‘No, but I didn’t think you thought of them as your people, or of this city as your true home.’

‘Your heart never leaves your beginnings, darling.’

‘France will always be my country. I hate what is happening to her.’

‘I do, too, and my heart bleeds for the French people, but when I came here and saw all of this, and the poverty it has caused – the homelessness and the destruction – then I was torn in two. I have to do something, Randie. I haven’t thought what yet, but I will call into the Red Cross and see if they need volunteers. Look, let’s go to a tea shop I know and have a hot bun and a cup of tea. We can chat, and you can get a little used to your surroundings.’

‘Tea? You know I never liked tea, Mama. Do they have coffee?’

‘Ha, of course they do, darling. Well, that chicory stuff that you have from a bottle – ugh! But even before the shortages, it was pretty much all you could get in Britain. Though wait a minute, there’s a French bistro. They used to open in the afternoon for coffee. All the Europeans who lived in London at the time frequented it, and the bistro imported coffee for them.’

‘That sounds better. How far is it?’

‘Only just round the corner. Come on.’

The bistro was still there. Chez Nous displayed its sign with pride. To Flors, it was a little part of France: the blind that extended over the pavement, the green gingham half-curtain, the writing on the window that proclaimed: ‘Vrais grains de café – Real coffee beans’. Inside, onions and garlic bulbs hung from a beam, and the French flag was proudly displayed on the roughly plastered whitewashed wall.

The owner reminded Flors of the previous owner, in her day, and she assumed he was his son.

‘Monsieur Benoît?’

‘Oui, Madame – you’re from France?’

Speaking in French, Flors told him that she was originally from London, but had lived in France for more than twenty years. Then she asked after his father. Finding out that Monsieur Benoît senior was alive and well, and enjoying his retirement, made Flors feel very happy. She couldn’t have said why, but then any good news was so rare that it was good to hear some.

‘This is my very brave son, Randolph, a French soldier, who fought and was captured, and escaped. He is desperate for a coffee. Do you have any – I mean, real coffee?’

‘Mais oui, Madame, and it iz on the house for a French soldier. Let me shake your hand, Monsieur.’

Randie laughed, that deep lovely laugh that mimicked Cyrus’s. ‘Mama, it didn’t take you long to embarrass me.’

‘Ha, I’m proud of you, and I am allowed to embarrass you, darling.’