‘Hey there,’ said one of the GIs, flipping a salute. The girls glanced at Vee without interest.

‘Hello, Marge,’ said the Tommy, grinning. He had terrible teeth, like little brown pebbles. ‘Have you heard the news?’

‘What news?’

‘Hitler’s going to be visiting the seaside too. What’s his favourite resort?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Braunmouth. Do you get it? Like Eva Braun. Not Bournemouth, Braunmouth.’

‘Oh yes, very good,’ said Vee, politely.

‘He’s told that one already,’ said one of the girls. ‘And we’ve only been here five minutes. Here, I hope we can get a seat, I’m dead on my feet. We’ve both just come off night-shift.’

‘Where do you work?’

‘The Woolwich Arsenal. Oh look, there’s Horsey!’ The girl waved at a long-faced GI who was leaning out of the train window, beckoning them towards one of the three carriages. It was already full, every seat taken in every compartment, everyone coughing, so that it was like entering a mobile TB clinic, and Vee found herself in the corridor wedged between Mario and the Tommy, and forced to talk to the latter, since his head was more or less at the same level as hers, while Mario was conducting a shouted conversation about the Rocky Mountains with a Canadian airman who was travelling in one of the luggage racks.

‘You want to hear another?’ asked the Tommy.

‘Another what?’

‘Go on, this’ll make you laugh. It’s like a riddle. Man goes up to a greengrocer’s stall and he says, “Four oranges, please.” So what song does the coster sing in reply?’

Vee shook her head, thinking about oranges; the glow of them, as if you could warm your hands; the peel drying on the stove-top and scenting the kitchen; the soft tear, like the noise of a ripped stocking, as you separated the segments. She’d been three away in a queue from getting some last week.

‘Can’t you guess?’ said Private Tooth Stubs.

‘No, I can’t.’

‘He sings “Can I? Four? Getcha?”’

‘What?’

‘Can I Forget You?’ – do you see? Can I. Four. Getcha. That’s the joke.’

‘Oh.’ She hoisted her mouth into a smile, just as the train started with a terrible lurch, and her head snapped sideways, almost knocking a fag out of a sailor’s hand.

‘Watch what you’re doing!’

‘Sorry.’

‘You’ll like this one,’ said the Tommy. ‘It’s a bit off-colour, but I can tell you’re the sort who don’t shock easily. There’s this vicar, and he’s taking the collection, and he looks into the basket and there’s a packet of rubber johnnies in there, so anyway, he looks along the pew …’

Vee leaned away as much as she could, turning her head so that one ear was pressed against Mario’s chest. The padded warmth was like leaning against a lagged boiler and she could feel the rumbling vibration of his voice. Over the Tommy’s shoulder she caught a glimpse of the river, and then they were back among sooty warehouses and rows of chimneys, and sudden, startling swathes of open ground, with walls like broken combs and the flash of puddles among the ruins. She saw boys running across a wasteland, and a tabby cat sitting in a glassless window, and then they were crossing a viaduct and beneath them were allotments, with a spiral of pigeons rising above the rows of winter cabbage.