She avoided his eyes, looked down at her plate.

‘Nothing, really,’ she said. ‘Father-daughter stuff.’

He’d have to tread carefully with him, he realised. Some fathers could be very protective.

‘You’re looking worried, though.’

‘Am I?’ he said. ‘Sorry again.’ He thought fast. ‘It’s just that I’m a bit behind with my marking. I was thinking how I’ll have to work twice as hard today.’

‘It’s July. Hasn’t term ended?’

‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘There were some resits. Plus the “S” level boys. I’ll be tutoring them through the holidays. Oxbridge entrance and all that.’

‘Ah.’ She smiled, wiped her mouth on the napkin and stood up.

‘I’ll take you to the station,’ he said. ‘If you’ve time, we can walk. Have a proper coffee, in Clerkenwell. Leave the dishes,’ he added. ‘I’ll do them later.’

He took her hand as they meandered through the side streets.

‘A long way round to St Pancras, I know,’ he said. ‘But it’s one of my favourite parts of London.’ He wanted to share this with her, linger with her longer. So many corners of London, so many memories and possibilities.

‘Scuola Guida,’ she said, reading the signs. ‘Portelli Ltd. Organ builders.’

‘Little Italy.’ He pointed to a delicatessen. ‘Come. Proper coffee, not the ersatz stuff they serve in these so-called coffee bars in Soho.’

He took her into the shop, watched as she marvelled at the cut meats and fancy cheeses, the cannoli and bombolone. He ordered two espressos, and they stood at the counter, pouring in the sugar from the paper packets, stirring.

‘I had no idea about the Italians,’ she said. ‘Were they refugees?’

‘Some of the new ones maybe,’ John said. ‘But most have been here for decades. They were rounded up in the war. Enemy aliens. Even though half of them were born here.’

Her face became serious and her voice when she spoke was soft. ‘Yes.’

She stirred her coffee with an extravagant intensity.

‘My turn to ask now,’ he said. ‘Are you all right? You’ve gone very quiet.’

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Penny for them.’

‘I was just thinking how awful it must have been. Did you ever see Stromboli?’

‘The film?’ he said. ‘That was a few years ago.’

‘I know. They showed it again when I was at college. That poor woman, the Ingrid Bergman one. What she must have been through. Those DP camps were dreadful.’

He smiled. He loved her tenderness, her understanding, as if she’d been there too. He leaned towards her, took her hand, turning it over, tracing the lines in her palm. A man behind him was ordering a coffee. The timbre of his voice made John turn. The man had taken off his cap, tucked it in his pocket.

‘Let’s go,’ John said. He placed his cup crooked on its saucer so it rattled and tipped to one side. ‘You’ll miss your train.’