled you called. What’s up?’

His voice had warmed and lightened, and her spirits rose.

‘I…’ She hesitated, unsure now what to say, or how to say it. ‘I thought I might come into London this evening, that’s all. I just wondered…’ Was she being too forward? She always let him make the first move, apart from that first time, when she’d written to him. ‘Do you fancy a coffee or something?’ Added, ‘If you’re not doing anything, that is.’

‘What a great idea,’ he said, his voice welcoming, excited even. ‘What time?’

‘In about an hour? My train’s about to leave. Is that okay?’

‘Lovely. I’ll meet you at the station.’

‘Caller, your time is up. Do you wish to extend?’

‘By the clock,’ she shouted into the phone. ‘The clock.’ The line went dead.