They climbed the stairs to his rooms at the top, the hot air rising with them. The flat smelled of disinfectant and they laughed as they came in.

‘I’ll open the windows,’ John said. ‘All of them.’ She watched as he struggled with the sashes. ‘Most of the cords have gone.’ He took some books from his shelves, wedged them underneath the frames to keep them open. Turned and looked at her and it was a tender look of longing and desire, and when he held out his hand to her, she took it and leaned against him, no need for words.

‘Are you sure?’ he said.

‘Yes.’ She nodded. The hell with convention, with prissy primness, nice girls don’t. ‘You’re the first, John.’

‘I shall be gentle.’

He took her hand and led her into the bedroom as the book slipped from the window frame and the sash tumbled down.

CHAPTER TWELVE

London: July 1958

A hazy London dawn filtered through the bedroom window, the sun casting a faint filigree on her face. She lay still and serene, one arm across his chest, her head tucked in the crook of his shoulder. Her breathing was slow and shallow, feather puffs across his skin, her body limp. He edged out of the embrace, dozy and warm, his shoulder stiff, his hand dead. He caught the scent of her. He would remember this night, this first night with her.

London was quiet on a Sunday, but the early-morning silence was the quietest of all. He guessed it was about six o’clock. He crept out of the bed, wincing as it creaked. Her mouth twitched but she didn’t wake, not even as the rusty bed frame brayed and the mattress bounced. She was sleeping deeply, and he was glad. He tiptoed to the door, pulled on his dressing gown and padded down to the half landing below, and the bathroom he shared with Bob. It was on a rear extension, damp and cold, mildew on the tiles and walls. They took it in turns to buy the soap and paper. He had to remember to add Bronco and Imperial Leather to his list this month, remind Bob it was his turn to complain to the landlord.