we go back with you?’ I asked.

Dad smiled. ‘One day, Anya! Britain is a land of opportunity, a place where hard work is rewarded. The streets are paved with gold. Not real gold, of course, but you know what I mean.’

I kind of did. I imagined a place where everything was beautiful, where everyone smiled because they could have whatever they wanted.

‘We could have a future there,’ Dad said softly, his eyes bright with dreams of his own.

‘Are there swallows?’ I asked Dad, and he just laughed.

‘Yes, there are swallows,’ he said. ‘Just like the ones in Krakow. Britain is not so different, really, Anya.’

But I knew it was a world away.

It took three years for Dad to settle enough to bring us over to England, three years of postcards and letters and long-distance phone calls. Sometimes, if we were really lucky, there were little wooden toys, animals mostly, that he’d carved and painted on the long, lonely nights in England, just for Kazia and me.

Dad had to take whatever work he could find, picking fruit, on a building site, night shifts in a pickle factory. I wasn’t sure how any of that could be better than his job in Krakow, managing a team of joiners and woodworkers for a big firm in town, but I didn’t argue.

Then Dad came to Liverpool and met Yuri, a Ukrainian guy running an agency that placed migrant workers in jobs all over the city. Dad went into the office looking for a job and ended up as a partner in the business.

‘Yuri wants to use my management experience,’ Dad told us over the phone. ‘And my language skills, of course. I can bring many Polish workers to the agency. With my skills, the business can grow, become the best of its kind in the north-west.’

‘Wonderful,’ Mum had said, but her eyes were anxious. I could see that living in Britain was Dad’s dream and mine, not hers, but she didn’t argue.

‘This is our chance,’ Dad explained. ‘This business will make a fortune for us. This is the start of our new life!’

Dad said he had a house for us, in a nice area, with a garden. I imagined a pretty cottage with whitewashed walls and a glossy red door and climbing roses clinging to the walls, like pictures in the books Dad used to send to help me with my English.

I imagined a new school, where the pupils wore neat uniforms and played hockey or quidditch and had midnight feasts. I imagined new friends, a boyfriend maybe.

Mum gave up her job at the bakery in town, where she had been in charge of making wedding cakes and birthday cakes and the rich, dark poppy-seed cake everyone loved to eat at Christmas. ‘No more cake,’ my little sister Kazia frowned.

‘There will always be cake,’ Mum promised. ‘Life would be dull without a little sweetness now and then.’

We packed up our possessions, said our goodbyes.

And now we are on the plane, which is scary and exciting and wonderful all at the same time. None of us have ever been on a plane before, and Kazia looks scared as Mum buckles her seat belt. She hugs her knitted rabbit tightly. We are leaving our old lives behind, building new ones from scratch, in a city called Liverpool where the streets are paved with gold.

I bite my lip. The plane climbs through grey cloud, finally emerging into clear blue skies and sunshine. The clouds are far beneath us now, a carpet of soft white candyfloss. Everything feels fresh and new. It’s like being on the edge of something wonderful, something you’ve dreamed of for years and years but never quite had within grasp until now.

Britain, at last.

I am ready for this. I have worked so hard on my English – in my last school test I came top of the class. Beside me, Kazia slips her small hand into mine. ‘I won’t know what to say to anyone,’ she whispers. ‘I can’t remember any English words. It’s all right for you, you’re good at English!’

‘So are you,’ I tell my little sister. ‘We’ll be fine!’

‘It won’t be as easy outside the classroom,’ Mum reminds us. ‘There are accents to unravel, and your dad says Liverpool has quite a strong one. But we will settle in, I know.’

I smile and lean back against the window. I think about the swallows, making their long journey south, year after year, never knowing just what they will find. I try to