'You started early,' he said.

She shrugged. 'Long day.' Her blonde hair was loose, and tumbled around her shoulders when she turned to look at him.

He peered at the television. He saw pictures of German soldiers on the move, and crude maps with bold black arrows thrusting across them.

'Not Walt Disney, I take it.'

She pointed. 'There's Moscow. You can read, can't you? It's a newsreel on our glorious advances in the east.'

George found the television fascinating, whatever the subject matter; he'd only glimpsed sets in shops in London before the war. It was probably one of the Germans' more successful propaganda moves, he thought, to set up a television service in Albion. It made up for the lousy cinema, where all you ever got now was a handful of films from before the war which were deemed 'safe' by the propaganda ministry, shown over and over, or else subtitled German movies, all sturdy farmers and marching youths. Of course the American cartoons on the television helped. George had heard that Hitler liked Donald Duck.

'Anyway,' she said, 'where have you been?'

'Work,' he said bluntly. 'We didn't get the day off. I've got to go out again in an hour for the curfew.'

'Oh, must you?' She pouted, and uncrossed her legs, parting them slightly. 'It's already been such a long day.'

He turned away. 'Well, mine's not over yet.' He glanced around the room. 'Have you eaten?'

She waved a hand. 'There was a reception at the castle. For the holiday, you know. Quite spectacular, actually. Fireworks. Did you see them? Well, I ate there. Just nibbles. You know me, I eat like a rabbit.'

'Whereas I could eat a bloody rabbit.'

'Oh, don't be such a grump.' She turned back to the television.

He went to the kitchen. He knew there was a tin of Spam in here, unless Julia had swiped it. Since he had lost Hilda he had learned how to rustle up a decent fritter. He rattled around, looking for a frying pan and a bit of vegetable oil, hoping the gas pressure would be up tonight. He was tired, and vaguely annoyed that Julia hadn't prepared anything for him. He clung to his petty irritation. Better to feel like that than to think about what he'd been doing today.

Even on the King's birthday the occupation was churning through its deliberate processes. It was already six months since the orders had gone out to exclude the town's Jews from certain areas of work, such as teaching and policing. Now the process of 'translocation' had begun. At the moment it was simply a question of summoning males of working age to the police stations. Most of them turned up. The Germans always worked through civilian authorities, so it was coppers like George who were interviewing these bewildered-looking young men, some of whom didn't consider themselves Jewish at all. The first transports had already crossed the Channel, taking the men to a holding camp in Drancy, before they were to be sent further east to the Reich's great labour projects out there. It was all bloody, an endless slog of bureaucracy and bewilderment and cruelty.

And George knew what was coming next. According to Harry Burdon it was already happening on the continent, in France and Belgium and Holland. Soon the forcible round-ups would begin. And then it wouldn't be just working-age men who would be shipped out, but old folk, women and even children, and you could hardly tell yourself that they were bound for labour camps, could you, George? He still thought it was best to do his duty. But if the occupation lasted long enough for this sort of thing to be happening on his watch – well, perhaps he would have choices to make.

As he got the Spam slices into the frying pan with a bit of batter, Julia came into the kitchen. She leaned against the door frame, smoking; she'd taken off her jacket now and wore only her shirt, her legs bare.

'You look filthy,' he said to her.

'I bathed this morning.'

'You know what I mean.'

'I'll take it as a compliment, then. It was quite a do, you know.'

'What was?'

'The King's birthday reception. They were all there. Heydrich was the big star in town.' Reinhard Heydrich was head of the SD, the Sicherheitsdienst, the Party's own security service. He was also the Reichsprotector of the occupied territory. 'And Josef Trojan turned up, brandishing a letter of commendation from Himmler…' She listed more names.

He half listened, not very interested. The Germans were always politicking. All the great Nazi barons had their representatives here in the protectorate – Himmler, for instance, with this Trojan. 'Do you realise,' he said, interrupting her, 'that every name you've mentioned is a German? They all carry on their plotting and sucking-up and back-stabbing among each other as if the rest of us don't exist.'

Julia laughed. 'I imagine it was the same in India under the Raj. Oh, I met one interesting chap. English, I mean. Claimed to be a second cousin of the King.'

'Which king?'

'Well, as Edward and George are brothers, that's rather a silly question, isn't it? In fact this chap is another Edward, viscount something-or-other. Now he's come down from London, and he claimed that there's a theory going around up there that all this is divine retribution.'

'For what?'

She blew smoke out through pursed lips; her lipstick was a little smudged. 'For deposing Edward, of course. That bully Stanley Baldwin – even Churchill thought it was the wrong thing to do. And now England's reaping the whirlwind.'

'What a load of cobblers. This isn't the Middle Ages.'

'Well, it's a point of view. Heydrich rather took to the viscount, I think. He said he admires our aristocracy.'

'A pack of traitors, if you ask me.'

Julia sighed. She crossed to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He could feel her breath on his neck, the shirt rustling against his back, the smooth firmness of her body only a couple of layers of cloth away from his own. 'Ah, dear George, you are always so browned off, aren't you? You despise most of the English more than you despise the Nazis, I think.'

'Mind my fritters.'

'Oh, to perdition with your beastly fritters.' She pulled at him, turning him around. Her face was close to his, her eyes and mouth wide, and her hair was a golden cloud in the dim light.

'Bloody hell,' he whispered. 'I really am batting above my average with you.'

'You say the most ridiculous things.' Her lips closed on his and her tongue flickered, alive; he tasted cigarette smoke and wine and a hint of spice, the relic of her reception with the Nazis. She grabbed his balls, her moves confident, decisive. 'And do you despise me?' she asked breathily.

'You ask me that every day.'

'You despise what I do. The people I work with. Everything I believe in.' And, it went unsaid, he despised those of her colleagues who had executed his daughter in cold blood. 'And yet here we are. Funny, isn't it?'

'There's nothing funny about this bloody war.'

'Kick me out, then.' She massaged his crotch, while her other hand pressed into the small of his back. 'Go on. Just push me away.'

'You and your bloody games. You're cracked.'

'And you say that every day too. Tell me to leave.'

He took her wrists, and gently disengaged her hands from his body. 'I'll tell you to pack it in for now. Believe it or not I'm hungrier than I'm randy, and those Spam fritters are calling.'

She laughed. She spun away, bunching up her hair behind her head with her hands. 'You do sound your age sometimes. All right, I'll leave you alone. Just make sure you wake me up when you come in from the curfew.'