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The senior Pole bowed to her and moved towards the kitchen with his friend. Scottish builders did not bow, thought Antonia; but then they did not carry on their shoulders quite such a history of defeat and invasion and dashed hopes. She watched the Poles as they entered the kitchen and set down their cases of tools. What was it like, she wondered, to be so far from home, in a country where one could not speak the language, without one’s family? These men knew the answer to that, she assumed, but they could not tell her.

She went through to the kitchen, put on the kettle, and made tea. The Poles, in between the unpacking of their tool chests, watched her. And when she poured them each a mug of tea, they took it gravely, as if it were a precious gift, and cradled the mug in their hands, tenderly. She saw that these hands were rough and whitened, as if they had been handling plaster.

The tall man watched her and smiled. His eyes, she thought, had that strange blueness which one sometimes sees in those who come from northern places, as if they could see long distances, faraway things that others could not see.

Antonia raised her mug to them, as if in toast. The tall man returned the gesture. As he did so, he mouthed something, and smiled. Antonia, who had hardly looked at a man over the previous year, looked at him.

40. Angus Talks to Bertie

While Antonia was busy communicating, albeit to a very small degree, with her new Polish builders, Angus Lordie was making his way up the stair of No. 44. He was coming to visit Domenica, not Antonia; indeed, it was the cause of some anxiety on his part that Antonia could, theoretically, be met on the way up to Domenica’s house. Angus was in some awe of Antonia.

There was to be a meeting on the stair that morning, but not between Angus and Antonia. Halfway up, as he turned a corner, Angus came across a small boy sitting disconsolately on one of the stone steps. It was Bertie.

‘Ah!’ said Angus, peering down and inspecting Bertie. ‘The young man who plays the saxophone, I believe. The very same young man who exchanged warm words with my dog . . .’

The mention of Cyril had slipped out, and it revived the pain that seemed to be always there, just below the surface, as the mention of the names of those we have lost can do.

‘He’s a very nice dog,’ said Bertie. ‘I wish I had a dog.’

‘Oh, do you?’ said Angus. ‘Well, every boy should have a dog, in my view. Having a dog goes with being a boy.’

‘I’m not allowed to have one,’ said Bertie. ‘My mother . . .’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Angus. ‘Your mother.’ He knew exactly who Irene was, and Bertie had his unreserved sympathy. ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘don’t worry. I’m sure that you’ll get a dog one of these days.’

There was a brief moment of silence. There’s something wrong, thought Angus. This little boy is feeling miserable. Is it something to do with that mother of his? I would certainly feel miserable if I were her son; poor little boy.

‘Are you unhappy?’ Angus asked.

Bertie, still seated on the stone stair, hugging his knees in front of him, lowered his head. ‘Yes,’ he said. His voice was small, defeated, and Angus felt a surge of feeling for him. He, too, had endured periods of unhappiness as a boy – when he had been bullied – and he remembered what it was like. Unhappiness in childhood was worse than the unhappiness one encountered in later life; it was so complete, so seemingly without end.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Angus said. ‘It’s rotten being unhappy, isn’t it?’ He paused. ‘I’m a bit unhappy myself at the moment. But you tell me why you’re unhappy and then I’ll tell you why I’m feeling the same way. Maybe we could help one another.’

‘It’s because of Olive,’ said Bertie. ‘She’s a girl at school. She came to play today and she pretended to be a nurse. She took some of my blood.’

Angus’s eyes widened. ‘Took some of your blood?’

‘Yes,’ said Bertie. ‘She had a syringe which she found in her bathroom cupboard. It had a proper needle and everything.’

‘My goodness,’ said Angus.