Oke looked up from the other side of the sofa. “Yes! You have to do a story!”

“Yeah, all right, Christmas expert,” said Carmen, giggling. Oke was staying at Mr. McCredie’s shop. Mr. McCredie, as it turned out, had never wanted lodgers before but was finding it wasn’t necessarily the worst thing in the world. He had rather taken to having a roommate who could talk about Neolithic forests with him all day and night, so everyone was happy, Carmen in particular.

Oke still came to pick Carmen up every morning to walk her to work. She had explained to the children that she might have a sleepover at her friend’s soon, but she liked to be at the house for now to let Sofia lie in in the morning.

And she was finding it extremely exciting to think of Oke as a present she could not yet quite unwrap.

“Okay, okay,” she said.

“Now remind me,” said Sofia, looking tired but happy as she headed downstairs. “Remind me how many are we on the day?”

“Isn’t Mum doing this?”

“Just let me overorganize please, sis—helps my stress levels.”

“But if I do it, we get to watch Christmas Top of the Pops.”

The children looked at her, their faces confused.

“Pop music. You’re going to love it.”

“Carmen!”

“And Frosties. Come on. Let’s have Frosties on Christmas Day. In fact, let’s stay in our pajamas all day. And no bassoon.”

“Go! To! Work!” said Sofia, but she was smiling really.

THERE WAS AN even larger crowd than usual now that the school holidays had started, and Carmen opened an old book, the most expensive they had to sell, and told them the story of the animals turning silent on the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve, and the children’s eyes were wide, and there was silence, and at the end everyone got a very small chocolate Santa and went home happy.

As the families dispersed, there were two tall people still standing at the door.

“We go tomorrow,” said the German woman. “We just thought we should try one more time . . .”

Carmen gripped Mr. McCredie’s hand tight, and, nodding numbly, he turned the shop sign to “Closed” and took them upstairs.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she said. “Would you like tea?”

“Oh, Carmen,” said Mr. McCredie in a quavery voice. “Please stay.”

So she did.

They had found the papers clearing out their grandfather’s house—letters from the POW camp, from his youngest brother, Erich, describing the conditions—and a nurse, Marian, who worked there. Mr. McCredie’s mother.

“I will show you the letters, of course,” said the woman. “Although there are some parts you may not want to read.”

Mr. McCredie sat there, listening.

“I think,” she added. “I think they were very much in love. He was very young.”

“How young?”

“Seventeen.”

Mr. McCredie took a sharp intake of breath. “Goodness.”