She had the time to do this because she had no job. Of course, during the war years there was plenty for her to do. She drove an ambulance four days a week, releasing its usual driver for other duties, and she also did shifts at a small care centre where wounded servicemen were looked after. But for the rest, it was the orchestra that took up her time and energy.

Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, La would wake up and worry about her orchestra. What would happen if the conductor could no longer conduct? He was getting on a bit, and he had complained about his heart. Conducting was sometimes vigorous work, and she imagined that it might put a strain on the heart. Perhaps this should govern their choice of music in future? Perhaps she should look at musical scores in advance and determine whether they were going to be a little bit too physically demanding?

What would happen if the unthinkable occurred? What if the country were to fall to the Nazis? What would happen to her orchestra? Would everyone be sent away, or just be forbidden to play? What if music were to be banned, to be declared some sort of threat? Her orchestra then might have to go underground, playing secretly in people’s houses, racing through the repertoire in hiding with somebody standing guard outside, ready to give warning.

Such thoughts – ridiculous thoughts – made La turn on the light. Light dispelled such fantasies, such defeatism; light put them in their place. The country would not be overrun; Britain would hold out. It was impossible to imagine defeat, not because one could not imagine what it would be like, but because it was just such an unlikely outcome.

Everyone thought that, she told herself. She knew nobody who thought otherwise. Indeed, one member of the orchestra, a recently recruited Polish exile, had said to her, ‘We will win this, you know. We will.’ He had looked at her as if challenging her to disagree with what he had said. But she did not, of course, and the Pole had then said: ‘You know why we will win? It is because music is on our side.’

4

This Polish exile, who was called Feliks, worked on a farm. He had been wounded, and limped as a result. This made him unfit for the army but fit enough to drive a tractor. He lived in a cottage at the edge of a large arable farm. The farm was owned by an elderly man who was something of a recluse. He saw Feliks once a day, gave him his orders and then disappeared back into the farmhouse.

Like La, Feliks was in his thirties, a quiet man who had lost confidence after his injury. He never spoke about what had happened to him, and La knew better than to pry. There were so many people around to whom terrible things had happened that it was better to wait until they chose to tell you, if they chose.