‘Well. There you are then. We’ve got that on board.’

Leni pressed her hands to her eyes, when she spoke her voice was forced down through her nose.

‘What dear?’ said Cuckoo. ‘Lovey, it must be hay fever.’

‘I’m not who you think.’

‘Not?’ said Cuckoo, tugging at a root.

‘No.’

‘Who then? I’m dreadfully bad at guessing-games. You know I never win.’

‘My name is Luise von Lamsfeld.’

It sailed into the air like a ball thrown for a dog, a kite cut loose to the breeze, a stone dropped down a well. Gone. Irretrievable.

Cuckoo looked up slowly. Pushed back the brim of her hat. ‘Do I follow?’

‘I don’t know. But I am Luise von Lamsfeld, I have three elder brothers, I live in Schleswig Holstein, and we are quite rich. I think.’

‘Is this a tease, Leni?’

‘No. Not so.’

‘It’s quite true?’

‘Yes, true.’

‘There is a granny: in Hamburg?’

‘No. Alie.’

‘And Marcus?’

‘He doesn’t know. Only you.’

‘And now what on earth am I to say to all this?’

‘I don’t know.’

Cuckoo dropped the handfork into the box, started to peel off her rubber gloves. ‘Well. I declare. Do you want to say anything to me then?’

‘I would like to. I don’t know what to do. Will you help me?’

‘I’ll try. Let’s get out of the sun, under the apple-tree up there.’ She got up stiffly, brushed dust from her skirt, adjusted her hat. ‘You’re quite sure? You want to talk? I’ll forget about it if you’d rather?’

‘No. Please. I want to talk. Just saying what I did is good. Please?’

They walked together up long lines of raspberry canes, Cuckoo leading. From behind she felt Leni reach out for her hand, took it, pressed it for comfort, drew her alongside, so that they walked shoulder to shoulder, crushed between fragrant leaves. Cuckoo smiled at her, blue eyes sparkling.

‘I am also,’ said Leni wearily, ‘a countess.’

‘Are you now! Whatever next? You really are an odd creature,’ said Cuckoo. ‘I mean, do admit!’

He sat back in the Mercedes, his legs struck straight before him for fear that he would crease the immaculate white crispness of his jeans.

I have put on weight, he thought. Or else Bruna has made a terrific job of shrinking them. Either way, I don’t think that Count Grottorosso will complain. Give him an eye-full: why not?

‘I’m off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz: tum, tum. I suppose I ought to feel uptight: strap myself into my trauma-jacket. Not me. Not that sort. I came up the hard way.