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riddance.
    Pitt concluded he must be tipsy. He had been swilling back the burgundy on an empty stomach. He had to be careful not to speak these uncharitable thoughts out loud. He reached across to cup Mrs
Gregson’s hand, but found himself grasping only starched linen.
    ‘I’m very disappointed, Major,’ she said coolly. ‘Very disappointed indeed.’
    ‘I can tell, Mrs Gregson. As am I.’ Although not, perhaps, for reasons she fully appreciated. ‘Very much so.’
    ‘Is madam ready for her sole now?’ asked the waiter, who had glided up to her shoulder as if on castors.
    For a second, she thought of declining and leaving, not wanting to go through the rituals of such formal dining. But she had to eat. There was talk of rationing if the German submarines
continued their campaign against merchant shipping. But she was in no mood for picking delicately at her dish. ‘Off the bone, please.’
    ‘Of course, madam.’
    An idea was formulating in her head. Not a sensible idea, perhaps, but one that would give her forward momentum. The thought of another six months or a year packing and labelling parcels
appalled her.
    ‘When the men are repatriated to Holland, they will need medical attention, won’t they?’
    ‘Yes, of course. The Dutch Red Cross has undertaken to provide care for the sick and injured.’
    ‘You are in touch with them?’
    Pitt frowned. His alcohol-blunted brain couldn’t quite see where she was going. ‘I am.’
    ‘Can you get me in?’
    ‘Where?’ he asked. ‘The Red Cross?’
    ‘Holland. I want to volunteer my services.’
    ‘But the Parcels and Clothing Committee? That’s vital work—’
    ‘Vital work that any empty-headed housewife can do. Just ask Mrs Nichols or Mrs Priestley.’
    ‘Well, I don’t know. Do you have any medical training, Mrs Gregson?’
    If the lamb and the sole hadn’t interrupted, she might have exploded. Instead, she showed him her hands. ‘I didn’t get these from packing parcels.’
    He had noticed them, of course. Rough-skinned and scarred, hardly becoming for a woman of any standing above the servant class. In fact, he had wondered if she had been in service and had
bettered herself through the marriage to the late, apparently unlamented, Mr Gregson. If he
was
late, he realized. She had never actually confirmed she was a widow, he had simply picked up
that snippet from the gossip at the Clothing Committee HQ.
    ‘Carbolic and Eusol does terrible things to a woman’s skin,’ she said. ‘I was in Belgium and France for two years. I don’t think Holland will be a
challenge.’
    ‘Well, I have to go out and make provision for the first arrivals. I will make enquiries.’
    ‘I will come with you.’
    ‘Mrs Gregson, I don’t think that’s . . .’ He struggled for the word.
    ‘Possible? Likely? Agreeable? Feasible? The done thing?’ she prompted him.
    ‘Appropriate.’
    ‘Oh, I can make it appropriate,’ said Mrs Gregson, thinking of favours owed. ‘I can make it very appropriate.’
    Pitt let out a sigh. He couldn’t help thinking of Pandora’s box. What had he unleashed with a little innocent flirtation?
    ‘
Bon appétit,
’ Mrs Gregson said with a grin that, in a man, he might have described as wolfish. Pitt stared down at his noisettes. He found, with some considerable
dismay, that he was no longer hungry.

EIGHT
    Hauptmann Halbricht’s office, with its twin stoves and crackling fire, had trumped the infirmary as the warmest room in the camp, and Watson soon found himself perspiring
under his greatcoat. Still, it was too much effort to remove it. He was sitting on an admiral’s chair in front of the commandant’s desk, wedged in between the arms, and his body was
aching from the thumps and bumps he had received. In the heat of the moment, he had felt very little pain. Now, his frame was reliving the tussle with Hanson blow by blow, right down to telling him
his knuckles were not designed for making contact with muscle and