From the small hall I could make out a blue kitchen through a doorway. Helga Bøe opened a door to the left and led me into a sitting room.

It was a normal, furnished room without any great character, apart from the abundant selection of books and shelving, two large, naïve-style portraits of women in ink and a dejected-looking rubber plant that looked as if its best years were behind it. Lamps low down on the walls enveloped the room in an artificial twilight, which spread the pleasant ambience of an afternoon doze.

The furniture was functional, seventies style – white wood and upholstery, like an arts-and-crafts exhibition.

‘I assume she’s not expecting you?’ Helga Bøe said.

‘I fear this might come as quite a surprise to her.’

‘I’m not sure if I’ve done the right thing by letting you in.’

‘If not, I would’ve waited for her outside.’

She sent me a hostile glower. ‘She hasn’t had it easy, as I said.’

I thought: Her family hasn’t had it easy, either. Aloud, I said: ‘What does she do for a living?’

‘She temps at a lower secondary school.’ She looked at her watch. ‘She’ll probably be here any minute. If you can excuse me for a moment … I was making lunch. You’ve got something to read there.’ She indicated a low coffee table, turned and went out. But she left the door open behind her.

I looked at the reading material. They were international journals published by a variety of women’s organisations.

I flicked through them. The typeface was crude and, in a way, masculine. The illustrations consisted of black-and-white photographs or even blacker and whiter woodcuts. There were 168reports from crisis centres about why men raped, about sisterly solidarity and environmental conservation work. I thumbed through. At the back of one magazine there were several pages of dating ads, women searching for women and adverts for various technical devices that made male participation in women’s lives superfluous. I was already beginning to feel like that anyway.

Then someone unlocked the door to the flat. I put down the magazine.

I heard talking outside: Helga Bøe’s sergeant-major voice and another one, higher-pitched.

‘Who?’ I heard the high-pitched voice say.

‘Veum. Varg Veum or something like that,’ Helga Bøe answered.

‘Varg?!’

I got up from the chair and she appeared in the doorway.

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‘Varg?’ she whispered, her head tilted to one side.

Amazement was written all over her face: half-open mouth, eyes agog, a hand stroking hair from her forehead with a mannerism I recognised from the other end of the years that separated us.

She stepped into the room. Helga behind her, partly obscured by the door frame, but as forbidding as a low cloud and ready to unleash a few swift kicks to the groin if required.

‘Yes, it is me, Rebecca,’ I said trying to make my voice sound as steady as possible. I proffered both hands.

She came closer, took my hands and stood at arm’s length, gazing at me.