“The new part-timer,” I said. “I’ll take it up to him.”

She cut a slice and eased it off the knife and on to the plate. “What’s he like?” she asked.

“He’s from Yorkshire,” Twickenham said, looking at Mrs Lucy. “What did he do up there before the war?”

Mrs Lucy looked at her cake, as if surprised that it was nearly eaten. “He didn’t say,” she said.

“I meant, is he handsome?” Vi said, putting a fork on the plate with the slice of cake. “Perhaps I should take it up to him myself.”

“He’s puny. Pale,” Swales said, his mouth full of cake. “Looks as if he’s got consumption.”

“Nelson won’t steal him any time soon, that’s certain,” Morris said.

“Oh, well, then,” Vi said, and handed the plate to me.

I took it and went upstairs, stopping on the second floor landing to shift it to my left hand and switch on my pocket torch.

Jack was standing by the window, the binoculars dangling from his neck, looking out past the rooftops towards the river. The moon was up, reflecting whitely off the water like one of the German flares, lighting the bombers’ way.

“Anything in our sector yet?” I said.

“No,” he said, without turning round. “They’re still to the east.”

“I’ve brought you some raspberry cake,” I said.

He turned and looked at me.

I held the cake out. “Violet’s young man in the RAF sent it.”

“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m not fond of cake.”

I looked at him with the same disbelief I had felt for Violet’s name emblazoned on a Spitfire. “There’s plenty,” I said. “She brought a whole torte.”

“I’m not hungry, thanks. You eat it.”

“Are you sure? One can’t get this sort of thing these days.”

“I’m certain,” he said and turned back to the window.

I looked hesitantly at the slice of cake, guilty about my greed but hating to see it go to waste and still hungry. At the least I should stay up and keep him company.