‘Well, why don’t you ask?’ Maudie said, as if it was obvious.

‘I don’t like to. It’s not that easy. And they’re so – well, foreign!’

‘Of course there’ll be differences.’ Maudie hung one of John’s shirts rather haphazardly over the back of a chair, and Katie straightened it. ‘But it’s not as if they come from Outer Mongolia. And they’re both Catholic – and so are you.’

‘But I don’t feel anything: not for Piotr, the one who kissed me.’

‘What about the other one?’

Again Marek’s face, so often in her mind. That was the truth. But she was so shy of him and he was reserved, not forward or easy like Piotr. She felt drawn in and terribly afraid all at once.

‘Maudie, stop being a matchmaker, for goodness’ sake! I just don’t know, so stop keeping on! And anyway, I’m a disaster with men. I’m much better off as I am – without them!’ She knew she sounded really huffy now. ‘And by now Piotr will have told him that I’m not interested.’

‘Well, aren’t you?’

‘No! I keep telling you.’

‘Ah,’ Maudie teased. ‘The lady doth protest too much, I think . . .’

‘Oh, stop it. You’re just being ridiculous.’

That night, at supper, Katie asked Marek again how his sister was getting on at the Daglingworth Camp. She knew he had letters from Agnieska sometimes. She did not often start conversations at the meal table, and he looked across at her surprised and obviously pleased. Partly she just wanted him to speak. She enjoyed the deep sound of his voice.

‘I think she is OK. They are looking after her and she is feeling a little better. She has . . .’ He placed a hand to his belly. ‘Sometimes she is sick – I mean her . . .’ He ran his hand up and down his front, fumbling for the right word.

‘Digestion?’ Sybil suggested.

‘Yes, I think it is. Her digestion is not so good. Because in the camp, and in Tashkent, everyone was very hungry and sick. Many are dying. But for her, something has been wrong . . . inside . . .’

Katie felt her heart go out to him at this description. What on earth had happened to these people? From the very small amount she had heard it sounded appalling and, to her, unimaginable.

‘I hope she feels better soon,’ she said gently.

Marek turned to her. ‘I hope so too. Thank you.’ He smiled.

Every so often she was woken in the night. The first time she had been terrified, jolting upright, the blood banging round her body, unable to identify the noises coming out of the darkness. It did not sound like Michael. It was too far-off and unearthly, a howl of anguish and a cry of terror mixed. It brought her flesh up in goose pimples and she sat hugging her knees. She could not tell which of the men had cried out. It was a sound of distress that touched her to the core, that begged for the offer of comfort.