‘Oh.’

Their eyes met in the old, complicit connection; fleetingly, they were the Vee and Noel of the grey suburbs, breath not quite steady, pulses running a touch fast, the world a little sharper and brighter than usual as they rattled their fake charity box, ears strained for the policeman’s footstep.

‘No,’ said Vee, reluctantly. ‘No, we shouldn’t. It’s not as if it’s for anything really important, is it?’

Noel shook his head. The disappointment was slight but palpable.

Ten minutes after the Drill Hall doors had been opened, not only was there nothing left of the buffet, but the empty plates looked as if they’d been licked. Noel had tried the strawberry jelly and found that it tasted slightly of glue, but its sheer novelty was such that small children had carried pieces away in their cupped hands, unsure as to whether it was food or a plaything. The meat-paste sandwiches had tasted of nothing at all, but one elderly man had taken five, folded each like a small book, and inserted them into his trouser pockets.

‘If everyone has finished eating,’ called a large woman from the stage, ‘could you be seated for the entertainment?’

At the tombola stall, Noel was eyeing the prizes to see whether it was worth venturing a shilling or two. The large tin of pears in cream was calling to him. He knew exactly what he would be cooking for the savoury part of the Christmas Day menu, but the pudding was still lacking in pizzazz. ‘I’ll take three tickets, please.’

Mr Jepson seemed strangely reluctant to sell them to him. ‘Three? Are you sure?’

Noel fished another sixpence from his pocket. ‘Four, then.’

‘No, I mean, are you sure you want them now? Wouldn’t you rather wait until the interval?’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, just to … to even things out.’ Jepson seemed to be attempting to convey something important, using only his eyebrows.

‘Hurry up,’ said the woman behind Noel in the queue. ‘I want a good seat.’

‘How about if I take one now,’ said Noel, carefully, ‘and another couple later?’

‘Yes, good idea.’

‘Well, aren’t you the lucky one?’ said the woman, as Noel unfolded his ticket.

As he took his place in the audience, he scrutinized the tin of scented talcum powder (French Lavender) that he’d won. As far as he could ascertain, it had never been opened; if he sanded off the rust spots, it might make a good present for Vee.

The trouble with being given flowers, thought Vee, was that now she’d have to carry them around all evening. And it wasn’t just a buttonhole, it was a whacking great bunch of pink-and-blue silk gardenias. She had kept it on her lap during the Tube journey, and then clutched in one hand as they’d exited at Leicester Square, emerging into jostling darkness, absorbed into a near-invisible crowd that swayed and heaved like a turning tide, almost lifting Vee off her feet. She’d gripped the corporal’s sleeve as he steamed through, and by the time they’d reached a pub he knew of, along the Strand and down a flight of steps by the river, the bouquet looked as if summer had come and gone.