She wondered if he was playing with her. She wasn’t much good at small talk either, and wasn’t sure what to say to him.

‘Did you have to come far?’

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Only Bloomsbury.’

She stubbed out her cigarette as the nippy approached with the tea and buns, waited while she placed them on the table. ‘Thank you,’ she said to the waitress and smiled at her, turning to the man opposite, who sat stirring his tea, concentrating, as if playing for time.

‘War is so awful.’ She fiddled with the spoon on her saucer, turning it left, right. That sounded naïve and she wished she hadn’t said it. But it was true. Even now, she could taste its horror, as if the memories had coated her tongue in a membrane of fear.

‘I agree,’ he said, nodding, his voice melancholy. He must have been old enough to have fought in the war, Betty thought, so he’d know all right. Buffeted by war, like she was, taking a stand, like her. She wanted to know if he was a pacifist or a unilateralist but didn’t like to ask. She bit into her bun, savoured the fruit and the soft, sweet bread.

‘My name’s John,’ he said, leaning forward, his arm outstretched. ‘And yours?’

‘Betty.’ She wiped her hand on her napkin and took his. ‘A bit sticky, I’m afraid.’

He laughed, shrugged, doesn’t matter.

‘Betty. Nice name. Do you work, Betty?’

‘Of course I work.’

‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘You’re a journalist.’

‘A journalist? Why do you think that?’ She was flattered. Her guard, she knew, was falling.

‘You were taking notes,’ he said. ‘In shorthand.’

‘Goodness,’ she said. ‘Are you a detective?’ She narrowed her eyes, added, ‘Or a spy?’ He looked the most unlikely spy, or detective, with his Fair Isle pullover and college tie, and she found herself smiling.

‘No.’ He grinned, the hints of dimples, his eyes alight. ‘I’m a teacher. Camden Grammar for Boys. So what do you do?’

‘I’m a typist.’

He laughed, and it was the gentlest of sounds, like a robin chirruping. ‘A typist? Really? I’d have had you down as a pioneer of something or other,’ he said. ‘Like Vera Brittain. Or Winifred Holtby. A revolutionary.’ He added, ‘I bet you’re a Somerville alumna.’

‘Not quite,’ she said, relenting. ‘Bedford College for Women.’ Bedford or nothing, her father had said. Anywhere else was for him a hotbed of Communism.

‘What did you study?’

She sipped her tea, broke off a piece of bun and shoved it in her mouth.

‘English Literature,’ she said with her mouth full. She could feel a small piece of raisin stuck to her tooth. She curled her tongue and licked it clean. ‘My father’s choice. Not mine.’

‘Oh?’