She closes her eyes, praying for patience. He could have told her before, but she won’t lose her temper, not today. Today has to be perfect for the children, as perfect as the cloudless sky over the garden and the warm sunshine that’s beginning to creep through the kitchen windows. There is no point in getting annoyed.

‘They’ll have to stay then; they can join in once I’ve finished teaching.’ She puts paper on the smaller table. ‘I warned Melissa and Grace that Sorrel and Ash might have to be around sometimes. It’s not all bad; little ones are supposed to be calming for dyslexic kids, it gives them a sense of control.’

‘So I’m forgiven?’

‘I’ll just have to hope they don’t mind.’ She straightens, staring across the lawn to the wood, imagining the group of children playing together after the lesson, their laughter drifting back to her through the open window.

‘I’d keep them inside,’ he says, following her gaze. ‘I don’t want to tell Paul we lost track of his daughter. He’s not the forgiving type.’

‘This is Dulwich, my darling, not the Amazonian jungle.’ She touches his cheek. ‘If it makes you feel happier, I’ll ask Igor to mow a path through the meadow; they’ll be easier to spot.’

‘I’ll do it. Anything for my princess.’ A mock bow; he doesn’t like her calling on his co-worker to do jobs.

The two men had met during a landscaping project in Dulwich Park. Igor was living in a hostel at the time, scraping a wage to send back to his family in Poland. Eric offered him a job and a place to stay in the old staff bungalow in the grounds; it had been empty for years. Eric and Igor make a good team; Eric designing and planning, Igor following his lead, a giant of a man with the jowly face of a bulldog, the same steadfast loyalty in his eyes.

A heavy footstep sounds on the stone veranda outside the kitchen.

‘Talk of the devil.’ Eric vanishes to confer with Igor. Eve hands a croissant and a mug of coffee through the window; Igor nods as he takes them, his face half hidden behind a large beard, cap pulled low. He seldom speaks to her; whether he’s shy or sullen she can’t quite decide.

‘Who’s a princess?’ Poppy appears, dressed for the day in a red sequinned jacket unearthed from the dressing-up box. She’d been listening outside the door. Her beloved eldest with thick auburn plaits, a splash of freckles over her nose and toenails painted blue; eleven going on sixteen.