The body knows when an illness might come as a kindness, I think, when the psyche needs to retreat. Everything I ate, I threw up, forcing me into a fast that could only be good for my murky soul. Let me vomit up this sin, I told myself, or starve the devil within.

On the second day, Ruth French was my ministering spirit.

She came with arms laden – milk, apples, a loaf. She delivered her compassion with characteristic brusqueness.

‘Take them, then,’ she said. ‘Take them off me!’ I didn’t want them. Even simple foods made my stomach roll. These items would sit in my kitchen, curdling, rotting, the sight of the apples reminding me of my transgression, of the juice that had soaked my blouse. ‘It took three forms and a promise of some private tutoring to get the crones at the Provisions Store to let me buy something under your ration,’ Ruth went on.

I could not refuse.

‘Do you need anything else?’ she asked.

I shook my head. ‘I just drank too much, that’s all.’ Now it was a lie, it seemed easier to admit.

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yes!’ I said. ‘All I need is sleep.’ I thanked her and closed the door with a slippered foot.

But I could not sleep. My mind galloped, trying to piece together my actions, not just the physical movements that night from pub to harbour to Customs House and home, but what drove me to behave that way. You enjoyed it, said a voice within, replaying the memory of my legs twined around Saul’s body, the cry I’d given out at the point of release. You’d had a taste with Ben and you wanted more. That is who Leah is.

I was the favoured child, lying at the bottom of the estate well, sprawled on top of an embarrassment of gold, no conceivable way to climb out.

The night after that, as I lay awake, there came a click – the rear gate – followed by a gentle rap against my kitchen door. Not all ministering spirits are angels, I knew; this was the devil come to tempt me from my fast. I held strong. I didn’t answer, even when his voice lifted gently, so compellingly, into the night air. ‘Please, Leah, I just want to know that you’re okay.’

At the weekend, Margaritte let herself in by a door I was certain I had latched. She found me dozing on the sofa. I swung myself quickly to sitting, the swiftness of the movement making my sight go black.

‘Put your head between your knees,’ I heard her say. I felt the weight of her dropping onto the sofa beside me, her powdery smell close. She stroked the curl of my spine and my vision returned like vibrations settling on the surface of a pool. In front of me, on the coffee table, was a small, stout bottle of cloudy liquid.