Audrey stares at the blackbird on the fence as it drops down to peck at the hard and patchy communal ground. It shows little interest in the old crusts she threw out yesterday.

Her tummy rumbles in sympathy. The clock says if she’s lucky there’s a sandwich due at 12:00 hours, although these days it’s nearer 13:30.

It’s hard punishment, the wait for food. And for company, if she can bear to admit to that.

Once, she kept others waiting. Playing games, such silent games. As for company, she sought very little back then.

The analogue flip clock on the bookcase is dusty but still does its job. She won’t get rid of it. Michael bought it in Richmond. Those were the days. Reasonable money. The romance of that life. Of Britain then, breaking out of rationing, swinging towards what they hoped were better futures.

Audrey looks outside again and sighs. She regrets there are no photos of Michael. But perhaps it’s just as well.

His eyes were blue, a royal blue. A few ranks above her, but back then women didn’t rise far, particularly someone like her.

She hopes today it’s Mary from the care agency who comes with the sandwich. Mary is kind and talks about her grandchildren. Joy is rough, and pontificates about her very white Jesus. That nonsense really should be kept private, Audrey thinks with a scowl.

The radio drones in another room, the dry and repetitive news announced.

Audrey smiles. At least she escaped prison. There was no point, the judge said, not at her age and after she’d – what was the line? – struggled so bravely with handicaps throughout her life.

Age had nothing to do with it. She’d been a cripple from childhood with no expectations of excitement and success. Yet from the moment she joined the MOD typing pool, there were others who saw she had promise. And a man who, for a change, ignored her limp and leg callipers.

Michael.

The only man who was allowed to remove the awkward contraptions – caressing her legs as he did so. Slowly, buckle by buckle, the first time they were alone together. In that hotel near the Berlin Wall.

Michael. She never called him Mikhail.

With another cackle, she looks out of the window, notices the blackbird has gone, although the crusts remain.

It won’t be long now, something fresh for her. Almost.

Memories crystalise, as Mary calls through her letterbox.

It still amuses her, how shocked they all were that a life-long disabled woman – and now an old one – could keep up the spying game this long.