Since then, the period of chastity and a routine life had made her feel more like other people. Her parents were both dead, but unlike Daisy and Mary, she had not been confined to a lunatic asylum as a child, and her mother had at least tried to look after her. Lena was an adequate cleaner and waitress, according to Daisy, and she was now allowed to associate with patients, even those quite acutely ill. In the course of her day off she did some painting and was told by a patient (in a locked ward, admittedly) that it showed promise. On an average morning, when she rose at seven and breakfasted on rolls and coffee before going into the dining room, she looked forward to the day ahead. In bed at night, she let her mind go back to Trieste and to a fishing boat going over the water, the stones on the seabed clear through the shallows.

She had been content with this life, slowly growing used to the idea of being an orphan, until the morning she took an order for eggs from the man who had made love to her for an hour in her own bed in Vienna. And he had not recognised her. He had done such things with her, and for so long and still … In the kitchen, as she waited, she pictured what would happen if her face were to register with him. He would push back his chair and storm across the hall to Martha’s office. ‘Your waitress took money for sex in a maid’s room in Vienna. Send her away or I’ll tell the world in my newspaper article.’ When she brought the eggs to his table, she kept her eyes averted. The plate clattered as she put it down.

She learned that ‘Friedrich’ would be with them for a week while he researched his article. Since he took breakfast at the same time every day, she was able to swap shifts with Johanna to avoid him; at dinner there was so much commotion, so many people and chatter by candlelight, that she felt safer. If it came to a crisis, she would simply deny it. She had told no one of her time in Vienna, not even Johanna or Fräulein Midwinter, so she could forcibly claim he was mistaken.

Lena was made anxious by Anton’s presence, but it also seemed to have a galvanising effect; it made her take an interest in her own life again. In her room, she stored bottles of wine behind the wardrobe. It was not difficult to keep the supply coming in from what was left over from dinner, to secrete a half-decanted bottle beneath her uniform when Norbert, the slow kitchen porter, was looking the other way. Frau Eberl, the cook, was always preoccupied with her pans and bubbling pots. Hans, Daisy’s husband, was meant to keep an eye on the stock, but he seemed to have no real system. She had graduated from the white wine of the Vienna vineyards to whatever grape or colour was available. All of it helped to melt her edges and push her into sleep.