‘We will stay,’ says the older man, whose name is Kosta. ‘We’ll keep a lookout.’

The younger man makes a pistol with his fingers and points them at the door. ‘Bang, bang. Tell him we’ve fought the fascists too.’

Zoë doesn’t know what to do with herself, so goes back and sits down opposite the soldier. ‘I helped take some wounded up to Kifisia,’ he says, though she has asked him nothing. ‘The Germans had already cut us off from our evacuation beaches so I took an ambulance. I was going to drive to Glyfada but I ran out of petrol. Then I caught a bus …’

‘A bus.’

‘A bus. Going to Glyfada. But there was a roadblock. So I started walking. I suppose I should have just surrendered but I started walking. By that time the Germans had arrived. I shouldn’t have come here – I can see that now. But I didn’t know what else to do. This was the only place I could think of. And you.’

‘Me?’ Zoë frowns. Her hands are making soft fists on the oilskin tablecloth.

He tries to smile, but the effect is so sad that Zoë’s heart gives a small, queasy lurch. ‘Afraid so. Now that everyone’s gone, you’re the only person I know in Greece. And I don’t know you at all, do I?’ He begins to stand. ‘I ought to be going.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She stands up, almost knocking over her chair. ‘Are you hungry?’ she demands. ‘You must be hungry.’

‘I’m famished,’ he says, with evident relief. She goes into the kitchen. There isn’t much food left. What do English officers like to eat? Cucumber sandwiches, she thinks, and shakes her head. She is always reading about cucumber sandwiches. They sound disgusting. She cuts him a few slices of bread and fills a plate with some hard sheep’s cheese, a leftover piece of fried salt cod and a scoop of olives.

‘Eat,’ she says, putting the plate down in front of him.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Thank you so much. Sorry.’

She rolls her eyes in exasperation. ‘Must you English apologise for everything?’ she says. ‘You’re in Piraeus now, Lieutenant. You will have to learn how to be rude.’