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me a lot about his job. He was in Spain covering the Civil War, Finland during the Russian invasion and in Warsaw throughout the siege.’
    â€˜If he is such a bloody great photographer what’s he doing here?’
    â€˜Roosevelt wants to send more aid to Britain so the owners of national magazines have been asked to send chaps over here to take inspiring pictures to persuade the American public that we’re worth helping.’
    â€˜Prop-a-ganda.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Why did Babs take him in?’
    â€˜Because she felt sorry for him, I imagine.’
    â€˜Sorry for an American! They are all stinking rich, aren’t they?’
    â€˜Only some of them,’ said Kenny.
    â€˜Is he paying her for the room?’
    â€˜I expect so.’
    â€˜How much?’
    â€˜I didn’t ask.’
    Rosie’s eyes were distant, focused on Kenny knew not what.
    He had taken to the American, had found him honest and straightforward, but there was something sad about him too, a certain vulnerability. Kenny didn’t really want to talk about Babs or the American any more and was bored by the gossip on which Rosie seemed to thrive. He wanted to tell her that he had lunched with Sir Charles Huserall, one of Naval Intelligence’s chief liaison officers, and that Sir Charles had told him he was ‘doing a grand job’ and had congratulated him on the SPU’s arrest record – but he knew that Rosie wouldn’t be impressed.
    â€˜You must be tired,’ he said.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Tired, you must be—’
    â€˜I heard you the first time.’
    â€˜Sorry.’
    â€˜I think someone should write to Jackie. Tell him what’s going on.’
    â€˜Tell him what? That Babs is helping the war effort?’
    â€˜She is making a fortune in the process.’
    â€˜You’re not doing too badly yourself, Rosie.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜You’re earning good money at Merryweather’s.’
    â€˜Don’t you think I deserve it?’
    Kenny sighed. ‘Of course you deserve it.’
    â€˜It is not a job any Tom, Dick or Harry can do. I was picked, vetted and specially trained.’
    â€˜Of course, of course you were.’
    He reached across the table and tapped his forefinger against her wrist.
    â€˜Let’s go to bed.’
    She glanced at him scornfully. He felt a spurt of temper at the realisation that she was more interested in Babs’s affairs than his needs, and wondered if the sex side of things was about to be swallowed up by anxiety too. He rubbed his forefinger against her wrist then up under the sleeve of the overcoat to stroke the soft flesh of her forearm.
    â€˜I’m not tired,’ Rosie said.
    â€˜Good,’ Kenny said. ‘I’m not tired either.’
    She slid her arm away.
    â€˜I thought you had an early start tomorrow.’
    â€˜I do,’ Kenny said. ‘I have to be up at six.’
    â€˜There you are then,’ Rosie said.
    Pushing herself from the table, she scooped up his coffee cup and carried it to the sink. In the shabby trench coat and goblin socks, she reminded him of one of the ragamuffins that roamed the streets of the Gorbals. If he hadn’t known better, he might have suspected that Rosie was reverting to type. He was no longer inclined to make love to her. What he really wanted to do was put his arms about her, kiss her and tell her that she had nothing to worry about, that he would take care of her and that everything would be all right – but he wasn’t that much of a hypocrite. He stepped to one side so that she could read his lips.
    â€˜Good night, Rosie,’ he said. ‘Don’t sit up too late.’
    â€˜I won’t,’ she said, addressing the blackout curtain.
    And Kenny, hiding his disappointment, took himself off to bed.
    *   *   *
    Back in the good old days when he’d been coining money from selling