One
Tommy Beresford removed his overcoat in the hall of the flat. He hung itup with some care, taking time over it. His hat went carefully on the nextpeg.
He squared his shoulders, affixed¹ a resolute² smile to his face and walkedinto the sitting room, where his wife sat knitting a Balaclava helmet inkhaki wool.
It was the spring of 1940.
Mrs. Beresford gave him a quick glance and then busied herself by knit-ting at a furious rate. She said after a minute or two:
“Any news in the evening paper?”
Tommy said:
“The Blitzkrieg is coming, hurray, hurray! Things look bad in France.”
Tuppence said:
“It’s a depressing world at the moment.”
There was a pause and then Tommy said:
“Well, why don’t you ask? No need to be so damned tactful.”
“I know,” admitted Tuppence. “There is something about conscious tactthat is very irritating. But then it irritates you if I do ask. And anyway Idon’t need to ask. It’s written all over you.”
“I wasn’t conscious of looking a Dismal³ Desmond.”
“No, darling,” said Tuppence. “You had a kind of nailed to the mast smilewhich was one of the most heartrending things I have ever seen.”
Tommy said with a grin:
“No, was it really as bad as all that?”
“And more! Well, come on, out with it. Nothing doing?”
“Nothing doing. They don’t want me in any capacity. I tell you, Tup-pence, it’s pretty thick when a man of forty-six is made to feel like a dod-dering grandfather. Army, Navy, Air Force, Foreign Office, one and all saythe same thing—I’m too old. I may be required later.”
Tuppence said:
“Well, it’s the same for me. They don’t want people of my age for nurs-ing—no, thank you. Nor for anything else. They’d rather have a fluffy⁴ chitwho’s never seen a wound or sterilised a dressing⁵ than they would haveme who worked for three years, 1915 to 1918, in various capacities, nursein the surgical

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