He was bent over, tying a shoelace. As he stood up, he saw Evie and his face contorted in shock. His skin was pale, his features gaunt, his eyes haunted. But it was Arthur. They stood facing each other on the edge of the pavement as people moved past them.

‘Evie. Is it really you? I thought you’d died in the bombing. In Singapore.’

She stared at him, still trying to absorb this was actually Arthur. ‘I wasn’t in Singapore. I never got off the train. They wouldn’t let us. They took us straight to the port. I left Malaya the day after I said goodbye to you in Butterworth.’ The two feet of pavement between them felt like a widening chasm. ‘And you? Everyone said you must have been killed. I asked everywhere. The Colonial Office. I went back to Penang. But no matter what they said, I knew if you were dead I would have known. I’d have sensed it.’

He winced and she felt unsure of herself. The cold of the advancing January afternoon made her shiver, standing there in just a skirt and jumper.

‘You’ll freeze to death. Where’s your coat?’ He undid his own and draped it around her shoulders.

Evie was shocked at the thinness of him. Arthur had had an athletic figure, tall, muscular, strong, even if he was often a sloucher. But his shoulders were stooped and he had the same gnarled and bony hands she had seen in Mary. He seemed to be avoiding her gaze.

‘Where did you come from?’ he asked.

‘Over there.’ She gestured across the road. ‘Lyons Corner House. Jasmine saw you through the window. Come,’ she said. ‘Come and see the children.’

He guided her across the street. The noise of horns and the rattle of the trams preventing him from replying until they reached the other pavement.

‘I can’t stop, Evie. I have a meeting. Where are you staying?’ He was still avoiding her eyes.

‘I’ve rented a house. In Surrey. Near Reigate.’

There was a distance between them which Evie found inexplicable. As if they barely knew each other. Polite. Awkward. Strained.

‘Look. I can’t talk now. I have to go to the Colonial Office. I’ve given my notice and the Permanent Secretary wants to talk to me. I’m going to be late.’

‘You’re leaving the Foreign Service?’

‘I’ve accepted a position at Oxford. Teaching and research. Colonial History.’

‘I see.’ She didn’t at all. She didn’t understand anything. Why he was so cold. So distant. As if they were mere acquaintances. Barely even that.

‘How can I get in touch?’ His voice was quiet. No enthusiasm. Evie realised he hadn’t smiled once.

She pulled a scrap of paper from her jacket pocket. ‘Do you have a pencil?’ He handed her his fountain pen and she scribbled her address down and passed it to him.

‘Thanks. We’ll talk.’ He put the paper in his pocket and, nodding, walked away.

Evie was crushed. Deflated. Didn’t he care for her any more? He had behaved like a stranger. Her heart was breaking.