‘What do you think of that one?’ he said, nodding towards an old galleon.

‘It’s nice.’

‘Is it your favourite?’

‘No, this one is,’ said Lena, pointing at a single-sail fishing boat.

‘A bit small. What about this one?’ said Stefan, holding up a steamship with a funnel.

‘No, I like the small boat best.’

‘All right, let’s see if we can get the sail up.’

Lena watched the line of cotton between Stefan’s huge fingers as he pulled the sail into position and tied off the thread round a miniature cleat.

‘There you are. Under full sail now. Well. Just about.’

Stefan took the model over to the man at the counter and paid for it, then handed Lena the parcel as they left the shop.

‘Keep it in this wooden box, to stop it getting knocked on the train.’

‘Is it … for me?’ she asked.

‘So you’ll remember your day at sea.’

2

When they were home, back in their room in the sawmill district, Lena asked when they might see Stefan again. Carina told her she didn’t know.

A year went by.

‘Perhaps he’ll come in time for the summer,’ said Lena.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘When will he come? He said he’d come one day.’

‘Don’t keep asking questions.’

A few weeks before her seventh birthday, Lena saw Herr Gustav in the street and crossed the road to speak to him.

‘Could you help me, please? I want to write a letter.’

Gustav took a pace back. ‘You go to school, don’t you? Haven’t they taught you to write yet?’

Lena had no excuses. This tall man with the gold glasses was the only person who had shown an interest in her; and now, at the first hurdle, she had let him down. And why could she still not write? The letters made no words for her. Her hand couldn’t make the chalk move the right way on the slate. She was stupid and she had no father. She couldn’t tell Herr Gustav any of this, but she opened her eyes wide, then took his hand.

Gustav puffed, but relented. They went into a café where some workers were having lunch and sat down at a table. ‘Dear Father,’ he began to write on a piece of paper he had taken from his bag. Lena told him the address in Trieste.

‘Write “Signor Fontana”. That’s his name.’

‘What day is your birthday?’

‘In March. The twelfth. We don’t know for sure, but that’s the day I’ve chosen.’

‘Why?’

‘I like the number twelve because of the twelve men in the Bible.’

‘The apostles?’

‘Jesus’s men.’

‘I’ve got an envelope at home. You’ll owe me for a stamp.’

‘I’ll pay you back. How long will it take to get there?’

‘Three or four days, I should think. I’ll post it tonight. What’s the name of the building where you live? So he can write back.’

Lena told him. Then there was nothing more to say. She looked at Gustav’s lined and disappointed face.