It had seemed a good idea to hitch a lift into Bristol at the time, as Doctor Moffatt was driving in that direction. It’s not as though he would have had a full night in his own bed anyway, roused at the break of dawn to trundle around the countryside in unreliable buses.

This way he would have to spend the night at the railway station, but at least he would not risk arriving late back at base. Also, instead of creeping out at dead of night, he had he enjoyed a proper high tea with his family before leaving.

The doctor had dropped him off near Old Market at dusk with a cheerful wave, and he had in his mind the plan of cutting across to Victoria Street and on to Templemeads Station. Somehow in the growing dark, he’d gone the wrong way and ended up in bombed out Broadmead. As he trudged through the broken shopping streets, he tried to keep himself cheerful with thoughts of his family.

His father proudly showing him the garden vegetable plot and how he had improved the Anderson shelter. His mother, a little thinner and more tired looking but thrilled to have him home, evidently having saved her ration coupons to feed him up. Him teasing his sister about her Land Girls overalls and telling her she looked like a farmer. All that brightness seemed to steal from him, as he trudged through the desolate streets in the dark.

It didn’t help that this was recognisable territory from many a shopping expedition. He could picture some of the older buildings, crooked and quaint like something painted on a Christmas card. Now all ruins.

Despite the fact that the street had been long cleared, the rubble in tidy heaps where substantial shops had stood, he felt overwhelmed by the sadness and waste of it all. This bloody war, he thought angrily. He stopped, disoriented and dizzy.

He became aware of the tap, tap, tap of high-heeled shoes behind him.

“Are you alright, dearie?” Like the footsteps, the voice was unmistakably female. Not young, not old, but full of the homely warmth of the local accent.

He turned to face her, seeing only a dim shape in the blackness.

“Yes, it’s just...” he stopped, his hand making a helpless gesture that she could not see.

Somehow, she understood.

“Poor old Bristol,” she said softly, and then more briskly, “Where are you heading to, soldier?”

He explained about taking the wrong turning and wanting to get to the station. Although he was not really lost, he was glad when she said that she was going in that direction. She took command, grasping his hand and leading the way. The warmth of her touch gave him momentum, like an airman being pulled along by his parachute as he drifted along in her purposeful wake.

Even years after, he did not know why he acted on impulse, perhaps something to do with the sway of her hips slightly ahead of him and the intimate clasp of her hand on his. He could not help himself, and with his spare hand, he cupped the firm curve of her bottom. The half-expected scream or slap did not happen, but after a moment of infinite stillness, she turned into his arms so her body was flush against his. One hand continued to clutch her bum cheek, while the other lifted to sweep the soft ringlets away from her neck so his lips could fasten on her soft, warm skin.

Her whole body trembled. His hand slid over her hip, lifting her dress, slipping under the elastic of her loose French knickers to her wet heat, blindly seeking and questing. Her hands clutched his shoulders beneath his uniform as they stood in the darkness, sheltered by the wall of a half-ruined building.

She twisted in his arms so she was facing away from him, bending over, bracing her arms on an exposed beam. He pulled down her flimsy knickers and gripped her smooth, bare hips as he released his aching cock. In an unforgettable gesture, her hand gripped him, leading him between her thighs, and then with one thrust, he was home.

She writhed against him and he could almost imagine the gleam of her satiny skin silvering against the night. Impatiently, he pulled her dress up over her back, taking her brassiere with it, so her breasts filled his upturned hands. With a gasp, she stilled her outer movements, inwardly shuddering as he tugged on her sharp nipples to heighten her pleasure and his. At the very last moment, he pulled out, spurting his strength and heat onto her skin.

As their breathing steadied, he used his handkerchief to wipe her dry, and she pulled her dress down and her knickers up. Hand in hand they walked on, climbing the hill of Union Street, and suddenly with a glimmer of moonlight, Bristol was there before them, battered perhaps, but solid and familiar. The gleam of the river and the long stretch of Victoria Street were clear, leading inexorably towards the station.

He knew they must part soon, that they would reach her turn off. That there would be brief and awkward goodbyes and he would spend a sleepless night on the railway platform thinking of her. She stopped, and he knew the moment had come. She did not speak, but stood on tiptoe to kiss him for the first time. So deeply, passionately, stirring him again when he thought he was completely sated.

Her breath grazed his ear as she whispered the words he hadn’t dared hope to hear, “Will you come home with me?” And the muffled outtake of his breath was answer enough for them both.