‘He thinks education is wasted on a woman,’ she said. ‘But literature is at least decorative, does minimal damage.’ She smiled. ‘I had to promise him I’d learn to type when I graduated.’

He laughed again. ‘And what would you have preferred to study?’

‘History,’ she said. ‘Or anthropology, perhaps.’

‘Why anthropology?’

She shrugged again, lifted her cup. ‘I don’t really know. I’d like to travel, see how other people live.’ She wanted to kick herself. Such a silly answer. What she really wanted was to get away from home, see the world. Nyasaland. Jamaica. Perhaps she’d meet her husband there, bring back a native. The thought of seeing her father’s shocked face made her smile.

‘So what do you teach, John?’

‘French. German.’

‘German?’ She swallowed. They always spoke English at home – We must forget Germany, her father had said. She’d worked hard at her accent, spoke English now without a trace, blended in so no one guessed where she was from, like a talking chameleon. She twisted her mouth. ‘Is that a popular subject?’

He shook his head and looked into the distance; she saw his eyes moisten over and his fingers begin to shake.

‘John?’

He placed his cup back on its saucer, his hand trembling so the tea slopped and the clink of the china sang out like fallen keys.

‘John?’ She reached over and dabbed his saucer dry with her napkin.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’

She knew she’d touched a nerve, and wasn’t sure what to do. Perhaps he needed to be alone. She tapped her lips with the napkin. ‘Thank you for tea. I must go.’

‘So soon? May I see you home?’ he said.

‘I can make my own way,’ she said, pushing her chair away from the table and standing up. He stood too. He was average height, slender. She had thought he was taller when she’d seen him in the lamplight. Shadows did that. Distorted perspective.

‘I’d like to see you again,’ he said.

‘Are you going on the Easter march?’

‘Possibly. But that’s weeks away. Perhaps I could take you out? The pictures?’

‘Maybe. I must dash.’

She pulled her hat from her bag and tugged it on.

‘I work at Barstow’s,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Goodbye.’

She put on her coat, walked towards the door. A man stood up as she passed him, tipping over the chair in his haste. She caught a glimpse of him. He looked like someone she once knew but when she checked again, he’d gone. She was imagining things. She stepped out of the door, and waved at John as she ran past the window. It had begun to sleet.

CHAPTER TWO

London: February 1958