‘I was asking her, DOES SHE LIKE EGGS?’ Edna enquired at full volume.

‘Do you like eggs?’ Marek asked her in Polish.

‘Yes,’ Agnieska replied. ‘But why is she shouting? Have I done something wrong?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Just answer the question.’

‘Yes – I like eggs. You know I do.’

‘WHAT ABOUT BACON?’

‘Yes – this I like too.’

‘ONLY WE WEREN’T SURE IF SHE WAS JEWISH?’

‘Why does she think I’m Jewish? Yes, I like these things – but please tell her she does not need to shout . . .’

And so it went on. It was going to take time for everyone to get used to each other, and for Agnieska’s English to develop.

‘She’s very thin,’ they said to Marek, frowning in concern. ‘She’ll need feeding up.’

‘Yes, but she has to eat small, small meals,’ he explained. ‘Her health is better, but there is still a little problem with digestion . . .’

Or, as Sybil pointed out, to the Arbuckles, best not overdo the suet puddings.

‘Oh dear,’ they said. ‘Oh dear – we must be very careful.’

And careful they were. They treated Agnieska as if she was a delicate china doll, cooking little meals, checking on her health.

‘They are very kind,’ she reported, when she was round at Sybil’s.

‘Yes,’ Sybil agreed, ‘I believe they are, bless their hearts.’

After work on Christmas Eve, Mr Jenkins said his farewells and set off for his mother’s for the weekend. The rest of the household, with Agnieska, decorated the tree, which had been waiting out in the garden. Sybil had a box of pretty glass baubles and they made some bows with ribbon, and Katie and Agnieska made some paper chains with Michael and hung them across the dining room. Katie found Agnieska lively company, and she was obviously loving being back in a real home. She had been properly introduced to Archie, who was now satisfied and snoozing by the fire.

Marek and Piotr were joking around in one corner, teasing Sybil and hanging things on the tree, while Katie and Agnieska sat at the table. There was leg-pulling in both Polish and English.

‘What did he say?’ Katie asked, amused, as Marek shot a satirical remark across to his sister in Polish.

‘He say . . .’ Agnieska stopped to think.

‘Not too much glue, Michael!’ Katie intervened.

‘. . . is good my hair is . . .’ She indicated its length.

‘Long? Grown?’

‘Grown – yes. Before, is very . . . um . . .’

‘Short?’

‘Yes – short.’

‘She looked like a boy when I last see – er, saw her – before England,’ Marek teased. Seeing Katie’s puzzled expression, he said, ‘In the Uzbek camp they shaved her head: she was sick, with typhus.’

‘Oh, my goodness,’ Sybil said. She was directing operations from a chair near the Christmas tree. ‘You poor girl. That sounds terrible.’

‘Is bad,’ Piotr agreed. ‘I had also. Bad fever, markings – rash on body, bad head – bad everything. We catch from lice.’