Betty broke off a piece of cake and sat with it poised in her fingers. He never talked about the war, about Mutti or Lieselotte. Even now, after all these years. She’d tried to tell him, when he found her, but he’d said, We do not talk about such things. Nothing will restore the past, or give sight to the blind. She could see his mouth set, his jaw muscles tighten. She wanted to say, Or me. You never asked about me. Sometimes the silence and the pain ballooned inside her, fit to burst.

He picked up his cup. His hand began to shake and the tea slopped into the saucer.

‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to drink my tea in peace,’ he said.

He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the saucer, gazing at the pansies. Was that a conversation, of sorts, with her mother? About her mother? Betty thought he cared more for the pansies than for her. Or his work. She didn’t even know what he did, except that he worked for de Havilland and built aeroplanes and was involved in the Comet, which he said would be able to fly to New York in less than eleven hours and back to London in just over six. Tailwinds.

She’d leave him to it. Let him sulk. But it hurt, his silence, his denial. She stood up, and a small ceramic CND button fell out of her pocket onto the stone terrace and cracked in two.

‘What was that?’ her father said. ‘Did you drop something?’

‘It’s all right,’ Betty said. ‘I can see it.’ She reached down and scooped up the broken pieces, holding them in her hand.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ Betty said. ‘A china button, that’s all.’

‘I’d like to see it.’ He held out his hand. ‘Please give it to me.’

‘I’m not a child,’ she said, turning on her heel, but he’d whipped round and grabbed her wrist, pressing the soft bones so she yelped and opened her fist. She could feel her father scrabbling at the pieces. He released his grip and she shook her hand.

‘That really hurt.’ Her eyes were stinging with tears. Her father was fingering the broken button in his palm, piecing it together.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘I bought it,’ she said.

‘Do you know what it is?’ His voice was full of rage.

‘Of course I know what it is,’ she said. ‘Why are you so angry?’

He tossed his head back. ‘You understand nothing of the world.’

‘No.’ The valve inside her exploded. ‘You don’t understand. Do you know what these bombs do?’

She never shouted, and never at her father. She could feel her heart beat, her stomach knot. ‘Look at Hiroshima,’ she said, her voice at full pitch. An ordinary bomb was bad enough, and she knew about those, fireballs, everything. ‘Hiroshima.’