The photographer from the Picture Post had wanted to pose Avril in front of a bombed-out building, but snow had given way to sleet, and at three in the afternoon it was already beginning to darken, so he had moved his camera and a plug-in light into Post 9 and was using the six-foot-by-six sector map as a backdrop. Avril, dressed in a tightly belted navy siren suit, her hair in a victory roll, was standing with studied casualness, hands in pockets and a warden’s helmet hooked over one elbow, the shadow of her profile projected dramatically across the web of streets.

‘Any other props?’ asked McLennan, who had arrived in a cape. He was, as Avril had whispered to Winnie, a well-known ‘society’ photographer, and his expression on looking around the interior of the Wardens’ Hut was that of a sculptor forced to model the Venus de Milo out of used chewing-gum.

‘Any what?’ asked Smiler.

‘Props. Objects of some description that would shout “Wardens’ Post” to an observer.’

‘Well, I can get you a sign that says “Wardens’ Post”,’ said Smiler. ‘There’s one outside.’

‘Something less on the nose, perhaps?’

Winnie opened the store cupboard and scanned the shelves. ‘Gas rattle? Tilley lamp? Telephone book? Sandwich box?’

‘That’s mine,’ said Basset.

‘You haven’t seen my Iliad in there, have you?’ asked Polesworth.

Star-fever had hit the Post and several of the wardens had turned out to watch the photographic session, whether on shift or not. Avril had been tremendously gracious, distributing kisses and handshakes all round – ‘Oh, I’ve heard all about you,’ she’d said, roguishly, to Smiler, and his leathern features had almost dimpled. Addy had made her a cup of tea and Polesworth had actually brought along a copy of Tin Helmet for her to autograph.

‘What about a blue flag?’ continued Winnie, poking through the cupboard. ‘For use during an incident. Or a whistle on a string? Or a folding canvas screen? We put them up to hide the WC in the shelters.’

The session continued without additional props. After Avril had been photographed in a variety of poses – gazing clear-eyed just to the right of the camera, pensively biting her lip and (less successfully) smiling modestly – it was Winnie’s turn.

‘Just begin by standing comfortably together,’ said McLennan. ‘Give me a moment to move the light.’

‘No stains on this, are there?’ asked Winnie, glancing down at the uniform tunic she was wearing over her slacks. She had polished the buttons that morning, and brushed the matching beret.

Avril shook her head. ‘No, you look awfully smart. You know that Picture Post want you for the interview as well?’

‘Really?’

‘They love the twin angle, apparently. It’s on Sunday afternoon at our house. Can you come?’

‘I’d have to swap shifts.’

‘I’ll cover for you, Shorty,’ said Smiler.

‘There,’ said Avril. ‘All sorted. Is that what your colleagues call you? Shorty?’

‘When we’re not calling her Chief,’ said Basset, with a tone of slight reproof.