‘Perhaps. Damn. It’s so ridiculous.’ He puts his head in his hands. ‘I can’t help thinking about my bloody old father. The only time he’s ever spoken to me as if he actually … as if I was someone he actually knew, he told me a horrible story about the War. The last war. I won’t upset you with it but it was about duty. The man who’s shirked every responsibility to the other people in his life is the one who ended up infecting me with a sense of duty. God, the irony.’

‘Eironeía. I understand,’ she says gravely. ‘But I wish with all of me that it was different.’

‘I’ll come back,’ he says. ‘I will.’ He takes her hands and holds them tight. ‘I promise. I swear I will come as soon as I can and take you away with me.’

‘If you promise …’

‘I do. I mean it.’

‘I believe you, Tom.’ She holds his hand up to her face, and lets him feel her tears. Then she sniffs, and smiles. ‘So. Where will we go?’ She leans close.

‘To London, if you like. Or Devon. You’d love it … or perhaps you’d hate it. All that rain. No, we’ll go to India. I’ll take you to Kerala. They have butterflies – I told you that. Like angels.’

‘Then we’ll go there.’

There is a knock on the door. They both jump. Zoë begins to curse in Greek. Then she collects herself. She is wonderful, thinks Tom, jumping up and pulling on his boots. ‘Go into the lavatory,’ Zoë hisses. ‘Take this …’ She skips silently around the cramped space, finding his map case, pushing it into his hands. ‘And this.’ His greatcoat. ‘You slept in there. OK?’ Staring at him, her eyes huge, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, she starts to laugh.

‘OK.’ He kisses her hurriedly and slips out of the kitchen door, two steps down and two steps up into the coffin-like lavatory. He shuts the door gently, clicks the bolt and slides down until he is sitting on the cement floor, his legs braced against the opposite wall. The light is off and he is surrounded by grey gloom. He listens to the chickens scratching next door. Nothing from inside the house, then he hears soft footsteps and the front door opens, which makes the whole house shake. He begins to hum nervously to himself. Oh, dear, what can the matter be? Two old ladies locked in the lavat’ry … There is the sound of voices. Zoë’s and a man’s, certainly Apostoli, but speaking quietly. There are footsteps, then a discreet tap on the door.

‘Kapetanios? You are in there?’

‘Ye-es …’ Tom grimaces, trying not to laugh at the absurdity, but when he opens the door, Apostoli’s drawn face takes away his amusement.

‘You slept in this toilet?’

‘Apparently so,’ Tom says, feeling strangely bad about the lie.