Albert was about to agree when he realised something else. If Janine was given time to think up a convincing story, that was probably what he would get. Right now his poor child was at a low ebb, which meant that the truth would come tumbling out. So he shook his head firmly and when she tried to get to her feet he pushed her gently back into her chair.

‘Janine, no matter what has happened to you, you are still my beloved daughter,’ he said gently. ‘But whilst you’ve been making a life for yourself in America, I have had no choice but to make a life for myself too. You haven’t written often, but the letters I have received seemed to indicate that you were happy and fulfilled. So just you sit there and tell me the truth: why are you here?’

Janine began to say she was too tired, that her story was too long and too complex for telling after such an exhausting journey, but Albert had sat himself down opposite her and now he rested his chin on his folded hands and met her eyes squarely. ‘My dear child, I love you, but I can remember all your little tricks. If I wait until tomorrow I’ll get a sanitised version. You’ll tell me what you want me to hear and that won’t necessarily be the truth.’ He smiled lovingly at her as she began to protest. ‘No, I’m serious. You can begin by telling me whether there is trouble between you and your husband.’

Janine heaved an enormous sigh and put both hands round her mug of cocoa as though to warm them. Albert waited patiently whilst she sorted out her ideas, and when at last she began to speak he listened intently and did not interrupt.

‘As you know, Dad, I followed Mario to America quite soon after the war ended. He had told me his parents were rich business people who owned a ranch just outside a small town. Before the war they had owned several properties there, including a soda fountain and what they call a diner, which is just another word for a café. He said if I went over we would marry and his father would hand the soda fountain over to me.’ She sighed, and Albert saw her lower lip quiver. ‘We married all right, but Mario continued to behave like a bachelor, which as you can imagine I found difficult to take. We had a small apartment over my workplace but Mario’s work was mainly on the ranch. He seldom took me out there and but for a surprise visit some months ago I should never have known that he was being unfaithful. Oh, I had suspected it, but had no proof until he slipped up. Apparently he had met an old girlfriend, the daughter of a rancher whose spread bordered the Da Silva property, and planned to divorce me. By then, I’m not sure that I minded terribly, but when I received a tax demand from the authorities I discovered that Mr Da Silva had never given me the soda fountain as he and Mario had promised, but had claimed that I was just an employee. I might have demanded a lump sum so that I could move to another town and start up in business on my own account. It would have been hard, but not impossible. Only then a letter from you arrived saying how successful your ice cream parlour had become and how you were in partnership with some elderly woman – Edie, wasn’t it? – and both your businesses were thriving. I told Mario about it and he advised me to come home. He said I should claim my inheritance before this old woman got her claws into it.’