‘There,’ he said, satisfied.

It was only polite to say thank you.

‘Well, if you’ve got everything you need, Bernard, I’ll be turning in now.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said, but he didn’t move. Stood there studying the room in a sort of wonder – his mouth gaping – like he’d never been in there before.

‘Goodnight, then,’ I said. I went to the door to show him the way out. He came towards me and stopped still. A goodnight kiss, that’s what he was wanting. A peck from a chicken’s beak. But neither of us had the courage. Both said, ‘Sleep well,’ instead.

I locked the door after he’d gone. Turned the old key, rusty and stiff, in the lock. Gently, quietly tried the handle to make sure it had worked. When, ruddy hell, that blinking grandfather clock started to chime.

Early morning and he was out on the doorstep with Mr Todd. Their voices were muffled by distance – I couldn’t make out what they were saying. But surprise and pleasure had Mr Todd’s voice squeaking high as a girl’s. And every few minutes they’d titter like the best gossips. It was a good while before they went quieter. Hushing down to a low mumbling that didn’t want to be overheard. That cautious whispering prattled on for quite some time.

He’d moved a few things in the parlour. A china dog from the sideboard to the mantelpiece where it always used to be. An armchair shifted a few feet back in front of the fire. He was flushed coming in from outside. His shirtsleeves rolled up. The top button casually undone. He walked almost jauntily into the room, slapping his arms against the cold.

‘Took me a while to find the teapot,’ he told me. ‘Not where it usually is.’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Did you sleep well?’

‘I did, thank you. You?’

He looked up – told the ceiling, ‘It was very good to be back in my own bed.’

He’d made toast. Near as skipped to the kitchen to fetch it. He’d never done that before. The skipping, I mean. Brought it in on a silver rack. Triangles neatly laid in a row.

‘Where did you get that toast rack from?’

‘Oh, it was my mother’s.’

‘Where was it?’

‘In the sideboard.’ I didn’t say it – ‘No, it blinking wasn’t’ – but I wanted to.

At the table he pulled the chair out for me to sit down. Settled in after me, tucking a napkin under his chin like we were in the finest restaurant. Passed me the toast. I’d taken one mouthful when he asked, ‘So, how many lodgers do we have?’

‘We’ – he said ‘we’. I put the toast on the plate. Picked up my napkin to dab the corners of my mouth. Might as well play along, I thought. ‘Let’s see. There’s Winston and Jean in the middle landings and Gilbert and his wife at the top.’There was a genteel silence so I filled it with, ‘Gilbert’s wife has only just arrived.’ A frown formed on his forehead gradual as shifting sand. And I knew what the next question would be.

‘Are they all coloured?’

‘No, Jean’s not. She’s a nurse.’

‘That’s not what Mr Todd called her.’

‘I dare say.’

He slapped his palm on the table, quite startled me, and said, ‘A prostitute and coloureds. What were you thinking of, Queenie?’

I didn’t want to shout, not again. ‘Listen to me, Bernard. I had to get lodgers. I had no idea where you were. There was no one going to look after me. I had to bring people in.’

‘I don’t doubt that, Queenie, but did they have to be coloured? Couldn’t you have got decent lodgers for the house? Respectable people?’

‘They pay the rent. And on time. Gilbert was in the RAF during the war.’

He wasn’t impressed.

‘I’m sorry to tell you, Bernard, but this house is no palace. It got really run down during the war. I couldn’t fix it up, and I had no one to turn to. They were willing to pay good money to stay in those dingy rooms. I had little choice. I mean, where were you? You haven’t told me that yet!’

He started chewing again before softly saying, ‘Well, they’ll have to go now I’m back.’ My toast was like sandpaper. I didn’t have the saliva to swallow the parched bread. ‘Mr Todd is moving, you know,’ Bernard went on.

‘Is he?’ I said. It wasn’t a surprise to me and would be no loss either.

‘He and his sister have found a little house in Orpington.’ I didn’t doubt it. I tried more butter on the toast but it still wouldn’t go down. ‘Says the street has gone to the dogs. What with all these coloureds swamping the place. Hardly like our own country any more.’ He poured the tea – handed me a cup, which rattled in the saucer.

‘Blames me for that, I expect,’ I said.

The shaking cup was momentarily silent. ‘I’ve been doing some thinking,’ he went on. ‘We should move out. Get rid of all these coolies . . . the lodgers, I mean. Let them find somewhere more suitable for their type anyway. Sell the place. Move somewhere more select. Kent, maybe. I’ve heard just outside Ashford’s nice.’ He was quite jaunty again. Bold even, bouncing on his chair a little. When suddenly he said the strangest thing: ‘Thought I might start a rabbit farm.’

I hadn’t heard him right, I was sure of it. ‘A what?’

‘A rabbit farm. We’d only need two rabbits to start. A male and a female.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Rabbits. You know what they breed like?’

‘Have you gone mad, Bernard?’

‘Like rabbits.’ And I swear he chuckled.

‘What?’

‘It’s a joke. Don’t you see? They breed like rabbits, rabbits.’

‘What are you going on about?’

‘Breeding rabbits on a farm. We can start it together. I’ll do all the business side. You look after the stock. It will be something new, I know. A lot of work, I don’t doubt that. But everything will soon be back to how it was. Just like it used to be. We can start again with rabbits.’

Every single silly word he uttered sucked the air from the room as sure as if he’d siphoned it. He didn’t leave so much as a puff for me to breathe. I gulped – grabbing at my throat.

‘Are you all right?’ he said.

The toast was going down the wrong way but it wasn’t that. No, I was sure I was being smothered.

Forty-eight

Bernard

Funny dream. Odd.

I’m in bed with Queenie at home. She’s lying next to me. Sleeping. Peaceful. Tucked up warm. Suddenly I hear a plane. One plane. Single engine. A drone. Sounds a bit like a bluebottle (a very big but slow bluebottle). I watch the course of the plane above my head. Follow the sound. Pass my eyes over the ceiling of our bedroom. Across the crack that looks like the bow in the Thames. Past the bit where a chunk of plaster fell off when we had a very close one. Over the ceiling rose with the bare bulb, which starts swaying from the vibration. Somehow I know it is a Jap plane. A Japanese fighter pilot flying over Earls Court. Probably a Zero. It could never have happened, I know, but this was a dream.

The noise of the kite suddenly stops. And I’m aware he’s coming for me. The bedroom door starts opening slowly. But I can’t move. Paralysed. Even my eyeballs are stuck – fixed on watching the door moving inch by inch. Then he’s there. The Jap. I see his head first, then the whole of him framed in the open door. And he’s just like they were in the cartoons. Little. Big glasses. Squinting eyes, buck teeth, ears like two jug handles. He’s wearing a grey peaked cap – they all used to. This one looks comical but I know there’s nothing funny about a Jap. Fishy thing is, he’s smiling at me. Friendly.

I want to shoot him. Stick one in him. Jump him. Smash his face into the ground. But he’s still smiling and I start to think, Oh, well, maybe he’s not so bad. Until I see his sword flash. Light cracking off it in a spark. I knew we were in danger. But suddenly Queenie sits up in bed, turns to the door, looks the Jap straight in the eye and says, ‘Hello.’ Just like that. Hello. Like she’s talking to a neighbour. Hello. As if she’d known him all her life. ‘Hello. Come in.’ And that was when I woke up.