Here in the spacious lounge or the crowded bar one might rub shoulders – or ankles – with secretaries, typists and engineers as well as administrators, editors and over-worked translators. The communal delights of the Greenhill almost made up for working conditions in the villa – Mrs Smith’s house – in the grounds of Wood Norton Hall where listening, transcribing and editing staff were crammed together to process the foreign broadcasts that came down from the receiving station on top of the hill. For reasons never explained, Susan’s three letters were addressed to Danny care of the steward at the Greenhill. Danny received them gratefully and retired to a quiet corner of the card room to read them in peace; three typewritten letters filled with generalised BBC tittle-tattle and very little else, nothing about Breda or Nora, for instance, or what she, Susan, had been up to out of hours. At the upright piano in the lounge, Griff whiled away the time by playing a medley of popular tunes and displaying his noble profile to any young lady who happened to drift by in the hope that she might mistake him for Jack Buchanan which, oddly, no young lady ever did.
