‘Tea?’ he said.

I giggled, tea, then poured the cold water from the kettle into the teapot.

‘Yes, thank you, that would be nice. You have big house here.’

‘My husband . . . well, Arthur . . .’

‘Arthur is your husband?’

‘No, no, no!’ I almost screamed.

He held up his hands – his palms were pink and slashed with deep brown lines. ‘Oh, pardon me,’ he said.

‘No . . . no . . . It’s all right. My husband is in service overseas.’

‘Army, navy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which one?’

‘No. Sorry. RAF.’

‘RAF. You sure?’

That blinking silly giggle again. ‘Yes,’ I said, pouring the tea from the pot to a cup. I could see it was clear cold water with a few brown specks floating on the top, but blow me if I could think of a sensible thing to do about it.

I took the kettle and put it on the stove. I tried to strike a match. The first one broke, the second flew out of my hand across the kitchen floor. The third I just dropped before he said, ‘Let me help you there.’ As he took the matches from my hand his fingers glanced against mine. Once the stove was lit he was standing so close to me I wasn’t sure whether the heat I could feel was coming from the gas ring or from him. He smelt of his night out – cigarettes, beer and a faint whiff of female cologne. He looked at the cup of water I’d made, then back at me. The corners of his mouth creased just a little – hardly a smile, more like pity. I stepped back, away from him.

‘Where are the others?’ I said, fussing with my hair. I was sure there was something wrong with it. Or my face. I’d taken care that morning for the first time since I can remember. I’d curled my hair but a bit of fringe still flopped all straight. I had such little lipstick left I had to push my fingernail right down into the tube to get any out. No powder, no rouge. I pinched my cheeks for pink but maybe I’d done it too much – scratched my face, made weals come up. Because even if he wasn’t using his eyes he was examining me. Or maybe I’d overdone my lily-of-the-valley.

‘Ginger’s still asleep. He had a good night. But Kip? I cannot tell you a lie, Mrs Bligh . . .’

‘Queenie, please call me Queenie,’ I said, then regretted it as his eyes, lively as fairy lights, ran the wrong way all over those words as sure as if I’d written them backwards on a page.

‘Queenie,’ he said slowly, then added, ‘Kip did not return with us. His young lady had something else in mind for him.’

‘What was that?’ I asked.

He sat down, lifting his face to look at me before I realised what a daft question it was. But, being a fool, I still waited for his reply. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what it was,’ he finally said.

I went to the sink, turning my back to him. My legs were bare, my feet a little apart. I closed them together. I knew my dress had an odd button at the front. I put my hand up to feel it. The button was undone! I quickly did it up. Blinking fringe kept falling over my eye as I picked up the teapot. The dress I had on was a little too short and a little too tight. I knew he was watching me. I tried to relax my pose – lifting my weight on to one foot. But I worried that it made the dress look shorter and pulled across the hips so I stood back straight. I was aware of what every single part of me was doing. Bits that used to work on their own suddenly needed my control. Move hand and don’t shake. Come on, Lungs, in and out, in and out. Stop swallowing, Throat! I couldn’t pour the precious tea away: it was unused and Arthur had queued for hours for it. I took the strainer and poured the water out through it – the puddle of leaves collecting. All the time I was thinking, I bet he’s wondering what the blinking heck I’m doing. The plughole started to slurp loudly as the water went down it. I put my finger in the hole to try to stop the disgusting noise in case he believed it was me. I could smell burning as he said, ‘Queenie?’ I turned round so fast I knocked the tea strainer off the draining-board. The tea splattered on to the floor, bursting a shrapnel of black spots up my leg. I know he saw but he was busy taking the kettle off the stove – so carefully, his hand wrapped awkwardly in his pulled-down shirt sleeve. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, shaking the kettle a little to show me, ‘we should put some water into this.’

I only noticed he had a moustache later that evening when he was standing at my door. I’d thought it a black shadow against his lip. But in the dull electric light of the hallway I could see it was the thinnest line of stubby hair. Leaning casually against the doorframe, his jacket slung over his shoulder he asked, ‘Would you perchance have a tin-opener?’

‘Why do you want a tin-opener?’

‘So I may open a tin.’

I found that answer a little rude. I’m not that daft. ‘I thought you had all gone out for the evening.’

He stood up straight, lifting his arm to rest high on the doorframe beside me. ‘They both have companions they are going to meet and I am a little tired.’ He started to rummage in the pockets of his jacket and pulled out a tin of ham. He handed it to me, saying, ‘It needs a tin-opener.’ Still feeling in his jacket he produced a bar of American chocolate and, I hardly recognised it, an orange. ‘And these need someone to share them.’

I hoped I wasn’t too eager when I said, ‘Well, why don’t you come and join us, then?’

‘Are you gambling?’ I asked. I’d not been out in the kitchen that long but when I got back Michael and Arthur had cards fanned in their hands and the table between them was piled with little stacks of coppers.

‘No, I am gambling,’ Michael said, without looking at me. ‘Your father-in-law here knows he is going to win.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Because he is cheating.’

Cheeky beggar, I thought. He may have brought the food but he was still a guest. ‘Arthur does not cheat,’ I told him.

‘Oh yes he does. I don’t know how he do it but he does.’

‘I think that is very rude of you.’

‘Queenie, if he is not cheating then let me assure you that your father-in-law here is the luckiest man on this earth.’

And I was saying, ‘I really think you should apologise . . .’ when Arthur looked up at me and winked. It was meant only for me but nothing could get past this RAF man – he was a rear-gunner, after all. Or was it that all of his kind were so sharp-eyed? He glanced from me to Arthur and back again. ‘So, I am right. But no problem. You know why? Because you are a skilful cheat, Mr Bligh. Give me one more game, nah, see if I can learn your secrets.’

As Arthur shuffled the pack, his hands dealing so fast they blurred, Michael said, ‘So now, Queenie, if I am not mistaken it is you who must owe me the apology,’ adding, ‘but later will do.’

He kept flicking at the edges of his cards, making deep-throated umming sounds. He’d slowly shake his head, tip it to one side, then the other, as he watched Arthur, who sat as still as a sunny Sunday afternoon. Michael was the colour of a conker – not ruddy and new from the shell but after it had dulled in your pocket for a bit. As he leaned forward to pick up a card his shirt gaped to show that dark skin all over his chest. Would you know he was naked when he was undressed or would he look like he was clad all over in leather?

‘Mr Bligh,’ he said, ‘you willing to teach me your secret?’

‘He doesn’t speak,’ I told him.

‘I know – I am watching those eyebrows,’ he said.

Did his hair feel like hair or something you’d scrub a pan with? Would it chafe against your skin or would it brush gentle as an angora jumper?

‘You win again,’ he said. The inside of his mouth was pink as a powder puff. His lips plump as sausages – would you bounce off them or would they soften when kissed?

‘Come, Mr Bligh, you take all me money, you wan’ show me something in return?’

But Arthur got up. He packed away the cards and counted the coppers on the table as efficiently as Bernard would.