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she would have to think about anything else.
    When she returned to the house one afternoon, Mrs Bartholomew was waiting for her. Anna had stayed on at the school after hours to do some typing and she was late.
    “My dear,” said Mrs Bartholomew, “I must talk to you.”
    Mei dea-r, thought Anna, automatically moving her fingers into position on an imaginary keyboard, Ei mus-t tor-k tou you. Lately she had developed this habit of mentally taking down in shorthand everything she heard. It had improved her speed and saved her from having to make sense of what she did not want to hear.
    Mrs Bartholomew led her into the drawing-room.
    “We have been advised by the American Embassy to return at once to the States,” she said.
    Wea hav bean ad-veis-d bei the A-me-ri-can Em-ba-sea tou re-turn at wuns tou the Stai-ts, went Anna’s fingers, but then something in Mrs Bartholomew’s voice broke through her detachment.
    “I’m so very sorry,” cried Mrs Bartholomew, “but we shall have to give up this house.”
    Anna looked at her face, and her fingers stopped moving in her lap.
    “What will you do?” asked Mrs Bartholomew.
    It was nice of her, thought Anna, to be so upset about it.“I’ll be all right,” she said. “I’ll go and stay with my parents.”
    ‘But will they be able to manage?” asked Mrs Bartholomew.
    “Oh yes,” said Anna airily. “And anyway, I’ll probably get a job quite soon.”
    “Oh dear,” said Mrs Bartholomew, “I hate doing this.” Then she picked up the telephone to explain to Mama.
    Mama always shouted when she was excited and Anna realised that of course she must have been hoping that the call would bring her news of Max. All the same, she wished that her sole reaction to Mrs Bartholomew’s news had not been so loud and accusing.
    “Does that mean,” cried Mama, and her distorted voice came right out of the telephone to where Anna was sitting across the room, “that Anna won’t be able to stay in your house any more?”
    Anna knew as well as Mama that there was no money to pay for her to stay at the Hotel Continental, but what was the use of shouting at Mrs Bartholomew about it? There was nothing she could do. Mama should at least have wished her a safe journey, thought Anna, and her fingers tapped out in her lap, shea shoud at lea-st have wi-shd her a sai-f jur-nea.
    The Bartholomews began to pack up their possessions and a growing pile of garments was put aside for Anna because Jinny and Judy would not need them in America. Shecarried them to the Hotel Continental with her own, a few at a time, on the tube, so as to save a taxi for the move. Mama had counted all their money – she had added what was left of Papa’s earnings from the leaflets to the few pounds she had managed, somehow, to save from her meagre weekly wage, and she had worked out that there would be enough to pay Anna’s bills at the hotel for three weeks. After that they would have to see. It was really no use looking farther ahead. In the meantime they did not spend a halfpenny that was not absolutely necessary and Anna hoped that the Bartholomews would not mind her staying at the house until the last moment.
    “Well, of course we don’t mind,” Mrs Bartholomew reassured her. “We’d love you to be here just as long as you can.”
    All the same, as the preparations progressed and more and more familiar objects disappeared into packing cases, it began to feel rather strange. Judy and Jinny still played tennis and sat in the sun and chatted, but they were excited at the prospect of going to America and sometimes it was as though they had already gone. When the day for their departure arrived it was difficult to know what to say. They stood outside the house in Campden Hill Square and looked at each other.
    “Promise you’ll write,” said Jinny.
    “And don’t let any bombs drop on you,” said Judy.
    Mr Bartholomew said, “We’ll be seeing you…” and then looked confused and said, “Good