“And that, indeed, madam,” the postal clerk responds, rising from his stool in arthritic segments, like a metal chaise unfolding or a stork lifting jerkily into the air, “means that you’ve been put on the list, and now you are waiting.” He spreads his wide, flat-nailed fingertips on the counter and smiles paternally.

Sylvia stares at him. “But this is preposterous. I don’t see why I must continue to wait; I need a telephone now, and I’m willing and able to pay. I have small children,” she says, waving an arm in the direction of the pram, where Nicholas has fallen heavily asleep against the laundry, his face tearstained, his mouth a slack pink O. Frieda stands beside him, gripping the pram, sucking the wet end of her mitten, her eyes wide, startled by the sudden blare of her mother’s voice turned in her direction. Sylvia gives the clerk an uncompromising look, tapping her nails on the counter. “I simply insist,” she says meaningfully, “that my telephone be hooked up.”

The postal clerk’s smile sets, becoming just perceptibly hard. He runs one hand over his thinning, slicked hair. “I daresay you’d have your line if you were back home in America, madam,” he replies, pausing for emphasis, “but this is a country nearly bankrupt by the war. It may seem far off to you, but it is not to Englishmen. Our telephone service is state run, and there’s only a certain amount of money set aside for telephones each year. It’s the end of the year. We’ve run out of money. You can thank the Germans for your lack of a telephone.”

Sylvia’s cheeks burn. She feels the heat of other bodies in the room, the soft feathery sound of breathing behind her. She lowers her voice, leaning farther toward the clerk. “Please, sir,” she pleads, her tone solicitous and meek, “there must be some way I can get a phone. Could I pay the quarterly tariff now? What if I pay for the full year of service?”

The clerk is shaking his head as Sylvia speaks. He continues to shake it, a look of mournful discouragement on his face as he tells her, “I’m afraid that won’t help. You see, young lady, there are certainly other customers ahead of you on the waiting list. It wouldn’t be right to serve you first. It just isn’t done.”

“But I have small children—” she says plaintively. “I’m alone.” She whispers to the clerk, her lips nearly touching the wire bars. “My husband is dead.”

“I’m very sorry, madam,” the clerk says, still shaking his head. He pauses, his chin just wagging. He sighs, lifting his eyes to Sylvia. “Have you considered shared service? The waiting list is generally shorter.”

“That’s a party line?” she asks cautiously.

The clerk nods. “You might get service by January.”