Margaret and I had been tap-dancing on the path in the garden for nearly twenty minutes, and I was beginning to feel the strain. On the other hand, Marg, who was nearly eleven and enormously keen, had hardly got into her stride.

“Step, tap, ball change,” she chanted, in a high but determined voice. “No. That’s wrong. TAP, STEP, ball change. Mr. Collins, are you watching? I’m being Rita Hayworth and Emmy is Fred Astaire.”

It was a Sunday afternoon in April 1943, and we were celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday. Spring had turned into summer for the event, and with the sun shining as if no one in the world had a care, I had my first day off for weeks. At the house my best friend, Bunty, and I shared in Pimlico it was so warm that our small party had decamped into the garden, happy to have an excuse to be outside and feel the sun on our faces.

Now my friend Thelma’s daughter was putting me through my paces.

“Well done,” I panted, as Guy Collins clapped loudly and Margaret hoofed even faster. She was not what one might call a natural dancer, but since we’d been to see You Were Never Lovelier at the Odeon cinema, she had shown the most enormous commitment, and as far as I was concerned, that beat talent every time.

“Excellent work,” confirmed Guy from a wooden picnic table where he was playing a game of chess with Margaret’s big brother, George. “Although, do you think you may be making yourself perhaps the tiniest bit pink?”

Margaret was an incandescent shade of red.

“It is warm for the time of year,” said George politely, moving his knight. He was nearly thirteen and prone to becoming A Grown Up in the presence of adults, particularly those he admired. “Do you know, sir, I think, that’s checkmate.”

“Good Lord,” said my brother-in-law, taking defeat well, particularly as he had only taught George to play the week before last. “Well done, old man. And once again, there’s really no need to say, ‘sir.’”

Stanley, Thelma’s third and youngest child, joined in.

“Actually,” he said, leaning conspiratorially over Guy’s shoulder, “I think Marg’s dancing is rubbish. She sounds like a herd of elephants.”

“Who’s ‘she,’ the cat’s mother?” said Thel mildly. “Everyone has to start somewhere. And do you remember when I said it’s Emmy’s birthday so we’re all going to be nice?”

Stan nodded and looked thoughtful. He was an honest boy, which was supposed to be a good thing, so he was always baffled when other people got cross about it.

“You are having a nice time, aren’t you, Aunty Emmy?” he asked, frowning.

“I certainly am, Stan,” I said, giving up being Mr. Astaire and collapsing into a deck chair. “Although, I think I might need a rest.”

“And you do like your presents?” asked Stan, who had given me a still slightly sticky balsa wood model of a Lancaster bomber that he had made himself.

“They’re all lovely,” I said. “Especially the Lancaster. I’m going to get some thread and hang it from the kitchen ceiling so everyone who visits will see.”

Stanley looked chuffed and I thought what a smashing day it had been all round. Usually there was hardly any time to draw breath, let alone loll about, so today had been a real treat. I’d had lots of cards through the post, and phone calls from my parents, who wanted to make sure I had received the books they had sent, and my friend Anne had crammed into a telephone box with her two small children to sing “Happy Birthday” and shriek excitable best wishes until their money ran out. My friend Kath had sent a cable-knit bolero that fitted like a glove, and then Guy had arrived with a large bunch of early tulips and shop-bought chocolate bread pudding, which must have taken up all of his coupons but had gone down ever so well. Bunty had made me the most lovely crocheted purse in my favourite shade of blue, and to cap it all, when Thelma and the children arrived, Thel had handed me a letter that had been sent via her address so that I should get it on the right day.

It wasn’t just any letter, either.

It was from my husband, Charles. It still felt funny, calling him that. Even though we had been married nearly sixteen months, we had spent less than three days of it together before he had joined his unit in the army and headed away overseas. I missed him like anything and wrote to him almost every day. Sometimes he received my letters; other times he didn’t. It rather depended on if they had moved on to fight somewhere else. But I wrote to him all the same, numbering each letter so he would know if he had missed out.

Despite him being so far away and in the middle of goodness knows what (he was always purposely vague), letters from Charles did make it home. They were infrequent, though, and all the more precious for it.

Today, it was not only a letter but a birthday card of sorts too. On the flimsy paper everyone used, Charles had drawn the most dreadful picture of us both and written Happy Birthday in huge letters underneath. Inside he had written,

My Darling Girl,

Happy 25th!

Have the most marvellous time with everyone. I shall be thinking of you the entire day.

Missing you, my dearest, and can’t wait ’til I get to see you again. Can’t be long until Adolf gives in!

Your loving husband,

Cxxx

And then he’d written on the other side,

PS: Hope you are impressed with my artistry. No, darling, it’s not awful—it’s Modern. Better keep it—could be worth a fortune. One in the eye for Picasso! Xxx

It made me laugh and cry at the same time, and as much as I adored Stanley, I had not told the truth when he asked about the balsa wood plane. The letter was by far the best present I could possibly have had.

“Does anyone fancy some more cake?” I asked. Three arms shot up immediately, and then Bunty joined in.

I’d love some if there’s enough to go round,” she said. “That is the best Victoria Sponge I’ve had all year.”

“It’s the only one,” I said, cutting what remained of the small cake into thin slices so that everyone could have seconds. Thelma said she wasn’t hun-gry, which is what she always said when anything sweet or on the ration came up. It didn’t matter what you said to try to persuade her; she always gave her share to the children.

“Too late,” I said. “I’ve cut it so we all get some. It’s my birthday so you have to do as I say,” I added, staring her down as I handed her a piece of the cake.

Thelma thanked me and began to tuck in.

“Ooh, before I forget,” she said, between mouthfuls, “Frank Owen was asking after you, Bunty.”

Frank Owen was one of the firemen at Carlton Street Fire Station, where both Thelma and I worked. He was quite new, and as I was only there part-time, I didn’t know him as well as I did the rest of the crews. Bunty and I had bumped into him the other day on our way to the grocer’s.

“I don’t think I know a Frank Owen,” said Bunts, spotting a bit of jam on her plate that most people would have struggled to see with a microscope. Three and a half years of war meant we had all become experts in sniffing out every last crumb, crisp, or smear of anything sugary that was in short supply.

“We saw him outside Mr. Bone’s the other day,” I said helpfully.

“Righto,” said Bunty.

“I think he’s taken a shine to you,” said Thelma, as if it had only just occurred to her, rather than being a source of furtive discussion for at least seventy-two hours.

As Bunty started tidying the tea things and continued to appear under-whelmed, Thel threw me a Meaningful Look, which made me snort.

“Bit of cake stuck,” I gasped. I knew full well what she was up to. “Taken a shine?” I managed to croak. “That’s nice.”

Bunty stopped what she was doing and gave us both a hard, but not unfriendly stare.

“I am entirely fine as I am,” she said.

“Of course,” I cried.

“Absolutely,” said Thel.

Guy, who had been listening quietly, shook his head mildly and then stared up towards the sun, smiling to himself behind a pair of clip-on sun-glasses

“I thought you might like to know,” said Thelma. “Just in case.”

Bunty smoothed her hands across her lap. It had been two years since she lost William, her fiancé, in the most awful of air raids, and while she had now recovered very well from her own injuries, the idea of seeing someone was not top of her list.

“I’m sure Frank is lovely,” she said. “And I know you worry about me, but I’m perfectly content as I am. One day perhaps, but . . .” She shrugged. “And I know Bill wouldn’t mind. I’m just not terribly bothered.”

I nodded in agreement. I wasn’t worried about Bunty. She had a million years to think about chaps.

Thelma, on the other hand, was a little more gung ho about the idea, and as I glanced at her, I realised she had stopped listening after One day and was doing all she could not to grab the bull by the horns and march it straight up an aisle.

“Frank’s really quite-good looking in his way,” she said.

I noticed Guy break into a grin. He was enjoying himself immensely. “ ‘In his way,’ ” repeated Bunty. “You were doing quite well until that.”

“It’s his teeth, isn’t it?” said Thelma, sadly. “He’s gone too far with his teeth.”

“Well, I . . .” Bunty looked over to me for help.

“They’re new,” I said to clarify. “He’s still breaking them in.”

At this point, Guy let out a guffaw. Thelma tutted, seeing her chance to sort out Bunty’s life slip away. She put a hand on Guy’s arm and tried to explain.

“Don’t laugh, they cost a fortune. Frank had the two front ones knocked out when he tripped over a hose, so last month when he had a little win on the Pools he thought, why not? He had them all taken out and bought him-self this fancy new set.”

“Good for him,” I said. “My grandmother did exactly the same. Never ate toffee again.”

“You can’t win them all,” said Guy philosophically.

“This is all lovely information,” said Bunty calmly, “but, Thel, I know what you’re doing and I’m very happy being a spinster. For now at least.”

“So you won’t rule it out?” Thel leapt at her chance. “Even if it’s not Frank?”

Bunty sighed but was smiling. “I won’t rule it out. But I’m not ruling it in, either. Now can we please change the subject?”

“Good idea,” said Guy. “So, have you found yourselves a new lodger yet?”

“Well,” said Bunty. “In a word, no. At least not yet.”

As the children, who had now finished their cake, were excused to go and play Piggy in the Middle, Bunty brought Guy and Thelma up to date with our plan.

For nearly a year, we’d had a series of paying guests living in the flat at the top of Bunty’s granny’s house. With just the two of us rattling around, it had seemed an absolute nonsense not to, particularly as there was a huge short-age of accommodation in London. It had all started through Janet, a friend of Bunty’s who was in the Women’s Voluntary Service and keenly involved with billeting and rehousing. When she had mentioned a very sweet elderly lady who was finding it hard to find lodgings where she felt safe, Bunts had immediately offered the flat.

Despite our initial concerns that it was on the top floor, which was rather a trek, our first invitee turned out to have the conformation of a gazelle and spent a cheery month with us before finding somewhere perma-nent of her own.

From then on we hadn’t looked back. The top flat had become temporary home to a number of women, none of whom had been any bother, and one or two who had been terrifically good fun. As Bunty had said, it finally felt as if the big old house was pulling its weight in the war.

“Anyway,” Bunty continued, “Janet always has a huge list of people with nowhere to go, so Em and I reckon that if we could rig up a little kitchen on the floor below the flat, we could get at least a couple more people in. And as our rooms are on the first floor, we’d hardly ever see them if we didn’t get on. What do you think?”

Thelma said she thought it a very decent idea as long as they didn’t play jazz records at eleven o’clock at night like the lady before last, as that would drive us both mad.

It was a strong but fair point, and Bunty took the reminder with good heart.

“Mrs. Murray only stayed a fortnight,” she said, “and to give her her due, she did turn down the volume once we had asked. But because this is tem-porary, if someone’s a bit tricky—not a murderess or anything, but perhaps a bit odd—they’re off again in a flash. So there wouldn’t be any problems at all.”

She smiled broadly, ignoring the fact that most people had stayed at least a couple of months and some rather more.

Guy pretended to brush something invisible from his sleeve.

“What does Mrs. Tavistock think?” he asked casually.

Bunty glanced over at me. Her grandmother, who owned the house, didn’t think anything currently, due to the fact she didn’t know about our plan.

“Marigold?” said Guy, who was the only person Bunty let use her real name, and then that was only when he was messing about.

“She won’t mind at all,” said Bunty brightly. “She doesn’t mind us using the flat. In fact, I think that probably she’s absolutely thrilled the old place is being so very helpful.”

“Steady up,” I said, out of the corner of my mouth.

Thrilled wasn’t the first word that came to mind. Mrs. Tavistock had not been entirely convinced about us having paying guests in the first place, and it was only because Bunty had an impressive knack of making everyone sound like a cross between Princess Elizabeth and St. Francis of Assisi that she had allowed things to go on.

“The thing is, Guy,” said Bunty, as if they were sitting together in a coun-try club and she was about to let him in on a surefire, if slightly illegal, bet on a horse. “I think Granny would actually be happier if she didn’t know.”

Guy burst out laughing.

“Really?” he managed. “Bunty, whilst I have only met her a couple of times, I can safely say that your grandmother is clearly sharp as a tack.”

Bunts looked rueful.

“Em said you might look at it like that,” she said. “In fact she thought you might be happier if you didn’t know either. But then we decided you might smell a rat.”

“If I called in and there were troupes of complete strangers using the lava-tory?” said Guy. “Yes, I may have thought something was up.” He smiled at her fondly. “Bunty, this sounds a terrific idea, but don’t you think you really should tell Mrs. Tavistock?”

Bunty sighed. “I know,” she said. “I’m just not sure she is going to approve.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” said Thel, ever realistic. “Why don’t you call her on the telephone, now? While your dander’s up.”

“Oh dear,” said Bunty. “I feel as if it’s suddenly gone down. No, you’re right of course. I’ll go and put the kettle on and phone her while I’m waiting for it to boil. Poor Granny. I’m making her sound like a tyrant.”

Bunty pushed herself out of her chair, asked us all to cross our fingers for her, and then headed off into the house.

“What do you reckon?” asked Thelma.

“I’m not sure,” I said. Mrs. Tavistock was far from a tyrant, but she was protective. Not just of her house, but of Bunty, and me too. When she was young, the very idea of “nice” young women living on their own, let alone with strangers, was entirely unacceptable. “Let’s just cross our fingers as Bunty says and hope Mrs. Tavistock agrees. It’s such a good idea. This house is far too big for just us.”

I began to tell Thelma and Guy how many lodgers Bunty and I thought we could fit in, until a little later, Bunty reappeared from the house. The expression on her face did not suggest wonderful news.

We all looked at her as she shook her head.

“It didn’t go down terribly well,” said Bunty. She blew out her cheeks, which were flushed. “Drat it all,” she added, looking cross. “It’s not going to work.”

“You tried,” I said, attempting to be upbeat. “And it was the right thing to check. Anyway, having more people in the house could have been annoying. We’ll just carry on with the flat as we were.”

“That’s the problem,” said Bunty, sitting down. “Granny said she wants us to stop letting that too.”

We all looked at Bunts, who took a deep breath and then groaned.

“Apparently,” she said, “ ‘running a boardinghouse’ is not quite what she expects from us.”

“What’s wrong with boardinghouses?” I asked. “It’s not like your granny to be a snob.”

Bunty snorted.

“Did you tell her about it being part of the War Effort?” I continued. “Doing our bit? Aboveboard with the WVS and the Council, ladies only and all that?”

“Of course,” said Bunty. “But it turned into a bit of a row and I could hardly get a word in. It was lucky the kettle didn’t boil dry while I was upstairs having cross words.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t know what’s brought all this on.” She paused and then dropped her voice. “Actually, perhaps I do. You know she and Mrs. Harewood next door occasionally write?”

“Oh no,” I said. “It wasn’t the jazz?”

Bunty rolled her eyes.

“She did mention it. And also the baby that cried, some noise on the stairs . . . you name it, Mrs. Harewood had made a note of it. I put up a good fight until Granny went for the knockout with ‘Men.’ Then I knew I was a goner.”

“Does she mean Roy and Fred from the station?” asked Thel. “They don’t count. Neither does Guy.”

“Thank you,” said Guy. “No offence taken.”

“It was that weekend Chaser called in,” said Bunty. She was referring to my brother Jack’s best friend, who always cut quite a dash. “Mrs. Harewood saw his motorcycle and assumed terrible things. ‘It was seen overnight,’ ” she added in a dramatic tone.

“It wasn’t Chaser’s fault,” I said loyally. “He had a tricky sprocket.”

“But surely Mrs. Tavistock trusts you?” said Guy, ignoring my vehicular knowledge.

Bunty looked daggers over the fence. “AND WE DO HAVE A SPARE ROOM,” she said, now in a very loud voice. Then she turned back to Guy.

“She does,” she said sadly. “It’s just that Granny worries. And I think she’s tired and fed up with being at war for three and a half years as we all are. Anyway, she says she’s had A Big Think.”

“What does that mean?” I asked. Big Thinks by people often didn’t go well, in my view.

“My grandmother,” said Bunty, “thinks it would be for the best if when the next guests leave the flat, we don’t have any more.” She put her hands on her hips, looking horribly disappointed. “I tried to explain how hard it is for people, especially young women, to find decent lodgings in London, but she just wouldn’t have it. So much for us trying to help.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve missed something,” said Guy. “But did I hear rightly that Mrs. Tavistock says your current guests are to be the last?”

“That’s right,” said Bunty. “At first she said that she wanted me to ask them to leave straightaway until I told her that wasn’t fair, so she relented and said that they can be the last ones.”

Bunts looked relieved as she said it.

Guy raised an eyebrow at me.

“But, Bunty,” I said. “We don’t have any. The last ones moved out on Tuesday.”

“Exactly! Which is why we are going to have to find new ones in double-quick time,” she replied, her face brightening for the first time since the telephone call. “All we need to do is find people Granny might really like and prove to her that having people living in the flat is a tremendously good thing. She could even come and visit one day and see it all for herself.”

It wasn’t the worst idea in the world.

“That’s the worst idea in the world,” said Guy. “Grabbing the first Tom, Dick, or Harry that you can. Particularly as you have the school snoop living next door.”

“Mrs. Harewood has gone to Devon on holiday,” said Bunty, still looking optimistic. “We just need to find someone and get them settled in before she comes back. Do you know, I’ve got a very good feeling about this,” she added. “What do you reckon, Em? If we can convince Granny that people are no bother, I think that bit by bit, we can manage to talk her round.”

As my brother-in-law looked at me with the fatalistic expression of a man who is sure none of this was a very good idea, I nodded eagerly.

“Too jolly right, I am,” I said. “We just need to get cracking. Don’t worry about a thing, Bunty. Tom, Dick, or Harry, here we come.”