Having hugged Hugo to nearly an inch of his life she turned to Tony with a wide, sunny smile. ‘Do you fly Mossies too?’ she asked, tucking her arm into his as if she’d known him all her life. ‘I think Mossies are amazing aircraft. Fancy building a plane of wood in this day and age—and Hugo says they fly like demons, far faster than metal planes. He says that Spitfires are dray horses in comparison.’

Tony laughed, relaxation seeping into his very bones. Whatever the reason for Hugo’s unforthcoming personality, it certainly wasn’t on account of his home life. Both his mother and his young sister—his half-sister presumably, considering her age and Hugo’s mother no longer bearing the name Remer—quite obviously adored him.

It wasn’t a situation that was familiar to him. His family consisted merely of an aunt and a scattering of distant cousins, none of whom could be described as being adoring.

‘And this is Heini,’ the red-haired live wire at his side said as they stepped into the hall and a big, clumsy-looking boy with a large round head came towards them with a rolling walk.

A split second later, as Heini grinningly greeted him, he realized Heini was mongoloid. He wasn’t disconcerted, but it was yet another surprise. He looked across at Hugo, aware that some men would have felt the need to explain about Heini beforehand. That Hugo didn’t think Heini needed explaining increased his new-found liking and respect for him.

‘Wotcher, Heini,’ he said, curious about Heini’s name. Was it short for Heinrich and, if so, was Heini one of the Jewish refugees Hugo had spoken about?

‘Heini’s parents are in the West Indies and so he’s living with us until they can all be reunited,’ Emily Elise said chattily, confusing him even more.

From the hallway they entered a spacious, high-ceilinged drawing room. There were two large cushion-filled sofas, several comfy-looking armchairs, a low table piled with books, another table with a half-finished jigsaw on it, a radiogram with a display case next to it stuffed with records. A log fire roared away in the fireplace. On the marble mantelshelf stood an array of silver-framed photographs flanked by two crystal vases of daffodils, and on every other available surface in the room were bowls of heavenly scented hyacinths. It was a room that managed to be both grand and cosy at the same time and, in the centre of it, a tall, broad-shouldered, red-haired man was shrugging himself into a leather-elbowed tweed jacket.

This was so obviously Emily Elise’s father that Emily Elise’s introduction was unnecessary—though she made it anyway.

‘This is Hugo’s friend, Daddy. He’s a Mossie pilot and—‘

‘I’m a navigator, sir.’

‘—and I’m not going to the flicks this afternoon,’ Emily Elise continued blithely, ‘I’m going to get out the Monopoly instead.’

Adam flinched forbearingly and shook Tony’s hand.

‘Adam Priestley,’ he said. ‘You’re very welcome.’

‘Thank you, sir. My name is Tony. Tony Walsh.’

‘I’m just going out to dig up some extra vegetables for lunch, Tony. You’re welcome to come with me, if you like.’