They were shuffling together in the corridors towards the English patient’s bedroom, Caravaggio carrying the gramophone, one hand holding its arm and needle. 

“Now, before you begin on your histories,” he said to the static figure in the bed, “I will present you with ‘My Romance.’ “Written in 1935 by Mr. Lorenz Hart, I believe,” muttered the Englishman. Kip was sitting at the window, and she said she wanted to dance with the sapper. “Not until I’ve taught you, dear worm.” Caravaggio said.

She looked up at him strangely; that was her father’s term of endearment for her.She looked up at Caravaggio strangely; that was her father’s term of endearment for her. He pulled her into his thick grizzled embrace and said “dear worm” again, and began the dancing lesson. Hanna had put on a clean but unironed dress. Each time they spun she saw the sapper singing to himself, following the lyrics. If they had had electricity they could have had a radio, they could have had news of the war somewhere. All they had was the crystal set belonging to Kip, but he had courteously left it in his tent.