‘True.’

‘Stop it, Bernie!’ Ethel cried. ‘You sound as if you’re discussing the quickest way to Piccadilly Circus. He’s talking about going to war! I won’t allow it.’

‘He’s twenty-one, you know,’ Bernie said. ‘We can’t stop him.’

‘I know how bloody old he is!’

Bernie looked at his watch. ‘We need to get to the meeting. You’re the main speaker. And Lloyd’s not going to Spain tonight.’

‘How do you know?’ she said. ‘We might get home and find a note saying he’s caught the boat train to Paris!’

‘I tell you what,’ said Bernie. ‘Lloyd, promise your mother you won’t go for a month at least. It’s not a bad idea anyway – you need to check the lie of the land before you rush off. Set her mind at ease, just temporarily. Then we can talk about it again.’

It was a typical Bernie compromise, calculated to let everyone back off without backing down; but Lloyd was reluctant to make a commitment. On the other hand, he probably could not simply jump on a train. He had to find out what arrangements the Spanish government might be making to receive volunteers. Ideally, he would go in company with Lenny and others. He would need visas, foreign currency, a pair of boots . . . ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I won’t go for a month.’

‘Promise,’ his mother said.

‘I promise.’

Ethel became calm. After a minute she powdered her face and looked more normal. She drank her tea.

Then she put her coat on, and she and Bernie left.

‘Right, I’m off too,’ said Millie.

‘Where are you going?’ Lloyd asked her.

‘The Gaiety.’

It was a music hall in the East End. ‘Do they let sixteen-year-olds in?’

She gave him an arch look. ‘Who’s sixteen? Not me. Anyway, Dave’s going and he’s only fifteen.’ She was speaking of their cousin David Williams, son of Uncle Billy and Aunt Mildred.

‘Well, enjoy yourselves.’

She went to the door and came back. ‘Just don’t get killed in Spain, you stupid sod.’ She put her arms around him and hugged him hard, then went out without saying any more.

When he heard the front door slam, he went to the phone.

He did not have to think to recall the number. He could see Daisy in his mind’s eye, turning as she left him, smiling winningly under the straw hat, saying: ‘Mayfair two four three four.’

He picked up the phone and dialled.

What was he going to say? ‘You told me to phone, so here I am.’ That was feeble. The truth? ‘I don’t admire you at all, but I can’t get you off my mind.’ He should invite her to something, but what? A Labour Party meeting?

A man answered. ‘This is Mrs Peshkov’s residence. Good evening.’ The deferential tone made Lloyd think he was a butler. No doubt Daisy’s mother had rented a London house complete with staff.

‘This is Lloyd Williams . . .’ He wanted to say something that would explain or justify his call, and he added the first thing that came to mind: ‘. . . of Emmanuel College.’ It meant nothing but he hoped it sounded impressive. ‘May I speak to Miss Daisy Peshkov?’