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Apart from a couple of times when she tripped against his feet, she did get the hang of it very quickly, and loved it.

By the third dance she was confident enough to be able to take note of other dancers, without even thinking of the steps.

Almost all the men were in uniform. The few civilian men were mostly past call-up age, with wives in dresses that looked like relics from the Twenties.

And there were a few spivs wearing sharp suits, bow-ties or cravats.

Jack whispered they were probably black marketeers or gangsters.

Their women were glamorous, reminding Beth of Hollywood stars with their platinum-blonde hair and dresses that looked as if they’d been poured into them.

For the first time ever, Beth felt good about how she looked.

Her dress was a great colour and she knew she looked classy, but sexy too, as the handkerchief points revealed glimpses of her knees and lower thighs as she moved.

She saw other women looking at her admiringly, something she’d never encountered before, and, held firmly by Jack, she felt powerful.

The dance floor grew more and more crowded, and Beth was pleased to see there were lots of people who couldn’t really dance, and just shuffled about in time to the music.

When the band struck up a quick step, a tango or some other dance Beth had never heard of, the floor cleared a little, giving the dancers more room.

Beth watched them entranced and vowed she would find someone to teach her when she returned to Ireland.

At the tables and chairs set back from the dance floor, a couple of waitresses darted about taking orders. Jack got them a table and ordered tea and cake for two.

‘It’s really romantic, isn’t it,’ Beth said.

It wasn’t just the lighting, or the music, it was an atmosphere of hope, love and tenderness.

She could smell perfume and hair oil, sense the effort people had made with their appearance, and loved the way so many of the couples were looking at each other with love as they danced.

She wanted to say she hoped all the soldiers, sailors and airmen here today would get through the war unscathed to hold their sweethearts in their arms again, but to say such a thing might become a jinx, and Jack might be one who wouldn’t return.

There were more dances after their tea, and Beth wished she could stay safe in Jack’s arms for ever, just floating around the dance floor in a world of dreamy music and twinkly lights where nothing bad ever happened.

The dance finished at six, but no one looked in a hurry to leave. ‘This was the perfect place to bring me,’ she whispered in Jack’s ear as they shuffled their way out. ‘I hope it won’t be too long before we can do it again.’

He just smiled, helped her on with her coat, and took her hand to lead her outside.

‘I’m afraid we have to be patient, as I think it will be a long time before I can see you again,’ he said as they walked up a side street towards Covent Garden. ‘You will write to me?’ he asked.

‘Of course I will, every day if you like. But I don’t expect you to do it too. You’ll be far too busy.’

He paused, took her face in both hands and looked into her eyes. ‘I’ve fallen in love with you, Beth. I’ll never be too busy to write to you, even if it’s only a couple of words. I’ll be thinking about you all the time.’

She knew by the intensity of his eyes that he meant it. ‘I love you too, Jack. It’s really too soon to say such things when we’ve only had these two days together, but I know you mean it, and so do I.’

Suddenly the air-raid siren blasted out, and people all around them began to run. ‘The church crypt in Covent Garden is the closest shelter!’ someone yelled out. Beth and Jack ran too, because they could hear planes coming closer.

It was a bad raid. The crypt of the church seemed safe enough, but they winced each time a bomb dropped as it sounded as if they were right above them, and dust trickled down between the ancient stones holding up the walls.

Beth stayed in the circle of Jack’s arms on an old pew. There were perhaps sixty or seventy other people in the crypt with them, but it was quiet, no one was doing much talking, and while there wasn’t much light, their faces looked anxious.

Finally, at half past nine, the all-clear sounded, and an air-raid warden, his uniform covered in dust, let them out.

‘A bad one tonight,’ he said wearily. ‘A bank in the Strand flattened, a whole row of houses gone, we think many people killed too. Look where you’re walking, there’s a lot of glass and roof slates underfoot. ’

Despite it still being light, the air was heavy with brick dust. As they made their way as quickly as possible across Leicester Square and on towards Regent Street, they saw many small fires in buildings and a tremendous amount of rubble and broken glass.

The joy Beth had felt all day was now replaced with dread. Any day now Jack could be killed.

Suddenly she saw what war really meant. Not the inconvenience of being on a train with just a tiny slit in the blacked-out window to tell where you were.

It wasn’t just banging into things with no street lighting or hearing sad stories of homesick evacuees.

She had enjoyed chatting about the shortages of food stuffs in the shops, the rising costs, and laughing about bossy air-raid wardens who bristled with their newfound importance.

But war wasn’t that at all; it meant death for many.

For some, terrible deprivation, grief and terror, and many men would come home with missing limbs, their personalities changed for ever.

Being in Regent Street and seeing boarded-up windows brought back a sudden and sharp memory of the last time Auntie Ruth brought her here one December.

She was nearly twelve, and all the shop windows were decorated for Christmas and ablaze with light, so Mary had hardly noticed the dark or cold.

It was the last Christmas before Ruth moved away.

That evening she bought Mary a new pair of shoes, as the ones she was wearing had holes in the soles and rainwater came in.

‘Leave them on,’ she’d said once she knew Mary liked them and they fitted properly.

‘We’ll ask the assistant to throw your old ones away.

You have my permission to tell your mother a white lie about them.

Tell her your teacher gave you them, say they have a box of clothes and shoes that other children have grown out of. ’

Mary didn’t have to tell the lie. Her mother and Ronnie were out when she got home and neither of them ever noticed or cared what she had on her feet. They were worn out by the time she went for the interview with Mrs Bradley, so it was good her teacher gave her another pair.

Ruth gave her a knitting bag before she left.

It was made of tapestry and had wooden handles.

She’d packed it with odd balls of wool and several different sizes of knitting needles.

‘I wish I could give you something more personal,’ she said sadly.

‘But I thought Ronnie was likely to take it from you.’

That knitting bag was the one thing Beth wished she still had, but of course that was still at the Bradleys’, almost certainly thrown out by now.

‘You’re very quiet,’ Jack said as they walked up Regent Street. ‘What is it? Because I’ve got to go?’

‘No, it’s not that,’ she said and tried to laugh. ‘Up till now the war seemed…’ She paused, not knowing how to explain.

‘Far away! Affecting other people. A disease you can’t catch?’

‘Not quite as simple as that, but a distant threat. Now I know we could be killed just walking home to the guest house.’

Jack stopped and pulled her into his arms. ‘We aren’t going to be killed tonight, and please, Beth, don’t start thinking like that. I love you and hopefully the war will be over soon and we can get married and live happily ever after.’

‘Yes, that’s a really lovely thought,’ she said, and made herself smile. She shouldn’t be dwelling on the past, or death and destruction, not when he’d spoken of getting married.

‘So, is fish and chips a better thought? There’s a shop just around the corner. I’m starving.’

It was painful saying goodbye, knowing it might be months or even years before they’d see each other again. Jack’s kisses were even more tender and prolonged, and it made her think he did know what lay ahead for him in North Africa. And it wasn’t going to be good.

Later as she lay in bed trying hard not to cry again, she reached for the little dog-eared card Jack had pressed into her hand as they parted.

On the front was an illustration of two little dogs snuggled up in a basket.

‘I’m sorry we didn’t get the time we planned for,’ he’d written.

‘If things get bad for you in Ireland, you can always go to my folks. Please write to Mum so she can see you are just as lovely as I told her you were. Write to me and stay safe. I love you, Jack.’

Saying he’d told his mother about her was comforting, though she guessed any mother would be suspicious about her son being struck by a girl he’d only just met.

Looking back at the day, apart from being told it was the last one, it had been just perfect, rounded off by fish and chips straight out of the newspaper, which, despite Jack’s scathing remarks about London fish, she loved. Not to mention the sweetness of his kisses before she said goodnight.

On Monday she’d go and collect the photographs, get a couple more up-to-date knitting patterns, and perhaps some nice fabric to make new cushion covers. The ones at Clancy’s Cottage were very shabby.

She would try very hard not to think any more dark thoughts about the war.