In the morning we made love—and it is strange that I can’t recall it better, what with all the anticipation leading up to it. I remember waking in a bright room feeling hungry, but forgetting the hunger as he touched me, and I remember the odd rubbery smell of the condom, which I had heard of but never seen before. I remember the dry feeling of friction. The pressure which was too much at first but which gradually eased and then, when I stopped worrying, felt good. If I moved it felt even better. He whispered in my ear as he rocked above me and it was the feeling of his breath on my ear that I wanted most, and as soon as he was done I missed him like part of me, as though he was already on board the ship and gone. We made love three times that morning—each time it was easier, though the last time it was also raw. And then he looked at his watch on the bedside table and cried, ‘Shit—sorry—damn, we’d better go.’

The ship at the wharf was gunmetal grey with a huge, high hull. The deck was a smokestack, posts and ropes, guns at the bow and stern, and bunks below. It was a Liberty ship, and all I could think of was a conversation I’d overheard between Roy and his friends, talking of how the huge hulls were paper-thin and easily pierced by submarine missiles. How the ships travelled in a ring as it was less likely that the U-boats would penetrate a circle. How men slept with their clothes and shoes on in case they were hit, so they could get to the lifeboats as quickly as possible. On the decks were a mass of American army and navy uniforms. The dock was so crowded it looked as though it might sink, and we pushed through the crush, Roy holding tight to my hand, his bag slung over one shoulder. Finally we reached the gangway, and it was time for him to leave. He held my face in his hands and said, ‘You’ll write.’

‘So will you. You’ll be safe.’

‘I will. I love you.’