‘Why would I do that?’

‘Without a wife to keep house–’

‘Wife?’ His forehead creased in deep puzzle lines.

She wanted to haul that word back in, wife. It had tripped out, was too soon to remind him. ‘Margaret.’

‘Margaret was my daughter,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry,’ Dora said. ‘I assumed she was your wife.’

He shook his head. ‘She was my only child.’ He paused. Dora could hear his hesitation, the sharp breaths before he spoke again. ‘Her mother died long ago.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Dora said.

He shrugged. ‘It happened. I brought Margaret up by myself.’ His voice began to crack.

‘And Margaret’s husband?’

He stared out of the window. It was a while before he answered.

‘Margaret could be a little headstrong at times,’ he said. His body tensed and he clasped his hands tight. Don’t ask more. It was a moment before he turned and faced her.

‘She wasn’t married. You may as well know. You’ll hear it sooner or later from the gossips round here. The baby’s father was a German.’

His voice was flat, and Dora couldn’t make out whether it was resignation or sadness.

‘Plenty abandon those children,’ he said. ‘Pack them off to the Westaway Creche. I wouldn’t let her.’

He wanted to talk, Dora could sense.

‘Why punish the child? It didn’t ask to be born.’ He turned to Dora, a smile on his lips. ‘My own flesh and blood.’

His eyes were almost black, the lashes thick and dark, like the kohl-lined eyes of a film star. That would explain why so few people came to her funeral. Who’d mourn a woman who went with Germans? Was carrying a bastard child of one of them? That also explained Miss Besson’s venom.

‘My father brought me up too,’ she said, trying to change the subject.

‘Then he must be proud of you.’ And did Margaret let you down?

‘He wanted me to be a doctor,’ she said. She was talking too much, added, ‘But I was a woman. They wouldn’t accept me. So I became a midwife, instead.’ That was a truth, if not the full truth.

‘That’s a fine profession.’

‘It is,’ Dora said.

‘And your father?’

‘He died. A few years ago.’ She hadn’t uttered those words for a while and the pain kicked out fresh as yesterday. ‘Out of the blue.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Nurse Simon,’ he said. ‘Truly. We’ve much in common.’

Smiling, his face, with its crooked nose, was a kind face, for sure.

‘Come and see me again,’ he said as Dora lifted her bike free of the wall and pedalled off down the lane. She wanted to say, I’d like that, very much, but thought it might be fast. There was something compelling about Mr Laurent that she couldn’t define, a gentle, alluring pull.