‘Thought I’d stretch my legs,’ he said, smiling. ‘As a matter of fact, sir, I’ve got a bit of news.’

‘Oh?’ John batted an ant, caught it on the back of his hand, slapped it hard.

Arthur pulled out his cigarettes, offered the pack to John, took one for himself and lit it, dragging hard before he looked up and smiled.

‘My demob papers have come,’ he said, cupping his cigarette in his hand, holding it behind him. Smoke furled through his fingers. John was silent for a moment, gathered his wits.

‘That’s wonderful news, sergeant,’ he said. ‘When do you leave?’

‘Not long after the Victory Parade. Just under two weeks. I’m counting down the days.’ He smiled, added, ‘You won’t see me for dust.’

‘I think this calls for a celebration,’ John said. He should be smiling, sharing the joy, but he felt as if his guts were drawing tight, grabbing him hard. Arthur was the only friend he had here, even though he was an NCO.

‘I’d like that, sir,’ Arthur said. ‘We could go back to the Blue Angel, if you like.’

‘The Blue Angel it is, sergeant. This time the drinks are on me. Tomorrow?’

His liver wouldn’t survive another night drinking with Arthur, but he’d make the effort. He owed much to his sergeant. In the distance, he heard the rumble of thunder and the first few gobs of rain splattered on the ground.

§

They sat at a wooden table, a magnum of champagne on the side. Arthur’s chair was tilted on its back legs and he was grinning, his thumbs in his waistband. His lighted cigarette lay on the ashtray, a thin column of smoke winding its way to the ceiling.

‘I’m not under any illusions,’ Arthur said, blowing through his lips. ‘It’s not going to be easy, back home. Never met my son. Haven’t seen my wife for years. Don’t know my own home. They moved. Couldn’t take the bombing. He lifted the cigarette and tapped the ash. ‘I know the address well enough, but I couldn’t tell you the way to my own lavatory.’

He laughed. He was slurring his words. John felt his own slip too.

‘But I heard today, sir.’ He swung his chair forward, landed with a jolt, poured another glass of champagne. ‘I’ve matriculated. Six subjects.’ He drew his cigarette to his mouth again, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs, added, ‘Distinction in the whole bloody lot of them.’

‘You did what, sergeant?’

‘Ma-tric-u-la-ted,’ Arthur said, pronouncing each syllable with fervour.

‘That’s what I thought you said.’ John stretched out his hand and Arthur grabbed it in a clinch, shaking it hard. ‘That’s fantastic. Well done. How did you do it? When?’