She suddenly became aware that there was somebody in the garden, coming round the side of the house. She heard him first, his footfall on the gravel, a crunching sound, and she stopped dozing. Nobody came that way, at least not in the evening. Sometimes the butcher’s boy would come round and leave his parcel at the kitchen door if there was no reply to the bell, but otherwise nobody.

In her slightly confused state, she thought: this is something to do with what’s happening; this is something to do with the war. But then she realised that was ridiculous. She rose to her feet as she heard the footsteps again, closer now. When she saw him through the French windows, it took a moment for her to recognise who he was, he was so unexpected. Her first thought was: how does he know that this is where I live? She had not told him.

Feliks’s eyes met hers through the glass, and then he smiled and made a gesture. He was wearing a cap, a grey cap, which he took off. There was something in his other hand.

She moved towards the door and opened it to him. The evening air flooded past her, warm on the skin.

‘I hope I didn’t frighten you.’ His voice was quiet.

‘No. Not really. Surprised me, though. The front door …’ She trailed off. She saw that what he was carrying was the flute in its leather case.

‘I knocked at the front door. But then I heard the wireless inside and I knew that you must be in.’

She gestured for him to enter the room, and he did so, wiping his boots on the mat carefully, taking his time. He looked at her with an expression that she did not know how to interpret, though it seemed to her like apology. He handed the flute to her.

‘I’ve brought this back,’ he said. ‘I can’t accept it. I can’t take it from you, and I cannot pay for it. I ask you to understand.’

The flute was in her hands now, and she stared down at it, uncertain what to do. Of course he had his pride; that was it – she had heard people say that the Poles were proud. She could understand. When your country was taken over, invaded by another, you must hold on to your pride, or the small scraps of it which remain.

She thought quickly. She wanted him to have the flute. She wanted him to play in the orchestra. Suddenly that seemed so important.

An idea occurred. He could work in her garden for her. He could earn the flute; it would be a fair exchange.

9

She became used to seeing him. He came three days a week, in the evenings, and set about his work in the garden. He knew what he was doing, she discovered; he knew the botanical names of the plants, which was far more than she did, and he seemed to have an understanding of their needs. He harvested lavender – her namesake – for her, and tied it in bundles, upside down, to dry. At the end of the path, where there had been weeds, it was now neat and well tended. He planted new things, moved others to better spots. ‘You must be careful what you plant in the shade,’ he said.