‘This one had paper in also.’

‘Interesting cupboard,’ I told her. ‘You say it have broom and paper.’ And then it happen.

She smiled.

I felt sure Hortense had teeth that sharpened to a point like a row of nails. But they did not. They were small, dainty-white with a little gap in the front two. Come, could it be true that I had never before seen her smile? I thought carefully of what I should say next – for I feared a rogue word might chase away that astonishing vision. ‘How long you say you stay in this cupboard?’ I asked. And, oh, boy, that smile take on a voice – she giggle.

‘Enough time for me to know that I am not dead but I am merely in a cupboard.’

‘Long time, then.’

She laughed and I swear the sky, louring above our heads, opened on a sharp beam of sunlight. ‘Enough time for them to think me a fool.’

‘Ah, well, that is not so long, then.’ Man, I had gone too far. No sooner were those rascal words said than I wanted to scoop them back up and stuff them in me big mouth. Like an apparition all trace of mirth vanished.

‘Are you teasing me, Gilbert Joseph?’ she said. I was ready to throw myself to the ground and have her walk across me. But the cloud passed. Playful, she hit my arm.

‘What you do when you come from the cupboard?’ I carefully carried on.

‘I left the room.’

‘You say anything to the women who were laughing on you?’

‘What was there to say?’

‘You must tell them that was an interesting cupboard.’

‘You are fool.’

‘It is what I would have said.’

‘That is because you are a fool. No. I should have told them that their cupboard was a disgrace.’

‘Yes. Good.’

‘Because it was. It needed to be tidied. I bang me foot on a bucket.’

‘Wait. Cha! You tell me you hurt your foot because these people cannot keep their cupboards in a tidy manner? You should tell them that you are used to clean cupboards where you come from.’

‘But I am.’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt you there, Miss Mucky Foot.’

Her face was so pretty wearing merry, I wanted to kiss it. But no, no, no, no. Don’t get carried away, man. One thaw is not the summer. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, for I had an idea that might prolong this glad weather, ‘you wan’ see the King?’

While Hortense looked out from the top of the bus at the city around her, I gazed at her. So roused was she at every site the bus passed even her well-bred composure could not keep her voice from squealing: ‘Look, this is Piccadilly Circus. I have seen it in books. The statue is called Eros.’ Gleeful, her head spun with the effort of seeing. And everything her glad eye rested upon she pointed out to me. ‘Gilbert, can you see? That is the Houses of Parliament and the big clock is called Big Ben.’ Although I had seen all these sights many times before, I too spun my head to feign elation. So pleased was she with her view from the top of the bus, she held her hands as if on a steering-wheel, saying, ‘You can pretend you are the driver of the bus from here.’ However, excitement for that particular experience I could not affect. The driver of a bus – oh, God! – with my luck, one day I probably would be.

A cheeky pigeon in Trafalgar Square deposited his business on the sleeve of her coat. ‘You have your handkerchief?’ she asked me.

‘Excuse me, Miss,’ I said, ‘but what happen to your Sunday cloth?’

‘But mine is a good handkerchief and yours is filthy rag,’ she told me. She have me there. Wiping off the muck she shrieked as two more birds landed on her head. ‘Get them off me – I don’t like them.’ She ran a small circle flapping her hands to scare the birds from her head.

‘So now you need my help?’

‘Gilbert, please.’

I brushed them from her. ‘What you think of Nelson?’

‘He has too many birds,’ she said.

Reverent as the devout before an altar, she gasped, astonished at Buckingham Palace. ‘It is magnificent,’ she said. A small girl carrying a doll touched Hortense’s arm then ran away. No sooner was she gone than a small boy followed. Feeling his touch, Hortense looked around. ‘Yes?’ she asked the little boy.

He stared up into her face with that same expression she had used for the royal palace. ‘You’re black,’ he told her before running off. Hortense, all at once aware of people around her, straightened her hat and pulled at her gloves.

‘You like the palace?’ I asked her.

Stiff and composed she replied, ‘I have seen it in books.’

‘People always stare on us, Hortense,’ I told her.

‘And I pay them no mind,’ she snapped back to me.

‘Good, because you know what? The King has the same problem.’ But her nose had risen into the air and I feared I was losing her once more. I put my elbow out to her. ‘Come let us stroll like the King and Queen down the Mall.’ But she sucked on her teeth and turned her eye from me.

I bought her a cup of tea and a cake at a café. ‘Why you waste your money on cake?’ she asked me. ‘It will spoil your appetite for the food I will make.’

Oh, I do hope so, was my thought. Of course I did not utter those words for this woman’s mood was once more bleak as the dark cold fog I viewed through the window of the café. Who knows how long we sat there in silence eating on our cake, sipping on our tea? Not me, for three boys came greeting me with a cheery nod, looking on Hortense with a wink of: ‘Okay there, man – you have a pretty coloured lady.’

‘You know these men?’ Hortense asked.

‘They are from home,’ I told her.

‘And you know them all?’

‘I know they are from home.’

‘But you don’t know them?’

‘No, but I know they are from home.’ I did not tell her that some days I was so pleased to see a black face I felt to run and hug the familiar stranger. She took off a silly white glove to wipe some crumbs from her lip and I sensed a little thaw. I am not a gambling man but I was a desperate one. ‘So, how you like London?’ I asked.

‘I dreamed of coming to London,’ she said. Her eye was not on me but focused on the stirring tea in her cup.

‘Well, there you see, not many people have a dream come true.’

And hear this – with no warning she start to cry again. Damn – I was losing me touch. Tears were dropping into her tea. Out came the Sunday handkerchief. A shaking hand dabbing once more at her eye. I thought to apologise but feared that do-do might fall from my careless mouth. It was a timid hand I stretched across the table to place over hers. I waited for her to slap it away. But she did not.

‘What am I to do now?’ she said softly. ‘I thought I would come here and teach.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I told her. ‘I can look after you.’

As I suspected, the do-do fell. She pulled her hand so rough from under mine, it slap on the table. Cha, nah, man, this woman had me no longer crafty. ‘I am your husband . . .’ I started. I said it too firm, I know I did. Looking on her pouting mouth I quickly changed, ‘Well, come, let me see. What else can you do?’

She shrugged.

‘Can you sew?’

‘Of course,’ she told me.

‘Is that “of course” like you can cook? Or is that “of course” because you can actually sew?’

‘I can sew. I have been sewing since I was a girl.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Then I know where you might find some work.’

‘Sewing?’ She shout this, all tears outraged away. ‘But I am a teacher.’

‘And a teacher you will be even when you are sewing.’

She sucked on her teeth in a most unladylike manner. So I told her, ‘Hortense, your mummy never tell you, “Needs must when the devil drives”? Look at me, for too long I have been driving lorries but one day . . .’ I hesitated.

‘What?’ she asked

‘One day I will study the law.’ Man, those words sounded so foolish. Let out into the cold air of a London night that hopeless dream soared so far from reach I heard the angels laughing. It was my turn to look away. For I was a big-talk buffoon. Suddenly her hand, delicate and tender, gently place itself over mine. I dared not look to see if her touch was real. My doubt might melt it. A minute it rested there before she said, ‘I can cook.’