“He kept running away and getting into awful fixes. He’d turn up covered in cuts and bruises and with no idea where he’d been. It was so awful. You’ve no idea.”

The tears were flowing more freely now and her voice was less distinct. Jean had to lean in to catch every word.

“We had to keep the door locked or he’d take off. He wasn’t a prisoner,” she added, seeing the expression on Jean’s face. “It was just to keep him safe. If he wanted to go out somewhere, Mother or I would take him. But there was one day when I finished my shift and I came out and he was sitting on the wall outside. He must have got out and followed me.” She plucked a crumpled handkerchief from the folds of her bedclothes and applied it to her eyes.

“Do you think it’s possible that he might be . . .” Jean cast about for a form of words that was not too wounding, “the father of Gretchen’s child?”

“When you first came and told me about Gretchen and the baby, it was such a shock, the idea of Vicky didn’t even occur to me. Or maybe it did, deep down, but too deep to be faced. But when you get ill like this, and you know you’re not going to get better, all sorts of thoughts start to surface.”

“I can imagine,” said Jean.

“But Gretchen would never . . .”

“That’s not what I meant. I think she was unconscious. She and Martha used to hoard sleeping pills and take them all at once.”

“You think he forced himself on her.”

Alice’s voice was barely audible now, swallowed up in tears.

“I have no proof. I’m asking if you think it’s possible.”

“Are you sure you want this?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” said Jean with a now-familiar sense of foreboding.

“Once you’ve taken it off me you can’t give it back.”

“Go on.”

Jean stopped as a ward orderly approached with a trolley and removed the tray of uneaten food. Alice thanked her graciously, watching her progress from bed to bed until they were alone again. When Alice turned to Jean her face was a picture of desolation.

“I wish I could say no. But I can’t.”

Her freckly hand reached out across the blanket and caught hold of Jean’s. The skin was dry and papery, but the nails, now digging into Jean’s palm, were long and almost indecently healthy.

“I woke up in the middle of the night once and he was there in the room, standing beside my bed watching me and, you know, handling himself. I pretended to be asleep. I didn’t dare confront him; he was so strong.

“After a few minutes I heard him leave and go back to his room, and then I got up and moved my nightstand in front of the door and slept like that every night from then on.”

“Where is he now?”