‘It does not matter,’ Marek said, and for a second he took her hand. He needed to touch her often, to be physically close to her. He wanted to do everything with her – shopping and errands, taking Michael swimming, which they now sometimes did together.

Every so often the sun did break through for a few seconds, but it was a blustery December morning of racing clouds. Katie had hung her umbrella over her arm just in case. She and Marek, with Michael sitting between them, had ridden across town and climbed down from the bus in Nechells into this buffeting wind. She had expected Michael to complain, but he was too excited at having an outing to pay any attention to the weather. It was a very unusual Saturday morning for him, especially as Marek had promised that on the way back they’d stop off for a treat – a bite to eat in town.

Katie had watched with tender amusement as Marek spoke to her small son. Sometimes she found Marek remote, mysterious, locked into quiet moods that she could not read. But today he himself was almost childishly excited, out on a treat, sweet and affectionate to her and indulgent with her son, bending his tall frame down to listen when Michael spoke to him. She could see how much this meant to him: being a family, and having found someone to love. It tugged at her heart, thinking about all he must have lost.

‘This is Nechells?’ Marek asked, pronouncing it carefully.

‘This is it.’ She watched his face for a reaction. After Sybil’s house, among the large villas of Handsworth, the place looked cramped and mean. Here, bomb-damaged streets of tightly packed houses mingled with factories small and large. There was little space for trees or gardens, and many of the houses were grimy and in very poor repair. She could see that Marek was surprised.

‘You were poor?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Yes – we were. My mother was left on her own. My uncle tried his best but . . . well, I told you.’

‘And your mother – she still lives here?’

‘No. Remember, we moved to Sparkhill. I don’t know if she’s moved again by now, though. Come on, I’ll show you our old house.’

As they walked around she pointed out to Michael the power station in the distance. He gazed at the huge cooling towers and, as they went along Rupert Street, at the gas works, the rusty gasometers of which they caught glimpses. Marek seemed fascinated.

‘Such a big city,’ he said. ‘Where I come from – is small town. Quiet. Many farmers and activities like making bricks, or tools for the fields. You like here?’

‘Yes. It was OK. I’d never known anything else. My mother didn’t like it – she thought she was too good for it. But I remember some nice people.’

She led Marek along Kenilworth Street, feeling conscious suddenly that they might be being watched. Would anyone have recognized her? No, of course not. And if they did, why should she feel she had anything to hide now? The street let them pass, oblivious to their presence.