On Sunday, she went to the church at the end of the street. It was quite homely, smaller than St Thomas’s at home, and when she pushed open the door she saw that it was only half full. She found a place at the end of a pew, quite near the front, and knelt to pray.

‘Remember you are coming into the presence of the Lord,’ the religious teacher at school had always said. ‘You must be humble in His presence. Bow your head. Gather your thoughts.’

She did as instructed, thinking about the Lord, in his white robes, and his long, soft hair. She also thought about St Peter, who she imagined to be older than Jesus, with a face lined by the wind, weather-beaten from casting nets on the Sea of Galilee. In her mind, Peter became one with another missing fisherman. Surely he would also hold up his hand to the sun so the light shone through. These absent men loved her.

And Thomas, James … And John, the one whom Jesus loved. How odd that He had a favourite. Wasn’t He supposed to care for all people equally? But it was not for her to question. She tried to feel more humble.

She liked the texture of the carved pew and roughness of the hassock’s embroidery on her knees. And now the priest was chanting as he swung the censer. Her throat filled with the familiar smell. It was comforting in its way, a reminder of childhood, though it left her wanting more.

The services at home had little of the Bible, but this priest and his assistant both read from it. ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, whence cometh my help.’ The words made her picture a poor farmer trying to make his crops grow and looking up to a distant hill in desperation – looking for help to a god who was never visible, never there. But why? A test of faith, they had been told. But why had God submitted His people to this childish trial? He could much more easily have shown His will by being seen.

Lifting up her own eyes, she saw the vaulted ceiling above them. How on earth had they managed to shape and build it all, those primitive men hundreds of years ago? The flying stone arches were like the ribs of a bony cage. And she, down below, was Jonah in the belly of the whale.

After a sermon and many prayers, they were invited to Communion. Lena stood in a line of people in the nave until a place was available. She closed her eyes and held out her hands, waiting for the touch of the priest’s hand and his murmuring words. Then her lips closed on the rim of the chalice and the blood ran into her mouth.

Lena felt she must try to find another Rudolf. She could not manage in this city, not in the desert in which she found herself, and certainly not on her own. There must be a man who, rather than hurry down the stairs when it was done, would stay in her room. A man whose love did not depend on his absence.