Missingsch is what comes out when a Platt German from the North wants to speak proper High German. It slithers about on the carefully wax-polished stairs of German grammar, before falling flat on its face in its beloved Platt. Lydia came from Rostock, and she knew the idiom to perfection. There’s nothing rustic about it – it’s much more subtle. The proper German in it sounds like scorn and caricature, as though a peasant had gone out to plough his fields in a top hat and tails. And then Platt has all the humour of the North Germans: their good-natured debunking when someone comes on a bit strong, their lively sense of fun when they recognise pretentiousness – and they do recognise it, quite infallibly. Lydia could talk like that when the occasion arose. And here was such as occasion.

‘I can’t get over it, you haven’t overslept!’ she said, and, firmly and unhurriedly, set about helping me and the driver. We loaded up.

‘Here, take the dachshund!’ The dachshund was a fat hand-bag, elongated to the point of whimsy. How punctual she was! There was a hint of powder on the side of her nose. We drove off.

‘Frau Kremser advised me,’ Lydia began, ‘to take my fur and plenty of warm coats – because there isn’t any summer in Sweden, Frau Kremser said. It’s always winter there. I hope it’s not true!’ Frau Kremser was housekeeper to the Princess, chambermaid, charlady and Keeper of the Great Seal. Her attitude to me, even after all this time, was still one of quiet and implacable suspicion – the woman had sound instincts. ‘Tell me . . . is it really that cold up there?’

‘It’s funny, isn’t it,’ I said. ‘When people think about Sweden, they think: Swedish punch, awfully cold, Ivar Kreuger, match-boxes, awfully cold, blonde women and awfully cold. It’s not that cold at all.’

‘Well, how cold is it, then?’

‘Women are so pedantic,’ I said.

‘All except you!’ said Lydia.

‘I’m not a woman.’

‘But you’re pedantic!’

‘Now excuse me,’ I said, ‘but there is a logical flaw here. It must be determined whether, pro primo . . .’

‘Give Lydia a kiss!’ the lady said.

I did so, while the driver wobbled his head about, because he could see us reflected in his windscreen. The cab stopped where all the better class of stories begin: at the station.

3

It turned out that porter no. 47 came from Warnemünde, so there was no end of exuberant chatter between him and Lydia, until, worried about the time, I interrupted the idyllic reminiscences of the two compatriots.

‘Is the porter coming with us, then? Perhaps you could continue your conversation on the train . . .’

‘Don’t get so steamed up, silly!’ said the Princess. The porter agreed.

‘There’s plenty of time yet,’ he said.