Lotti plopped her basket next to Vicky’s and lowered the bag of potatoes to the floor. ‘Do you think everyone has Christmas tableware that’s never used at any other time of the year?’ she asked, taking off her hat and shaking her head so that her dark hair swung glossily forward against her cheeks.

‘I expect so.’ Josephine continued with what she was doing, which was making a trifle. ‘When else would a dark red tablecloth and dark green napkins be suitable? As for the epergne—it’s only used at Christmas and it’s become Emily Elise’s task to fill it with sweeties.’

Vicky put the kettle on to boil. ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked, taking cups and saucers out of a cupboard.

‘Adam has helped your father downstairs. They are in the study, enjoying a quiet game of draughts. Hugo, Hester and Emily Elise are back from their sledging. I don’t know where Hugo is now, but Emily Elise is upstairs with Hester and I think Hester is allowing Emily Elise free run of her make-up bag. Paul was chopping logs earlier, but I don’t know where he is now, either. Nancy’s taken Tinker for another long walk. I don’t think Tinker wanted to go, but Nancy didn’t give him much option. Max has gone into Harrogate to do some lastminute Christmas shopping.’

‘And I’m going to take my cup of tea and enjoy it listening to a carol concert on the wireless,’ Lotti said, peeping into the oven to see what it was that was filling the kitchen with such a heavenly smell.

‘It won’t cook properly if you keep letting cold air into the oven,’ Josephine said chastisingly, whisking egg yolks, sugar, cornflour and vanilla extract. ‘And if you want to know what it is, it’s a raised game pie for Boxing Day tea.’

Deciding that the kitchen might not be the most peaceful place for a five-minute rest, when the tea had mashed and been poured Vicky carried her cup and saucer into the drawing room. All the sofas and armchairs were deeply cushioned and almost as soon as she sat down, her eyes closed. Dimly, she was aware of the kitchen doorbell ringing and registered that the turkey had arrived and then, despite all her good intentions of sorting out table linen and cleaning silver, she shifted position so that she was lying full length on the sofa, and fell asleep.

‘It’s hellishly grim, Paul.’

The fierce tone of Hugo’s voice swam into her dreams. ‘Without a British or an American passport, Jews desperate to leave Germany simply cannot do so, and even for the fortunate few who have such passports there are problems.’

The sofa was facing away from Hugo and Paul and Vicky knew they didn’t realize she was there.

‘Why?’ Paul said, his voice unruffled and patient. ‘I don’t understand.’

Hugo’s voice was taut with tension. ‘No country, however sympathetic to their plight, is willing to grant entry visas to potentially destitute Jews. Without funds abroad, emigration is virtually impossible. They need sponsors. They need people to stand surety for them.’