She hesitated. He was asking her to look for a place for him – one that she could visit? She felt nervous again. ‘Yes … I could.’

‘Oh, that is a weight off my mind. I haven’t been to London since the war and I expect it has all changed so much.’

‘Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’

‘Aye.’

Crawfie’s heart dropped into her abdomen. He wasn’t going to propose? She picked her disappointment up quickly. ‘No problem at all.’

‘And maybe—’ He halted.

Her hopes lifted a little. ‘What?’

‘Maybe I could take you out for dinner to thank you when I get there.’

She became brisk. She didn’t want to show any signs of dismay. ‘That would be very nice. Goodness, look at the time – I really must get home.’

She had wanted to renege on the decision to find him a place to live. Why should she wear her shoe leather out? What did he actually want from her? To use their friendship for his own ends, for convenience?

Her mother, when she heard what had happened, could only see his actions as noble. ‘Marion, he is obviously keen. Why wouldn’t he want to gather some savings ready for married life? And a bank! He has ambition and drive – both very good things. I foresee that this time next year you will be married, or at least engaged, and he will be doing very well and you will have no need to work. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s taking things slowly so as not to scare you off. Now, you start searching for a nice guest house for him and make sure it’s close enough for you both to see each other easily while he’s in London.’

Marion had found a clean and homely guest house off Kensington High Street, run by a tiny woman, a Scot as it happened, widowed by the war. Mrs Bridie was warm, chatty and happy to take in a respectable fellow Scot.

‘The thing is,’ Marion explained, ‘I don’t have a firm date for his arrival yet.’

‘Nae bother, lassie. You write down his name for me so I know who to expect. Around mid-September you say? I always keep my back room free in case of last-minute guests. I hate to turn anyone back to the streets; I think of my husband, given shelter by French farmers during the war. He wrote to tell me how lovely their cheeses were.’ She smiled sadly. ‘But they couldn’t save him from the fighting. Only twenty-eight when he was killed.’ She appeared to shake the memory away. ‘I was in service. Big house in Regent’s Park. But I had saved a bit and bought this wee house to do for others what others had done for Bill. Here’s my telephone number. Just ask him to ring up and we’ll make the arrangements.’

She passed Marion a piece of paper with her number written in pencil.