‘I hate practising the piano.’

He shook his head, ‘That I did know, my mother told me.’

Vivian laughed. ‘She knows far too many of my faults. Until I met your mother, I didn’t know the ingredients of Christmas pudding; to this day I’m not absolutely certain what suet is.’ She laughed again, self-deprecating, but he didn’t like it.

‘That’s not the sort of information I meant.’

‘I can’t swim.’

‘Something positive, something you can do,’ he urged.

She paused, furrowed her brow and thought about it for too long. He was sure there must be a million things she was incredible at. Eventually, ‘I can jump a skipping rope rather well.’

‘Can you?’ He grinned.

‘Do you remember those boys I brought lunch to when you were working in the field?’

‘Yes.’ Of course he did.

‘Their sisters taught me. I saw them one day in the street, a whole dirty pack of them skipping.’ She bit into her apple again, chewed, swallowed. He loved it that she didn’t seem to be in a rush. Their relationship before this evening had been characterised by staccato conversations, abrupt interruptions and differences of opinion; it was lovely to luxuriate in finding the right words, answering questions fully. ‘They were having such fun. Hungry bellies, warring fathers, shoeless feet all forgotten as they jumped with their friends. You know the sort of thing, January, February, March, April, when it’s your birthday please join in.’ She chanted the rhyme, smiling, delighted with the memory. ‘It got to June and I simply jumped. Abandoned poor Mabel’s pram on the street. I have no idea why I wanted to join them, but I did. Of course I got into a tangle. The girls all laughed at me, but not meanly. They wanted me to play. They slowed the rope right down, to give me a chance. I quickly caught on to it. It isn’t difficult.’

‘Were you in skirts or your trousers?’

She thought about it. ‘A skirt, that first day, I remember holding it up, but I’ve done it many times since. Sometimes in my trousers. Why?’

‘I want to imagine it.’ He closed his eyes and thought of her giddy, breathless, determined. Her hair slipping loose with each jump, her petticoat peeking out from under her skirt, her sturdy boots – which he’d noticed she always wore now, practicality overwhelming fashion – beating down on the cobbles.

‘How many other lovers have you had?’ It was not an original question. Any woman he’d ever had would, sooner or later, want to know as much. They craved to understand where they fitted into his line of conquests and interests. The surprise was that he felt compelled to answer her truthfully. He sometimes didn’t provide a response at all, and few women insisted. On the occasions he did offer a number, it was rarely accurate; he usually pleaded two or three to avoid offending the woman he was with at the time.

‘Sixteen or seventeen, I suppose. I’m not exactly certain.’ There would have been more, except for France and prison. It seemed more important to be honest with her than to protect her.