‘Oh, your aunt takes in lodgers, does she? Profitable business?’

‘No, not really.’ They left the clearing and were suddenly in twilight. Sim stumbled over a root, and took out his torch, playing it over the path ahead, before twitching it suddenly upward. ‘What the hell?’

‘Barn owl,’ said Noel. ‘Can I see you again? When does your ship embark? Though I expect you’re not allowed to tell me that, are you?’

‘Not even if I knew myself. Perhaps I could drop round again if I’m still on leave next week?’

‘No. Let’s meet somewhere else. I don’t want …’ I don’t want this spoiled, he thought: the Aegean sunset, the yacht at anchor and Vee standing on the jetty, binoculars trained beadily on Sim.

They emerged from the woods into steady snow, the grass already disappearing. ‘How about the National Gallery?’ suggested Noel. ‘Or, no, better than that, how about the Victoria and Albert? It’s the only museum still open and, besides, there’s something I want to see there. I could meet you on Monday. In the Cast Court.’

‘I can try, but I shan’t know if I can get there till the day before. They’re always throwing duties at us, even in port. Tell you what, though, you couldn’t sub me something till we meet next, could you? A tenner would come in handy. Or a fiver?’

‘I think I’ve only got about three and six,’ said Noel. ‘But you can have that.’

‘Not really quite enough. I don’t suppose your aunt would spare a tenner for a sailor boy, would she?’

For a fraction of a second, Noel contemplated trying to sneakily access the golden-syrup tin in which Vee kept her cash.

‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

The roof of the Wimbournes’ house slid into view, between the trees.

‘Are you limping?’ asked his father.

‘I sometimes do when I hurry. What if I get to the V&A for nine o’clock every day next week, then? I can always sit and read. I’ll stay till midday in case you come later. Or would the afternoons be better?’ Noel could hear himself gabbling, seized with the sense that his own desperate yearning for another meeting wasn’t quite reciprocated – that if he didn’t hook a promise in the fifty yards between the Wimbournes’ house and his own, then his father might bob away again, out of reach.

‘Would the afternoons be better?’ he repeated, just as Vee’s voice became audible, calling his name.

‘Coming!’ he shouted. Through the trees, he glimpsed Vee, bareheaded, with her shawl round her shoulders, turning back towards the house.

‘Is that your aunt?’ asked Sim.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’m jolly glad there’s someone worrying about you – you’d better hurry home. And yes, I’ll try to get there, no fear, wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ He held out a bony hand, and Noel shook it.

‘Just in case,’ said Noel, ‘what’s your ship called? So I could write to you.’

‘Can’t say at the moment, I’m afraid – I’m about to be transferred. I can hear your aunt again. Off you go.’