"Douglas Bader was passed fit for combat," I'd said.

The major had looked up at me. "Eh?"

"Douglas Bader was passed fit to fight, and he'd lost both his feet."

"Things were different then," the major from the MOD had replied somewhat flippantly.

Were they? I wondered.

Bader had been declared fit and had taken to the air in his Spitfire to fight the enemy simply due to his own perseverance. True, the country had been in desperate need of pilots, but he could have easily sat out the war in relative safety if he had wanted to. It had been the weight of his personal determination that had eventually overcome the official reluctance to allow him to fly.

I would take my lead from him.

We'll see, indeed.

I'd show them.

"Will the tube station do?" Vicki said.

"Sorry?" I said.

"The tube station," she repeated. "Is that OK?"

"Fine," I said. "Anywhere."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Home, I suppose," I said.

"And where is home?"

"My mother lives in Lambourn," I said.

"Where's that?" she asked.

"Near Newbury, in Berkshire."

"Is that where you're going now?"

Was it? I didn't particularly want to. But where else? I could hardly sleep on the streets of London. Others did, but had I gone down that far?

"Probably," I said. "I'll get the train."

My mind was working on automatic pilot as I negotiated the escalator up from the Underground into Paddington mainline railway station. Only near the top did I realize that I couldn't remember when I had last used an escalator. Stairs had always been my choice, and they had to be taken at a run, never at a walk. And yet here I was, gliding serenely up without moving a muscle.