“Don’t say that.” Your voice has dropped to a whisper.

“It’s true. Everything I paint is ugly, dead. No point carrying on.”

You have gone pale. I feel a stab of guilt. I know you cannot bear to see me like this.

“No one is buying paintings anyway.”

“No one is buying books, but that hardly seems a reason not to write!”

I glance up. For the first time it occurs to me that the war will make a difference to you.

“Do you believe there’s any truth in the rumors about invasion?”

“I think it’s perfectly likely.” You have stopped sewing too. We stare at each other for a moment. “The other night as I lay awake I imagined it happening. I heard tires on the gravel, a knock on the door, shouts in German as soldiers entered the hall.”

“And Leonard?”

“He says this time we’re the frontline.” You take the scissors and trim some frayed ends from the edge of the cloth.

“You’ve heard the reports. Jews rounded up and interned. Leonard wouldn’t have a chance.”

“And you?”

To my surprise, you laugh.

“The mad wife of a Jew! I don’t fancy my chances either.”

“But what can we do?” Our seams are almost touching. You fold in your side of the curtain.

“Be ready. Leonard has a hose and an extra can of petrol in the garage.”

Now it is my turn to blanch. Your calmness astounds me. You scarcely seem afraid.