‘She’s my auntie,’ Michael said.

‘Well, yes – she is, sort of. She’s very kind, isn’t she?’

A bitter thought of her mother crossed her mind for a moment. Kindness – not one of Vera’s gifts. In the end, didn’t it matter more than blood ties, for all that people said blood was thicker than water? Not very thick blood in my family, she thought bitterly. Sybil was more of a mother to her in her odd way than her own had been.

They reached Sybil’s gate.

‘Let’s get in out of the cold,’ she said to Michael.

As they walked up the path, a voice behind said, ‘Hello, we reach home together.’

Katie turned, her heart thumping hard on hearing Marek’s voice. For goodness’ sake, she said to herself. She couldn’t seem to help her physical response to his presence, no matter how hard she tried. What on earth was the matter with her!

‘Oh – hello!’ She smiled in the darkness, trying to sound casual and banged the heavy knocker. ‘I’ll be glad to be inside – it’s very cold, isn’t it?’

Marek shrugged. ‘Oh, a little bit. Not so bad.’

‘Ah, the world’s workers,’ Sybil said, swinging the door open. ‘Oh, and Marek too. Jolly good.’

They all went thankfully into the dimly lit hall.

‘We’ll just get our things off,’ Katie said. Thank goodness she had Michael to busy herself with.

‘Are you going to give him his tea, or let him stay up with us?’ Sybil asked. ‘It is Friday.’

Katie considered, one foot on the bottom step. Marek was standing back politely to let them go first. ‘Oh – he’s very tired. Maudie’s lot have all got awful colds. I think I’ll get him to bed in case he’s coming down with it too.’

‘Right-oh,’ Sybil was disappearing out to the back. ‘Come down when you’re ready then.’

There was another banging on the knocker.

‘I expect that’s Piotr. Open it, will you, Marek?’ Sybil called. ‘Save my poor old feet.’

Halfway up the stairs, half dragging Michael, Katie heard Marek open the door, then voices. It was not Piotr, but another man. She paused to listen, only just hearing a voice say, ‘I’m sorry to trouble you. I hope I’ve got the right house.’

Dimly, in the recesses of her memory, the voice seemed familiar, while her more conscious mind only detected a stranger.

‘Mrs O’Neill,’ Marek called to her with unusual formality. ‘There is a visitor for you.’

Katie came down again into the dimly lit hall to see a man standing just inside the front door. All she could make out was a pale face, a head of thick hair, perhaps grizzled, dark eyes, a long, dark coat and in his hands a black trilby, which he held, looking very ill at ease.

‘I go . . .’ Marek started to say, but she quickly responded, ‘No – don’t!’ Who was this person? She didn’t want to be alone with him, whoever he was.