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already been killed in this war and London was being pounded nightly by bombs, that the city could look so normal. OK, a bit shabby and unpainted, and everyone was carrying the ubiquitous gas mask in its case, but on this lovely clear spring day there was a palpable optimism in the air.
    The bus stopped and the woman conductor shouted, “Westminster Abbey.” Russell was on the pavement before he realised the girl he had given his seat to had got out too, and was looking at him with amusement in her blue eyes.
    “Are you going into the abbey?” she asked.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “You know,” she said, “we do speak to strangers. Sometimes. When they’re very kind and give us seats on the bus, for instance. I bet you’ve been told we never speak to anyone.”
    “We were, ma’am, yes.”
    “Well, we do. As you can see. Or rather hear. Now, that’s the abbey to your left—see? And behind you, the Houses of Parliament. All right? The abbey’s very beautiful. Now, have a good time, Mr … Mr …”
    “Mackenzie. Thank you, ma’am. Thank you very much.”
    Her amusement at what he had been told about her countrymen had made them friends in some odd way; it suddenly seemed less impertinent to ask her if she was in a great hurry; and she said not a great hurry, no, and he said if she had just a few minutes, maybe she could come into the abbey with him, show him the really important things, like where the kings and queens were crowned.
    She said she did have a few minutes—“only about ten, though”—and together they entered the vast space.
    She showed him where Poets’ Corner was; she pointed out the famous coronation stone under the coronation chair, and then directed him to the vaults where he could see the tombs of the famous, going right back to 1066 .
    “I’ve never been down there myself; I’d love to go. You know Shakespeare is buried here, and Samuel Johnson and Chaucer—”
    “Chaucer? You’re kidding me.”
    She giggled again, her big blue eyes dancing.
    “I never thought anyone actually said that.”
    “What?”
    “‘You’re kidding me.’ It’s like we’re supposed to say, ‘Damn fine show,’ and, ‘Cheers, old chap.’ I’ve never heard anyone saying that either, but maybe they do.”
    “Maybe,” he said. He felt slightly bewildered by her now, almost bewitched.
    “Now, look, I really have to get back to work—I work in a bank just along the road, and I’ll be late.”
    “What …” Could he ask her this? Could he appear possibly intrusive but … well, surely not rude … and say, “What time do you finish?” He risked it. She didn’t seem to mind.
    “Well—at five. But then I really do have to be getting home, because of the blackout and the bombs and so on—”
    “Yes, of course. Well—maybe another time. Miss … Miss …”
    “Miss Jennings. Mary Jennings. Yes. Another time.”
    And then, because he knew it was now or never, that he hadn’t got another forty-eight for ages, he said: “If you’d accompany me aroundall those people’s graves for half an hour or so, I could … I could see you home. Through the blackout. If that would help.”
    “You couldn’t, Mr. Mackenzie. I live a long way out of London. Place called Ealing. You’d never find your way back again.”
    “I could!” he said, stung. “Of course I could. I found my way here from the States, didn’t I?”
    “I rather thought the United States Army did that for you. Sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude. Where are you stationed?”
    “Oh—in Middlesex.” He divided the two words, made it sound faintly exotic. “Northolt.”
    “Well, that’s not too far away from Ealing, as a matter of fact. Few more stops on the tube.”
    “Well, what do you know?”
    “Goodness, there you go again,” she said, giggling.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Saying, ‘what do you know?’ It’s so … so funny to hear it. It’s such a cliché somehow. I didn’t mean to sound rude, to offend