Two of Anne’s small sons had taken a short cut across the estate belonging to the Lord of the Manor and were caught by his agent and horsewhipped. When the little boys appeared at the cottage door covered in blood Anne had a miscarriage. She wrote a poem describing exactly what she thought of that agent which pulled no punches. She was a very brave woman.

When we got home I discovered that the principal of St Hughs, I suppose fearing for my moral well being, had managed to get my grant withdrawn. She had frequently seen me, she said, waiting after dinner outside college for a notorious Communist student and wished to save me from myself! My father was furious and in the end she apologised and offered to take me back next year – but by then Peter would be going down and anyway we thought that some time we would marry. In those days women were not allowed to teach if they were married. So now, instead of my being in Oxford without Peter, Peter was in Oxford without me. I took a teaching job in a girls’ private boarding school in Bromley, Kent, and lived in. It was run by a neurotic old maid and her sister. She was terrified of one of the girls running into her by accident, as she was convinced that such a blow would give her cancer!

On my 21st birthday, October 13th, Peter rang me fairly early from Oxford, but the headmistress refused to call me to the phone. I had to wait until he rang in the evening when she graciously allowed me to receive the call.

I did get one or two weekends off, though, and Peter would meet me in London. We would spend Saturday night in a large rented room. The walls were covered with murals painted by our host of his naked wife. There was a very fierce gas fire, a large comfortable bed and a small sausage dog which was determined to eat my underclothes. Mrs Pinney had been a debutante who had eloped with a building worker who was repairing her parents’ aristocratic house, and of course had been disowned by her family. They gave us a very good breakfast after which we would sometimes help them twist up old newspapers really tightly to use as fuel in the basement where they lived.

One late Autumn night we were wandering hand in hand down Kings Road looking for a café that was still open as we had not eaten. We saw lights – candles on tables, and outside, projecting above the plate glass window, a large clock. It was midnight! Not daring to hope, we went in.

“I don’t suppose you are still serving meals?” Peter said. “Anything will do!”

“Oh yes, find a seat! Would you like egg and chips?”