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clock, its thin layer of coal dust.
    ‘This reminds me of my mother’s kitchen,’ he said, sweeping his arm around as if sharing with her a vast panorama, ‘back at home where I come from.’
    ‘Where is that?’ asked Dorothy, preparing teacups, milk, sugar. Her hands shook.
    ‘
Polska
.’
    ‘Poland?’
    ‘Yes. Poland.’
    Jan Pietrykowski smiled at her, a wide grin that Dorothy found herself staring at despite all her decorous intentions. She had to stop being so … silly. She lost herself in tea preparations. Her hands shook even more. She bit her lip. She repressed an urge to giggle. Had her knees been
punched
? Surely, they had been.
    ‘I know, I know,’ she said, trying to steady her voice, which was becoming high-pitched. ‘We are all so damned imperialistic. Aren’t we?’ She cleared her throat. What exactly was the matter with her? Surely, she should know.
    If he was taken aback by the coarse language, Squadron Leader Jan Pietrykowski failed to show it. Perhaps he didn’t know the word? But his English was pretty good. Dorothy couldn’t believe he hadn’t heard such words and understood their meaning. Still, she sensed that here was a man she could swear around without incurring judgement.
    ‘My girls taught me that word,’ she said. It sounded to her like a boast.
    ‘“Imperialistic”?’ he said.
    ‘“Damned”. They taught me “bloody” too.’
    ‘Your girls …?’
    ‘Two young ladies from London. They work here on the farm. Since so many of the men have …’ She tried not to sound bitter as she thought of her husband’s abandonment of her. ‘Since so many of them have gone away.’
    ‘You are an angry woman, Mrs Sinclair.’
    She chose to ignore the remark. She made tea, busying herself with the strainer, then pouring in milk – but no milk for him, thank you. Stirring in sugar, one for him, one for her. She was on guard, warned off by this man’s perception. Angry? Yes, she was angry. Of course. But was it so obvious?
    And she was listening to this man, this strange man – who did not take milk in his tea (extraordinary!) – an unexpected guest in her home, a guest in her country, telling her about his life. He was an only child, he said, brought up by his mother alone, his father not known to him. His mother had been strong, independent, left to fend for herself in a small Polish village near a town he called ‘Krakoof’. Dorothy didn’t know where ‘Krakoof’ was, let alone its surrounding villages. The squadron leader’s mother was an intelligent woman, he said, and loved to learn languages, and she taught him English from an early age. Thank God for that, he said, because it was making a terrific difference now that he found himself in England, helping, at least, hoping, to set up a Polish squadron. One day soon, he hoped, he would return to his home, perhaps his mother’s home, perhaps not, but he would resume his life, go back to a reinstated Polish Air Force, be normal again. Damn the Nazis. Damn the Russians.
    He does know those kinds of words, Dorothy thought. ‘Yes,’ she said. How old was he?
    ‘I am thirty years old,’ he said.
    Did she actually ask
aloud
? Voices then – hers, her voice, hers aloud, in her head – all were blurring, converging in a confusing mix of anger, revelation and, above all, she realised with horror, titillation. Nine years.
Nine
years? Oh! Oh no.
    ‘And you are a … pilot?’
    ‘Yes. A squadron leader.’
    ‘Ah yes, you said. I’m sorry. You must think me terribly stupid. It’s just that I am tired, rather.’
    ‘Of course,’ he said, and he stood, gulping back his tea.
    ‘I didn’t mean that you had to leave. I’m sorry. Please tell me more … are there many Polish pilots at Lodderston now?’
    ‘Many, enough to form a squadron. But we are not believed in, our talents it seems are not obvious. We are told to do exercises. But all of us have already fought the Germans, in our own country and in France. We are