The man gave a broad smile and nodded very agreeably. ‘Piotr – yes, that is me.’

‘I imagine that means Peter, to us,’ Sybil said. ‘Now – this is Mrs O’Neill. Katie O’Neill, and little Michael.’ Marek, who was standing further away, again gave his nod of acknowledgement and Katie could only think to nod back. Piotr seemed on the point of stepping forward and taking her hand, but she saw him restrain himself.

‘Hello,’ he said, smiling again. ‘Hello, little Michael. He is lovely boy.’

‘Hello,’ Michael said. Katie had her usual feeling of pride, seeing her son’s lovely blue-eyed face turned up to them so trustingly. She was glad she had brought him down for tea.

Sybil introduced Geoff Jenkins, who said a rather shy hello, and then they all sat down. Katie was at one end, seated between Michael and Geoff Jenkins and facing Sybil, who had the two newcomers on either side.

‘Now,’ Sybil took the lid off the pot and the fishy smell increased. Michael wrinkled his nose and Katie gave his hand a warning squeeze. Sybil did not take kindly to fussiness over food. ‘This is a recipe of my own invention . . .’ Katie saw the two Poles making a visible effort to keep pace with Sybil’s English. ‘The meat ration has been cut almost to nothing because of the dock strike, so I thought, there’s nothing for it: I had two tins of snoek – fish,’ she explained unnecessarily as, by the smell, it couldn’t be anything else.

She served each of them a helping of a mushy fish-and-tomato mixture, which had a few other bits of stray vegetable in it – carrot and a good deal of onion and cabbage. They ate it with potatoes, and when Katie tasted it she realized it did at least taste a bit better than it smelled.

Sybil did most of the talking, asking the Poles questions, which they struggled slowly to answer while the others listened, and Katie quietly goaded Michael to eat some of the food.

‘So,’ Sybil spoke slowly and with care, ‘where have you come from?’

‘We?’ Piotr was the one who seemed most eager to answer. He had a naturally smiling face and dark-brown eyes. ‘We are come from . . . Black . . . Shaw – yes Blackshaw Moor . . .’

‘Where is that?’ Sybil asked, before a forkful of boiled potato.

‘Where is . . . ?’ Piotr glanced uncertainly at his companion, whose sculpted face was working, chewing on the fish stew.

‘Blackshaw Moor – in Staffordshire,’ he said, a little more fluently. Katie was already warming much more to Piotr, of the two of them, as he seemed more relaxed and amiable. ‘It was army camp,’ Piotr said.

‘Yes, of course – but where were you before that?’

Piotr looked to his friend for help.

‘We come . . . We came from Austria, and Italy,’ Marek said.

‘Ah – Cassino . . .’