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Barts’ address for official letters, thin copy paper and plain white paper for typing up patient notes, memos and envelopes. Here too were kept their very precious pieces of carbon paper, which had to be used until one could barely read the copy they made. Fresh supplies had to be pleaded for from Mr Davies, who was in charge of the stationery cupboard, and who, so Clara claimed, counted out every single sheet of paper he gave them.
    The doors at either end of the office were never closed. There was normally a trail of people coming in and out: junior clerks carrying or wanting files for their superiors, senior clerks bringing in handwritten letters and notes that had to be typed immediately, or sometimes requesting that Tilly or Clara took down their dictation in shorthand. Tilly and Clara were certainly kept very busy. Once a week Miss Evans, the Lady Almoner’s personal secretary, would march into their office, her greying hair swept back into its tight bun, the jacket of her tweed suit on over her blouse, no matter how warm it was, her eyes, behind her rimless glasses, seeming to notice immediately a typing mistake or a file that was in the wrong place, as she went through the week’s diary with the two girls.
    Now, grabbing some drawing pins, Tilly headed for the corridor outside the main office where the clerical staff worked, narrowly avoiding bumping into a senior nurse, and dropping her typed notice as she did so.
    Both Tilly and the nurse, a tall slender girl with glorious dark copper-coloured hair drawn back under her cap, lovely cream-toned skin and eyes so intensely blue they were almost violet, came to a halt.
    â€˜I’m so sorry,’ Tilly said.
    â€˜It was my fault.’ The other girl smiled, both of them bending down to retrieve Tilly’s notice.
    The nurse reached it first, a small frown creasing her forehead as she read it.
    â€˜Is this your notice?’ she asked Tilly. ‘I mean, are you the one who is advertising the rooms to let?’
    â€˜Yes. Well, my mother is. My grandfather died recently and since we’ve now got two spare bedrooms and a bathroom standing empty my mother thought we should let them out.’
    â€˜Where? I mean, is your house within easy reach of the hospital? Only I’m looking for somewhere myself.’
    Tilly recognised immediately that the other girl was exactly the type of lodger her mother was looking for. Tilly guessed that the nurse was older than she, perhaps in her early twenties, and that she had that air and manner about her that said she was responsible and reliable.
    â€˜Yes. We live on Article Row in Holborn, at number thirteen. It isn’t far away at all.’
    Sally had been doing her own assessment. The young girl in front of her was well turned out and spotlessly clean, her manner bright and energetic, the kind of girl who quite obviously came from a good home. A home that would be clean and properly looked after, Sally judged.
    â€˜Well, bumping into you looks like being a piece of good luck for me,’ she announced. ‘I’m Sally Johnson, by the way.’ She held out her hand for Tilly to shake.
    â€˜I’m Tilly – Tilly Robbins.’
    â€˜Look, Tilly, I’m really keen to see your rooms. How about if I came and had a look at three o’clock on Sunday afternoon? I’m off duty then.’
    â€˜Yes. I’m sure that will be all right. I’ll tell my mother.’
    Sally gave a brisk nod of her head, and then turned on her heel to hurry away, thinking what a stroke of luck it had been to bump into Tilly like that – fate, almost. Sally considered herself to be a good judge of character and she had liked Tilly straight away. Not that she was going to get her hopes up too high until she had seen the room in question. She’d certainly feel more comfortable if she wasn’t easy accessible to anyone who might take it into their head to come down from Liverpool and