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back with a wet handkerchief, wiped her mouth with it and held it against her forehead.
    ‘There. You’ll be right in a minute, love.’
    Christ. This must be the comic hit of the evening. Miss Isobel Callaghan with unknown admirer.
    She put the hand with the wet handkerchief away from her, saying coldly, ‘I think you must be thinking of somebody else.’
    The hand vanished.
    The woman uttered a shocked, discordant laugh, then said bitterly, ‘Who isn’t, I should like to know?’ She added stiffly, ‘Sorry, I’m sure.’
    Isobel said, ‘Is that right?’
    There was no answer.
    ‘Thinking about somebody else—is that right?’
    Again, there was no answer. Did she deserve one?
    They sat on the bench silent and apart, birds of a feather.
    The woman said at last, seeming casual, ‘It’s more your stomach than your head, I think. What did you have for tea? You didn’t have anything much to bring up.’
    ‘Half a bunch of roses.’
    She wasn’t as drunk as all that, not any more. She was trying to pass off that insult as a piece of drunken nonsense.
    ‘You and your roses!’
    The woman’s voice was easier.
    ‘Thank you very much. I’ll be all right now.’
    ‘Are you sure?’ The woman hesitated, but she was eager to escape. ‘You’re not going to go to sleep here?’
    ‘No. I’ll start walking to the tram stop in a minute.’
    She got up and stood steady.
    ‘Well, if you’re sure. I’ll be off then.’
    ‘And thanks a lot.’
    ‘Don’t mention it.’
    As she watched the woman walk away, Isobel said to herself in astonishment, ‘I know the words now. I know the words.’
    She woke early next morning feeling well.
    After all, she hadn’t had so very much to drink. It had been the empty stomach and that last fatal beer that had caused the trouble. After she had got rid of the beer in the park, she had recovered fairly quickly.
    It was a pity about that scene in the pub, but she need never see those people again, and she could not bring herself to regret the outburst. Whatever she had said seemed to have cleared her mind. It had been like the bursting of a boil and the resultant stream of nasty matter. Pity about the spectators. Grandma used to say, ‘Well, we all have to eat our peck of dirt.’ That was part of theirs and she wished them better luck in future.
    Meanwhile she had work to do.
    She got up, had hurried recourse to the slop bucket and the washbasin, took her topcoat off the bed where it had been serving as an extra blanket, put it on over her nightdress and rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter.
    She began to type.
    The other woman had moved away. Anna was standing alone. It was now or never for George. He took up the plate of sandwiches and crossed the room to stand before her.
    ‘Anna,’ he said, bowing with some formality, ‘will you accept a sandwich as a token of my sincere devotion?’
    Anna looked at him thoughtfully.
    ‘What’s in them?’
    ‘Ham and cheese, I think.’ He added boldly, ‘I wish it could be larks’ tongues.’
    Anna’s gaze had not wavered.
    She said clearly and firmly, ‘I am prepared to settle for what is there.’
    ‘Well,’ said George, ‘that’s that, then.’
    They were both smiling wide, foolish smiles.
    ‘Don’t you think you’d better take a sandwich? I mean, as well as everything else.’
    ‘Oh, yes. Of course.’
    She took one, nodding and laughing.
    ‘I’d better offer them round. But I’ll be back,’ said George.
    And that was that.
    That was that for George and Anna. Anna knew how. Anna was no Isobel.
    In that dead centre there was after all a little movement, a stirring of breath like a sigh.

I
BUS STOP TO SAINT URSULA’S
    On the third day of what she must now call the illness, she woke to the immediate knowledge of her problem.
    She had no food left. Last night she had crumbled the last slice of bread into the last bowl of soup. At some time today, she had to get to that corner shop. No food left and no-one to send on