‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘it would never have lasted. They were right about that.’ They sat for a moment in silence and Ashworth could hear the swollen river churning over the boulders and under the bridge.

Veronica went on, her voice quite calm now. ‘By the time I realized what was going on and found the nerve to tell my parents, it was too late for an abortion. I had to have the baby. Everyone was perfectly kind about it. My parents blamed the man and would have got the police to prosecute, only then it would have become general knowledge and they couldn’t face that. They treated me as if I were an invalid, so ill that I couldn’t make decisions for myself.’

‘So you were sent away to friends up in the Borders.’

She looked up. ‘You know about that?’

‘Christopher told us you worked there as an au pair for a while.’

She looked horrified. ‘Christopher doesn’t know anything about this!’

‘Maybe you should have told him,’ Vera said. ‘Maybe he wouldn’t care.’

Veronica shook her head.

‘Anyway,’ Vera said. ‘The plan was that the baby would be adopted. Is that right?’

‘That was what everyone told me would be for the best.’

‘But it didn’t feel that way to you.’

‘I wouldn’t let them take her away straight after she was born.’ Veronica gave a flash of a smile. ‘I was bloody-minded even then. I kept her and I fed her. I didn’t make a bad job of looking after her.’

‘But eventually your parents talked you round?’

‘They said it would be better for the baby. There were lots of couples who would love to have a child of their own. Two parents to care for her properly. I’d have my life back.’

‘But she never was adopted, was she? She was taken into care, but never officially adopted. Why was that?’

‘There’s a process,’ Veronica said. ‘It’s done through the court. Somebody called a guardian ad litem is appointed to look after the interests of the child. A formality. Usually.’

‘But not in your case?’

‘The guardian came to my parents’ house. Matilda was nearly eighteen months by then. Because I wouldn’t give the baby up immediately, things were more complicated and the process had taken longer. It was all very messy. Matilda was in care with a foster family, who’d asked if they could adopt her. She wasn’t what I’d expected – the guardian, I mean. I’d thought she’d be old and stern. “Guardian” made me think of a workhouse. But she was young. Nearer to my age than my parents’. She wore the sort of clothes I wore. She was the first person I could really talk to about the baby.’