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cheroots. A GI said sure, he’d brought cheroots. Thank you, darling, said the charming lady. This way, he said. Which way? Follow me, lady, he said. She floated out in his wake. I think her addiction to cheroots cost her dear, because she never reappeared.
    Meg sorted me out at nine o’clock. ‘Where’ve you been, you carrot?’ she asked.
    ‘Just standing here and talking. I’ve been invited to Oklahoma after the war.’
    ‘Bloody marvellous, I don’t think,’ said Meg. ‘I’ve just escaped a fate worse than a messy death while you’ve been standin’ and talkin’. What kind of a soldier friend are you?’
    ‘Good question, that, Meg, ask me another.’
    ‘I’ll break your leg in a minute,’ said Meg. The party was getting chaotic. ‘Let’s go home. Whose bottle of gin is that on that chair?’
    ‘No idea,’ I said.
    ‘Pinch it,’ said Meg. ‘Me mum an’ dad can have it.’
    ‘Where’s Steve, your new friend?’
    ‘Upstairs. He can’t come down, not yet, I’ve just done the bugger an injury.’ Meg liked a lark, even a wrestle, but in common with most Walworth girls she wasn’t prepared to be on the losing end of any wrestle.
    We took the bottle of gin as perks for her mum and dad and had a talkative bus ride home. Meg came in to share a pot of tea and some slices of Sunday cake with Aunt May and myself. She described what the party had been like and what Steve Schuster from New Jersey had been like. Aunt May smiled a bit and gave me a look or two.
    ‘Didn’t you look after Meg?’ she asked.
    ‘I played gooseberry,’ I said.
    ‘Oh, I didn’t need Tim,’ said Meg, ‘I took care of my uniform all by meself, I just ’anded out a few wallops.’
    ‘Some kinds of behaviour leave a lot to be desired in wartime,’ said Aunt May, ‘and I don’t know if there are any winners. But I do know the losers are always women.’
    ‘Not this time,’ said Meg. ‘This time Steve from New Jersey was a loser. He’ll ’urt from ’ere to Christmas.’
    ‘Oh, dear, poor man,’ said Aunt May, but she looked quite cheerful about it.
    I had a restful leave on the whole. I went to the pub a few times and met friends and acquaintances there, including Nell Saunders, the bus clippie. I took Meg with me a couple of times. She liked a shandy and the kind of boisterous company that was always prevalent in Walworth pubs. I also took her to the pictures. We were mates, no doubt about it.
    ‘D’you feel you’d like me as a brother?’ I asked her.
    ‘Try me,’ she said. So I kissed her.
    ‘How was that?’ I asked.
    ‘Champion,’ said Meg. ‘No, I don’t want you as a brother.’
    ‘Bosom chum?’ I suggested.
    ‘Sounds a lot better,’ said Meg, ‘but don’t go mad, it might knock a ruddy great ’ole in our chummy friendship.’
    Meg was a joker. I left it at that. It suited me.
    ‘I’m off, Aunt May,’ I said. My leave was up and I had a train to catch.
    ‘Well, it’s been lovely having you home,’ she said.
    ‘Twice over for me,’ I said. ‘God bless yer, old girl, ta for everything. Look after yourself. Keep your head down, put the milk bottles out at night, don’t let Mrs Marsh’s cats in, they wee on the passage floor, and order your coal early for the winter. Oh, I’ve oiled your sewing-machine by the way.’
    ‘Anything else?’ smiled Aunt May.
    ‘Yes, you’re my best girl,’ I said.
    She laughed and sent me off with a warm kiss and a warm cuddle.

CHAPTER THREE
    BACK AT BATTERY Headquarters I was having an ordinary day in my life as an ack-ack gunner, temporarily desk-bound. I’d been transferred from a gun site ten months ago to fill a gap in the orderly room. The site commander, Lieutenant Rogers, told me BHQ wanted a clerk and that I would do.
    ‘Here, give over, sir, I’m not—’
    ‘All right, we know you’re not a genius, but you can read and write, can’t you? Yes, of course you can. Get your kit and push off. The ration lorry’s here. You can go in