‘So, you know. Hundreds of people killed, the whole waterfront of Piraeus destroyed, and my brother is sad that his bouzouki is broken. And then he disappears. Two days ago he calls on the telephone to our friend Micho: “I’m in Khalkis. Come and fetch me, please!” Now, I would have let him go to hell, honestly …’ She pauses, because that isn’t true. ‘But there is a man, a famous man, who makes records, and he wants to make one more record with us, our band, before the Germans come. There is some money, he says. But I need Pavlo. So we go to Khalkis. I was going to stay, but my brother has a girlfriend, very … It doesn’t matter. But she was going to go and I didn’t want her to. She is not a good person. I said no, you can’t come, I’m going, there’s no room for you. And there. We went. It seemed safe – no German planes, the war was further to the north. We’ll go, and come back, make our record. There is Pavlo, in Khalkis. And why do you think he went there? To get another bouzouki. Only that. A very special one, yes, but in the end …’ She feels something hot on her cheeks. ‘Damn it,’ she mutters.

‘Here.’ Long, dirty fingers are offering her a dirty handkerchief. ‘I don’t have anything else, I’m afraid.’

She takes it anyway and dabs away the tears. ‘Thank you. You don’t have to be so kind. I am a …’ She searches for the word. ‘A nuisance.’

‘Rubbish. I haven’t had this much fun in years.’ She looks at him, knowing her kohl is all over her face, knowing her clothes are ruined, that her hair is stiff with blood. And he looks back. Unshaven, a cluster of scabs on one cheek, his black hair greasy and dull with dust, pushing the peak of his cap away from his face with an oil-stained hand. His eyes, piercing slate-grey, are streaked with red. She can’t help it: she giggles, and puts her hand over her mouth. But he is laughing as well.

‘Look,’ he says, ‘my name’s Tom. Tom Collyer. And by the way, I never had a nanny. I thought I should say. Raised by my mother. Did you have one, honestly?’

‘Don’t you believe me? Miss Butland. From Hampstead. That was back home in Smyrna. There. I have told you a secret that no one else knows.’ She laughs as if it is a joke but it is quite true and she suddenly feels strange because she doesn’t know why she has just told him. ‘I … Would you like a Greek cigarette?’ she asks, to change the subject.

‘Why not?’