‘Hi ho, Shorty,’ he responded, not looking up but marking something on the paper with a stub of pencil. ‘Nothing doing?’

‘No, all quiet.’

‘You know what Smiler says: one of them rockets could be a mile above our heads as we speak, just waiting to smash us like a bleeding hammer.’

‘Thanks, Addy.’

‘You’re welcome. Cup of tea? There’s still a mouthful in the pot. Fenton’s girl turned up and says he’s seedy, won’t be in tonight.’

‘Smiler’s coming in though, isn’t he?’ asked Winnie, pouring herself half a mug of treacle. ‘And Basset?’

‘Basset’s swapped with Polesworth.’

‘All right.’ It wasn’t much of a swap; Basset was worth ten of Polesworth, the latter a cerebral liability from the Classics department at King’s, who pondered every decision (however trivial) as if it were a chess move. Four years before, during the night Blitz, there’d been twenty volunteer wardens and eleven full-timers at the post, but the long lull before the advent of the doodlebugs had pared down the roster, and now only Winnie, as Post Warden, and Smiler, as deputy, were on the council pay-roll, with a shifting band of part-timers helping out as the fancy took them. ‘You can’t hardly call us Air Raid Precautions Wardens no more,’ as Smiler had remarked. ‘We’re Mopper-Uppers. You can’t take no precautions against a thunderbolt.’

Addy laid down the paper and yawned; the small electric fire in the corner had built up a nice fug. ‘You heard from that husband of yours, Shorty?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Got a letter on Monday.’

‘What’s he up to, then?’

‘Oh, not much. The camp crosses out half of what he writes and the censor on this side cuts the rest.’

‘Sends you his love?’

‘None of your business.’

Addy smiled.

‘I tell you what, though, I just had something quite funny happen,’ said Winnie, glad to change the subject. She took out her notebook and looked at the address that the boy had written in a neat italic script. ‘I met a kid poking around St Aethelstan’s, and I said I’d drop him a line when the chap from the University decides what to do with the Green Man carving. And when I looked at the address, I realized that it’s somewhere I know – it’s in Hampstead – and I don’t only know the road, I know the actual house. It was owned by a suffragette called Miss Matilda Simpkin, and she ran a girls’ club – my sister and I were both in it.’

‘You got a sister?’

‘A twin, actually.’

‘Get away – I never knew that! Two Shorties!’

‘She’s four inches taller than me. The club was called the Amazons – we used to throw javelins and run around Hampstead Heath with feathers in our hair.’

Addy let out a silent whistle, and turned the page. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘There’s a runner in tomorrow’s 4.30 called Feathered Friend – might be worth a punt. What do you say? It’s got the usual number of legs.’