In a small clearing in the crowd, a bald man in a tight tweed suit handed his glass and spoon to someone, and turned to face the bulk of the room, his back to Winnie. There was a very long pause and then she noticed that the people around him were leaning inward, tilting their heads, and that what she had taken for the noise of someone clearing their throat was in fact a speech, virtually inaudible from where she stood.

‘Is nobody going to give a SPEECH?’ enquired the elderly voice, plaintively. In the corners of the room, conversation was beginning again. ‘Well, if there are to be NO SPEECHES, then I shall most definitely go and find THE LAVATORY.’

The distant throat-clearing continued for a while longer and was followed by a smattering of applause, and then Avril’s husband, Clive, carried a dining chair into the clearing. A moment later, Avril’s head and shoulders appeared above the crowd.

‘Welcome, everybody – I say, welcome!!’ She was holding a little ceramic bell, and she tinkled it reprovingly towards those who were still talking. ‘Quiet, everyone! I need a reverent hush. Pretend I’m the six o’clock news.’ There was a light laugh, and silence fell. ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ said Avril. ‘It’s a stinking night, and I suspect that no one wanted to leave home, even for free alcohol and relative warmth, so I’m awfully grateful for your attendance. I’m also grateful to my editor, Allen Faste, whose invariably valuable advice to me is, fortunately, more audible than his speeches.’ There was another laugh. Blimey, she’s good at this, thought Winnie. No wonder she wanted me to hear it. No one was chatting now; the room was paved with upturned faces. ‘… So, yes, I know that I’m a very fortunate girl indeed to be with such a progressive publisher. Now, who else do I have to thank? Ah yes, Clive, I haven’t forgotten you; little did you know that when you said “I do” in Chelsea Town Hall, you were marrying a tortured artist. I hope that it’s not been … too painful.’ She smiled downward in a way that made the man standing nearest to Winnie give an excited little inhalation.

‘Lucky, lucky fellow,’ murmured someone else.

‘But there’s another person I need to thank,’ continued Avril. ‘It’s the woman whose experiences inspired me to write Tin Helmet.’

Winnie flinched, spilling some of her wine.

‘Senior Warden Winifred Crowther, also known as my twin sister, Winnie – she’s the one in blue, standing beside the fireplace over there—’

A hundred faces turned to look at her.

‘—Winnie has lived the truth that I’ve merely attempted to transfer to the page; she epitomizes the gumption and bravery of civil defence workers, all those chaps who so often only stand and wait, yet who are required to act at a moment’s notice, in the service of us all. But, of course, truth in fiction can only ever be the filet mignon to the unwieldy farmyard beast that is real life. So I would like to raise a glass to Winnie, who, while I was safely ensconced in the cosy basement shelter of Senate House, was outside, under the searchlights, wrestling with the great, dull, sweating ox of verisimilitude. To Winnie!’