‘You are an angel. Where are they, your brother and sister? I will talk to them.’ He lifted my chin and kissed me softly.

‘No, you don’t understand. They both died.’

‘Ah, is OK then. They don’t know what you are doing. You will be my wife.’

‘Manno! What a terrible thing to say! Anyway, I hear talk that Greece is joining the conflict any day now, so I am sure I will be back in your country soon, Manno, but if not, swear you will come to find me in Dover.’ Perhaps I would be locked in some English prison, my punishment for costing the British government thousands of pounds, perhaps even millions. We were at war, and I had caused the loss of their best ship and destroyed the lives of so many of our young men.

‘I will come for you,’ Manno cried dramatically. ‘If I must sail my boat all the way to England, I give you my word: I will come to get you. Now tell me you love me. You are mine, do you understand, mine!’

As I climbed off the bed to dress, I saw a little blood on the sheet. ‘Oh, Manno! I must wash that off before it dries, please, bring me some water.’

‘No, agapi, no. It must stay. My father will be proud, he will hang the sheet out for all to see. In the kafenio they will say, see, Manno’s wife was an English virgin! He is a lucky man!’

My face turned scarlet as the stain. I couldn’t speak. What an awful idea! He must have read the horror on my face. ‘Do not worry,’ he said. ‘It is something to be proud of. In the eyes of my family, it means we are married already.’

I had to get away, back on the ship. Return to my role as a nurse before I came face to face with Manno’s father and died of embarrassment.

‘Wait, wait!’ Manno cried as I started to climb from the bed. ‘Such an important occasion.’ He opened a chest in the corner of the room and flung heaps of linen to one side, then he came to a wooden box which he placed on the table. Then he pulled a chair under the oil lamp that hung from the ceiling and, still naked, stood on it.

Oh, my!

I took the opportunity to admire his physique. He could have modelled for Michelangelo, except for that artist’s understatement of David’s manly attributes. Such a majestically round bottom, and his abdomen – solid ridges like Mrs Cooper’s washboard. How I wished I had my sketchbook. He thrust his fingertips into the tray under the oil lamp and was clearly searching for something. Then he caught my look, peered down at his own body and grinned. ‘You want me to come back to bed?’

‘No!’ I cried, blushing and looking away.