She looks up from under her long dark lashes so like Allan’s. ‘I can write things down . . . like what I do every day.’

‘Indeed, your thoughts about all sorts of things, too.’ I hand the book back to her. ‘Or even sketches.’

‘But there are lines on the page.’ She runs her finger over one.

‘True.’ Trust her to worry about that. ‘You could slip your drawings into the book.’

She frowns. ‘No, this isn’t a book for my drawings, I don’t think.’

‘OK, then you could write to it like it is your best friend.’

‘But that’s Maria.’

‘Your next best friend then. But do remember that some things must never be written down.’

She looks at me as if she despairs of me.

‘Of course, Mummy. I know all about secrets.’ She wrinkles her nose and I hide my smile. She is so like Allan. Quick, mercurial and ever so clever. ‘Uncle Tom said I was good with words.’

‘Did he?’ Turning, I look at her closely.

‘Yes, he said I might become a writer or even a newspaper journalist when I’m older.’

‘Very perceptive.’

‘Perceptive?’ she asks, tilting her head.

‘He sees things well.’ I stick another hairpin through the French twist in my hair. ‘Did he say where it was from?’

‘Beirut.’

Memories of 1955 in that glamorous city fill my mind. Dancing, laughing, loving.

‘They speak Arabic there don’t they?’ She turns the book over.

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t that written back to front?’ She peers at me and I love watching her thought process. My darling girl is so intelligent it scares me sometimes.

I stand and smooth my dress. ‘You’re a clever soul.’

‘Thank you, Mummy.’ She jumps up clutching the book. ‘Maybe I’ll begin writing my diary from the last page.’

I chuckle. ‘That’s a super idea. Make sure you tell Uncle Tom your plan.’ I stroke her dark hair, loving its thickness. ‘He’ll be pleased.’

She stares at me. ‘I think I’ll become a journalist because I like to ask so many questions.’

‘You’d be a very good one.’

‘Would I, Mummy?’ She takes my hand.

‘Absolutely, you’re curious and very good with words.’

‘I like knowing the truth.’ Her bright smile disappears and her eyes narrow.

‘The truth is very important,’ I say, but I know that much of the time it’s best hidden. The truth can hurt.

We walk hand in hand into the hallway. Someone is warming up on the piano and begins playing the latest Bobby Darin song, ‘Things’. Diana starts singing and dancing. Joining her until we reach the top of the stairs, I give her a twirl and her laughter lifts me. All will be fine. My concerns are unfounded. The scrutiny of living in the fishbowl of Moscow is intense and life here should be a balm. Sadly, this weekend has brought the world of work into my refuge. I laugh, remembering that it was years ago that the world of work invaded Boskenna, and maybe it had always been here. Daddy and his guests who visited here during our leave changed the carefree atmosphere.