‘You have not done five minutes’ work in the past week,’ Schmidt said. ‘You sit in your office, all alone in the tower, staring at your papers and accomplishing nothing. You are the stupid one. Why don’t you telephone him? He is in the book.’

‘Schmidt, you devil!’ My foot slipped and I had to grab at Schmidt to keep from falling. He grinned and grabbed back. ‘You didn’t call him, did you?’

‘No, what do you take me for?’

‘An interfering, nosy – ’

‘I called the information in England to get the number,’ Schmidt said calmly. ‘It would be only courteous of you to inquire after his health.’

‘He’s all right.’ I kicked at a wad of sodden leaves. ‘You know that Jen called you too.’

‘Oh, yes, very touching,’ Schmidt said with a sniff. ‘The dear old Mutti thanking us for our kindness to her little boy. Herr Gott, when she began to talk about his tragic loss and the virtues of that terrible young woman I was hard-pressed to hold my tongue.’

It hadn’t been pleasant. Jen hadn’t been awfully pleasant either. She’d said all the right things but I had had a feeling she wasn’t too happy about some of the newspaper stories. None of the reporters had had the bad taste to come right out with their prurient suspicions but there had been references to my youthful blond beauty (every female in stories like those is beautiful) and John’s tender concern.

He had told me once his mother wouldn’t like me.

‘He must be getting very tired of being fussed over,’ said Schmidt.

‘He’ll put up with it only as long as he chooses. Schmidt, can we go back now?’ I sneezed.

‘No. We have not yet said what must be said. But I do not want that you should catch cold. We will go to a café and have coffee. Mit Schlag,’ Schmidt added happily.

He had whipped cream on his coffee and on his double serving of chocolate torte and, by the time he finished, on his moustache. It was a warm, cosy little café with low ceilings and windows covered with steam that blurred the gloomy weather outside. Schmidt wiped his moustache and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

‘Now, Vicky. What is wrong? It is good to talk when one is in distress, and who better to listen than Papa Schmidt, eh?’

He’d missed a speck of whipped cream. It might have been that homely touch or his worried frown, or the comfortable intimate ambience, but all of a sudden I knew I was going to talk till I was hoarse.

‘I love you, Schmidt,’ I said.

‘Well, I have known that for a long time,’ Schmidt said complacently. ‘But it is good to hear you say it. Have you found the courage now to say it to him?’

‘Uh-huh.’