‘Good morning, my gorgeous girl.’ Daddy sat down on the piano bench with Diana after kissing her head.

‘Morning, Daddy.’ Diana began playing ‘Happy Birthday’. She sang as loud as she could while trying to get her fingers in the right position and hit the keys with enough force. Daddy placed his hand over hers lightly.

‘Thank you, my darling one.’ He kissed her hand. ‘Maybe leave this, and even your practice, until later.’

She frowned and looked at him. His hair was all a mess, his breath smelled of cigarettes and there were dark shadows under his eyes. ‘Why?’

‘Because I think some of our guests might be a bit tired this morning and need a little more sleep before we head out sailing.’ He smiled and reached into his dressing gown pocket for his cigarettes. She watched him light one.

‘Can I play quietly?’

‘Of course.’ He put his cigarette down in the ashtray on the top of the piano. ‘We could play together, if we’re extra careful.’

‘Oh, yes please, Daddy. ‘Chopsticks’?’

‘Of course.’ He shuffled closer to her on the bench and they began by hitting the keys very quietly, but she began to giggle, and Daddy started to play with force until they both collapsed into a heap, laughing.

‘That didn’t work, did it?’ He tickled her and she giggled and squirmed. ‘Shall we go for a walk in the garden and see how the wind is doing?’

She nodded and grabbed his hand as they opened the French windows and stepped into the sunshine. Even without the flag up, she could tell there was no wind. But the sun was hot.

‘It will improve later when the tide changes.’ He scanned the horizon. ‘No matter what, we have to be out of the house today so that Mummy can get everything ready for tonight.’

‘But it’s a secret.’ She tugged on his arm.

He winked. ‘You won’t tell her I know.’

‘Of course not.’ She shook her head. Did he know about the cake? She hoped not. That was special. For the past few days Mrs Hoskine and Diana had been making copies of her matryoshka dolls in marzipan and Diana had created the gold domed churches too. On the sides of the cake they would apply eggs, like the small jewelled one Mummy had from her cousin. The little egg was made by someone important, but Diana couldn’t remember the name. However, she loved the way it opened up to reveal a small boat. One day it would be hers, Mummy had said. Diana couldn’t wait.

‘Daddy, why is a goat called imperialism, and what does “imperialism” mean?’

He stopped walking. ‘What a funny old question.’

‘Why is it funny?’

‘Because it’s coming from you.’ He dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his slipper. She was barefoot and could feel the damp ground beneath her feet and the blades of grass that covered her toes. She took his hand as they walked to the front door where she stopped to scrape her feet on the mat so Mrs Hoskine wouldn’t be cross.