He took her by the hand into the centre of the floor, placed an arm round her waist and led her, gentle, light on his feet. She’d only ever seen him in heavy work boots and muddy trousers, never imagined him dancing, like this, urbane and sophisticated. She fell into his step, one arm on his, the sway and swell of his body beneath her fingertips. A heartbeat together, a rhythmic pulse. The floor had filled, couples together, forward, back.

‘I hoped you’d be here,’ he said.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I am.’

The lights in the dining room were bright.

Mr Laurent took her hand and led her to an adjacent room where the refreshments were being sold. They bought some tea and sat at a small table at the back, side by side, facing the wall.

‘I sent you an invitation, Mr Laurent,’ Dora said. ‘I wasn’t sure you received it.’

‘Mr Laurent makes me think of my father,’ he said, smiling, a dimple in one cheek. ‘Why don’t you call me Geoffrey?’

‘Geoffrey,’ Dora said, trying it on for size, making sure it fitted. ‘You didn’t reply.’

‘Forgive me. I was busy. I wanted to see you again,’ he said. ‘But I’m an old man, widowed. Not great company.’

‘I will decide that,’ Dora said. He would think her fast, but she added, anyway, ‘I thought you didn’t want to see me, as you didn’t reply.’

He laughed. ‘Well, aren’t we a pair?’

Her face relaxed, gave in, smiled from eyes to chin. He reached over and placed his hand over hers, squeezed it. ‘When is your next free weekend?’

‘Next week,’ Dora said.

He leaned forward, pushed a tress of hair behind her ear and breezed a kiss on her cheek, the touch of a butterfly wing.

‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you might like to come to the farm? There’s not much to do in town. The cinema only shows German rubbish these days.’

He placed his hands over hers. They were warm, his skin rough and calloused, dark hairs whispering on his knuckles, sneaking out under his cuff. A yearning for him tumbled inside her, turbulence in a storm, a wave crashing against rocks.

It was early May, hot and clear with an unexpected heatwave. She’d lost count of how many times she’d been here now. Once a week, since the dance. Was that six weeks? Or seven? Sometimes, just being close to him was unbearable with the ache of desire, the need to reach and touch. Did he feel the same? Did he have the same scorch if their hands brushed, the same flare at the thought of her? She’d never felt a force like this.