Work is fascinating and challenging and we live in relative luxury here but I feel so guilty that you are all still living with the fear and stress of it, as well as rationing and other miseries. I pray (to anyone who might be listening, Christian and Hindu gods alike) that you and your family are safe. I miss you so much and it is purgatory not knowing what is going on in your life, or whether you have met someone else.

After the ‘dance incident’ I vowed never to be so pig-headed and proud again. So I beg you, even if your heart is elsewhere, please write and let me know at least that you are well and happy.

Fondest love,

Vic

EPILOGUE

December 1973

Now, as the tea cools in his cup and the clock hand inches closer to six, the other customers of the tea room end their conversations, pull on their coats and gather up their Christmas shopping, wishing him ‘Merry Christmas’ as they walk out into the bitter night.

When the last of them has left, the absurdity of this whole ridiculous expedition hits him. Here he sits, alone in an empty cafe, waiting for someone he vaguely imagines could just possibly be a woman he once knew thirty years ago, based on the slimmest of evidence: the taste of a piece of carrot cake. In his head he calculates the odds: how many Kathleens per head of population, how many in Felixstowe, of the right kind of age? Surely one carrot cake recipe is much the same as any other.

What a poor deluded fool he is, clinging to an illusion, a pipe dream. And even if it is her, what would she want with this aged, faded fellow who has clearly given up on himself, who has no money, nowhere to stay and not a single clue what to do next? He wonders abstractedly whether, if he slept in the car tonight, he would freeze to death. Perhaps he ought to try it, throwing his life to the fates. If the weather turns cold enough to kill him, so much the better. At least he wouldn’t have to make that decision.

Yes, that is what he will do. His mind is made up. He stands and gathers his coat, rummaging in the pockets for all the loose change he has, hoping it will be enough to pay for his tea and cake. But then, just as he moves towards the kitchen door to ask for the bill, it swings open and a woman asks, ‘Can I help you?’

It is the voice that gives her away, for he does not immediately recognise the worry-worn face, the close-cropped grey hair and the middle-aged spread of her hips.

‘Excuse me,’ he says, and falters. He clears his throat and says instead, ‘Kath? Is it you?’

Her eyes are wide with astonishment; still the same hazel flecked with green. ‘Vic?’ she whispers. ‘No. Can’t be. Oh my goodness, it really is.’