John let himself into the building, checked the table for post, and climbed the staircase to the rooms he rented on the top floor. He kicked off his outdoor shoes and padded into the bedroom, fishing under the bed for his slippers. He had a stack of marking to do and the flat was chilly. He’d have to light the fire, warm himself up, fill his pen with red ink and coax it into action. It was sluggish in cold weather.

He padded across the linoleum into the sitting room and switched on the wireless. He was used to living on his own, but coming in tonight the silence of his rooms was overwhelming. That young woman, in a way he couldn’t fathom, had made him lonely. He hadn’t had that feeling for a long time. If ever, really. The dirty plate and frying pan from supper were piled in the sink in his kitchenette, and his upturned cup and saucer were balanced on the draining board. Bachelor.

He laid the fire and fished for the matches on the mantelpiece, watching as the flame caught and the coals began to glow. A gentle heat radiated out. The feeling began to return to his fingers and his cheeks started to tingle and sting, and he remembered how the cold outside and the warmth of the hall had flushed her face so it glowed, ripe and lush. Peaches and cream, was that what they called it? A peaches-and-cream complexion, her hair berry-brown, curled like a pageboy’s at the back of her head. A nut-brown maiden. Percy’s words rang through his mind: Shall never be said the nut-brown maid / was to her love unkind. Her eyes, he’d noted, were grey.