Asquith’s elder brother Philip, a banker, inherited the grandfatherly house near the town of Gerrards Cross. Pines, apple trees and a small meadow formed the greater part of the family estate. Dry-stone walls bordered both sides of the permanently damp lane that connected roadway to home. In front of the house was a small close, planted with alders and berries. Behind the building were kitchen gardens, the Asquith family graveyard beyond. Ian, second son, received a large sum of money when he found work with the Foreign Service. His younger sister, Jennifer, was advised from an early age that she would never receive much in the way of an inheritance and instead was encouraged to marry or otherwise obtain wealth. Jennifer became a nurse.

By December 1946, Asquith expected that people in London, and perhaps everyone he knew, would eventually discover how he’d lost his job. He feared his old friends, who hadn’t seen him since the war began, would consider him a fool. Probably they always had. Now, in Sydney, it was beyond doubt. Out of sadness and loneliness and shame—for his fraud—Ian Asquith would have killed himself right there in his Elizabeth Bay flat, but he did not, at that time, want the banner of suicide swaying over the family graveyard. Not that he considered the act of suicide shameful. But others did. Other people interfered in his life, even when he wanted to leave it.

Forget your hopes. Was that the line from Dante? Your old hopes are what brought you here.

But there remained a blessing or two, Asquith thought. He could afford to stay in Sydney. He could draw on the savings in his bank account. He had something more to prove.

His destination: a luminous and overflowing ship of a building. The store windows were full of fruit and toys and tobacco products. Two little girls walked out hand in hand, each with a paper bag of sweets. The Cafe Achillion. A jewelled cavern inside—wooden panels, mirrors, brass, deco pendants. Sunlight came in like a breath through the swinging saloon doors.

Asquith sat down in a booth and fidgeted with the salt shaker, a sleek thing that reminded him of a stick of chalk. The cafe was near full and noisy over a Glenn Miller waltz playing on the jukebox. In the next booth a mischievous mother was teaching her daughters to sing ‘The Internationale’. Then out from the kitchen came Valia, tall, smooth, smiling in a spotless black shop dress. She put down a glass and poured him a pineapple drink. A courtesy, she explained.

‘I believe we’ve met before,’ he said.

‘Maybe you have the wrong person.’

‘During the war, one night in the city. You must remember. Isn’t your name Asproyerakas?’

‘It’s Valia Mallios now.’

‘My word, I like this pineapple drink. You don’t recall when we met?’

‘No, sir. Would you like to order something?’