"I can't believe it. Another one. Who's behind it?"

Ernie stared at the headlines, shaking his head. "I mean love; you'd have thought the police would've some clue by now."

"What did you say, love?" called Betty distracted from the kitchen. Her hands wrist deep in flour and butter. She wanted desperately to finish baking. Although she was strong, slim and sprightly for her age, her rheumatism was playing up and standing wasn't helping her. Oh well, at 65, what could she expect. She'd had a good life. Colourful, in some quarters, but not racy, nor cheap. Through her job as an army nurse she'd seen the world. Tasted the fruits of love and finally settled with Ernie in her mid 40's.

The flour sifted through her fingertips and suddenly, it was sand. On her stomach, the soft grains slid between her supple thighs. Cooler beneath than on top. Betty rolled on to her back and he leaned in to kiss her.

"Didn't you hear what I said? They should have caught him by now."

"Oh...um...Sorry?" Betty looked down. Flour once again covered her hands.

"Should have got him. It's not right."

"No dear, 'course it isn't." said Betty vaguely.

"You know Alf was in the Bank last week. And the bastard did it."

"Did he?" responded Betty, turning to check the oven. 250 degrees. Just right.

"He was bloody terrified."

"I'm sure he was."

The cake mixture dolloped in great globules into the tin. Betty watched it, and she was there, again. The pale yellow mixture gradually morphing into body lotion, slowly slipping down his back. Gently, she rubbed in circles, making swirling vortices, encapsulating her gestures of love.

"He almost did one in his trousers."

She glanced down, her hands were turning whirlpools in the cake mixture.

"He hasn't seen a gun since Korea."

"He must've been frightened."

"Too right! And you know the most shocking thing?"

"No love, what?"

Puffing slightly, Betty bent down, shoved the cake in the oven and slammed the door.

"He doesn't say a bloody word. Not a thing."

"No. I wonder why?"

"Obvious innit. Doesn't want his voice to give him away. Probably a bleeding foreigner."

"Could be, love." Picking up the bowl and utensils Betty dumped them in the sink. She'd wash them later.

"No 'could be' about it. Who goes into a bank holding a card saying 'Put the money in the bag and no one will die.' He doesn't want his voice to be recognised."

Turning on the tap, Betty looked thoughtful for a moment, while she filled the kettle.

"No one had seen his face, then?"

Ernie shook his head vigorously. "He wears a balaclava. Only his eyes are seen. And he's all in black. Like a bleeding shadow."

The sound of cascading droplets drenched Betty. He smoothed down her wet hair. The water making rivers, as they made love...So long ago.

Betty reached out to turn off the tap.

"What do you think, love?"

"I don't know, you know more about all this news stuff. I don't have time for it."

"But you must have a feeling?"

I had feeling, once. Oh yes. I had feeling.

"I don't know, love. We've run out of milk. I won't be long."

Vacating the kitchen, Betty headed for the bedroom to pick up her bag. Turning, she looked round at her husband. He was engrossed in the paper, devouring the news like a Sunday roast.

Silently, she closed the bedroom door, walked over to her chest of drawers, pulled the bottom one open, and there, underneath her support tights and girdle was the faintest outline of a balaclava. Reaching in, she grabbed it, and smiled, an inner smile of deep joy.

Not for money. No. To help her feel again.