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photographs of the family, the bits of the Lukasz history pieced together as best they could be, given the gaps, the sudden ends to so many lives. There was nothing that could be said to explain the page on which a young man of eighteen stood smiling and full of life in one photo, while below it the rest of the page was blank but for an almost indecipherable shot of a metal plaque.
    At Wigilia , there had been many quiet prayers as the Lukasz family had tried to connect with their relatives overseas. They'd been thinking mostly of Zygmunt and Krystyna's cousins in Poland, but now also of Andrew. Everybody had spoken of him as Andrzej in the presence of the old people.
    Krystyna said she always tried to conjure the memory of her dead parents back in Poland to strengthen the connection. Grace wanted to ask her if the prayers actually worked. But a glimpse of Krystyna's face in an unguarded moment told her what she wanted to know.
    As always, there had been midnight Mass at the Church of Our Lady of Czestochowa on Harrington Street, under the pictures of the Black Madonna. Alongside the church was the Polish Saturday School, where a handful of pupils still kept the language alive, studying for their Polish GCSE exams, learning the history of Poland and the Catholic faith. It was the children of the Saturday school who would stage the nativity play at the oplatek dinner next Sunday.
    In church they had all joined in the singing. Some of the men smelled of vodka, and even some of the women were flushed too. But they all tried to sing, nevertheless. The Poles never seemed to have good singing voices, but they made up for it with enthusiasm. Even Zygmunt, in his croaky voice, had joined in with his favourite Koledy , the Christmas carols that followed Mass.
    There had, of course, been the conversation – the catching up on the latest news. All their Polish acquaintances loved a bit of gossip. It was futile to try to keep the intrusion out of their lives. Grace was glad of the snow as an excuse for keeping to the house, because she didn't know what to say when their friends asked after Andrew.
    She watched Peter stroke the firm leaves of the cactus and touch the tip of his finger to the points of the three-inch long spikes. He pressed on them until the spikes looked as though they would pierce his skin like nails.
    'There was a phone call earlier,' he said.
    'Yes?'
    'It was that man, Frank Baine.'
    Grace froze. Irrationally, she wanted to reach out and grab the pot the cactus was in, to hurl it against the wall and smash it. She wanted to fling it through the glass on to the flags in the back garden. She wanted to crush its ugly, vicious spikes and watch the fluid spurt from its swollen body. But she couldn't even reach that high.
    'She's arrived then, has she?' said Grace.
    'She flew into Manchester this morning.'
    'Are you going to tell him?'
    Peter shook his head. 'Let him rest a while longer,' he said. 'He needs his rest.'
    Grace recalled the extra place that had been set at the Wigilia dinner. For an unexpected guest, Krystyna had said. The old lady never tired of explaining that it was the tradition, that it meant they could provide hospitality for any wanderer who might be travelling along the road that night, for any stranger who might knock at the door, whoever that person might seem to be. For at Wigilia , the stranger could be Jesus himself. Grace wanted to laugh out loud at the idea of Jesus wandering along Woodland Crescent, Edendale, on Christmas Eve and deciding to ring the bell at number 37. Surely he had better things to do, just as her parents had told her Santa Claus had at Christmas.
    But Grace had said nothing. It had been Zygmunt who'd shaken his head and smiled at his sister's words. Then, in his quiet, barely audible voice, speaking in Polish, he'd insisted the extra place was set for those who were absent, for members of the family who had died. What he meant, of course, was that this place was for his