When we were all seated around the dining table with our tea, sandwiches, and cake, Father said, ‘Do you have a list of questions for my daughter, Mr . . . ?’

‘William Baily, at your service, sir. Yes, I came prepared so as not to waste your time.’

‘And do you have a carbon copy for our records, Mr Baily?’

The reporter looked flustered for a second. I considered how much I loved my father when he insisted Mr Baily rewrote the questions out on double paper with a sheet of carbon between. I watched, considering each question as he wrote. No surprises. Another shrewd move of my father’s.

‘Please leave a space for my daughter’s answers, under each question, and of course, a space at the end for her signature, and for the signature of the witness. Thank you.’

A slightly smug smile flickered across Father’s lips.

The interview was on a par with the inquiry, except that he did not bully me. Mr Baily was surprisingly courteous. He wrote everything down, dated and signed, and asked my father and Matron a few questions too. I relaxed; fully confident the newspaper would not misrepresent me.

After, when the men lit their cigars and swirled their brandy, I wandered outside and found Matron and Josephine sipping sherry at a table set beneath the big oak tree.

‘Gertie, come and join us. We were just talking about Kea,’ Josephine said. ‘Did you know Matron has just returned from there?’

Matron smiled. ‘There was a memorial service for those unfortunate souls that were not found. The villagers remembered you. The nurse whose father kept the army’s pigeons. They spoke fondly of you, Gertie.’

‘Did you see the mailman and his father, the ones that saved us, Matron?’

‘Manno was away to Syros. However, his father invited us to eat at his house with his daughter-in-law and his two grandchildren.’

‘Daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren?’ My mouth dried, what was she saying?

Merriberry nodded. ‘Charming toddlers. Easy to see they would grow up to be spectacularly beautiful.’

Manno had a family on Kea! Now I understood why he had not answered my letters.

*

The next morning, Father paced up and down the drawing room muttering to himself. When he realised I’d entered the room he stopped and stared at me. ‘Have you seen this morning’s newspaper, Gertie?’ he asked gravely.

‘No, not yet, Father.’ The broadsheet lay on the table. When I investigated, it was clear to see the newspaper editor believed I was at least partly to blame for the Britannic’s death toll.

TORPEDO OR MINE? the headline queried. Two paragraphs later, it went on to ask: