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turn the ship, the bloody convoy, around for a single girl in the middle of the Atlantic.’
    ‘John, don’t.’
    ‘She got herself worked up, God knows why. She’ll be better once she’s married,’ he said.
    Meg’s mouth had dropped in surprise. It wasn’t comfortable, hearing herself talked about like this. It wasn’t comfortable, standing here in the dark with this stranger.
    ‘Bang on the door, darling,’ Mrs Richardson said. ‘Just in case. She might be a heavy sleeper.’
    The door thudded, a dull, underwater sound, then the door handle turned. Meg’s heart was in her mouth. What if the soldier hadn’t locked the door properly? But the door stayed firmly shut, and after a moment she heard Mr Richardson’s voice again.
    ‘Come on. I want a cup of coffee, before the steward’s buggered off.’
    It went quiet after that, but she couldn’t tell if they’d gone. What if they were waiting in the corridor? She listened out as hard as she could beyond the sound of her own breathing but all she could hear was the ship’s noisy silence gathered around them – its deep turbine rumble, the break of sea against the hull. With her body jarred against the soldier’s – elbow andshoe and hip and chin – she waited until she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer, that she would snap with the tension. Then the soldier spoke.
    ‘Phew,’ he said.
    That was all; that was it. The Richardsons had gone, and like fugitives who’ve evaded capture, a delirium rose in them that was irresistible and absolute. Their laughter exploded. It took them like a seventh wave, crashing through so that they collapsed to the floor, his hand finding her face, her arm across his chest. Limbs flailing and weak, they laughed in the darkness till they wept. They laughed in the darkness till Meg was faint and light, as if she’d just come out of a fever. She couldn’t move, or speak; she couldn’t think. She was suspended above her life: above the ship and the war, above George and her marriage, and the Richardsons and her mother. Then silently, ineluctably, hand to hand, mouth to mouth, moving by touch and gauge, they kissed, and kissed again. She felt his cheek, wet with tears, soft with fine stubble, and his mouth, and his chin and ears. His hands were on her face, and her shoulders; they were on her breasts.
    There on the hard linoleum floor, they tumbled in the dark, urgent and exhilarated, tugging at buttons, pulling at rough khaki and smooth stockings. Meg’s heart was a drum and her blood rushed. She reached and pulled him down on to her, butting her head into his shoulder, wanting his weight, wanting the press of his hips. Then she felt with her fingers till she found him, so hard and full that she gasped, because she didn’t know men did this; and she drew him in to her, cryingout because it hurt, even while she wanted it. Right now she wanted it more than anything else in the world. She held him and he moved inside her; she held him and cried out, and they became their own wave.
    Afterwards, everything was very still. Slowly, reluctantly, she returned to herself, back into her cabin, and her body, back to what had just happened.
    ‘Oh God,’ she said quietly.
    Her hand lay flat on the soldier’s chest and his heart beat against her fingers. After a time he lifted and kissed them, then he let go and she heard his boots creak.
    ‘I’ll put on the light,’ he said.
    ‘No!’ she cried, her voice panicked. ‘Don’t! Don’t go,’ and the words shocked her because they came from deep down, out of something much older than this sharp passion.
    ‘I have to,’ he said gently, and a moment later the cabin swam in dim light.
    She stood and in the mirror she saw herself, and him behind her. His face was grave, and so was hers; next to the mirror was George in his frame, and he seemed to Meg like someone she had never seen before.
    ‘I don’t know your name,’ she said.
    ‘Are you all right?’ he said.
    ‘You have