The asparagus. Dora cooked it all that evening, testing it as if it was a precious spice, just right. She’d been to Waitrose and bought unsalted French butter, melted it in the little pan and poured it over, sprinkled ground sea salt and pepper. New potatoes. Jersey potatoes, but no matter. Parsley. Treated herself to a bottle of Riesling, chilled down. Asparagus. The shortest season. Enjoy, Doralein. Enjoy. Tasting the lush, tender spears, savouring their sweetness, she was transported back to Vati at the table in Charlottenburg, this Hitler man. It will blow over. He won’t hurt us. Uncle Otto had already left by then.

She’d try and grow it. She could ask at the garden centre whether it would be possible to buy the crowns. If not, perhaps Barbara could bring her some seeds, next time she went to Germany? Or send them to her? Asparagus took years to mature, Dora knew that, but there was room enough in the garden, and Dora had all the time in the world.

There was nothing to worry about. Barbara’s interest was in List. Dora had been a means to the end. There would be no reason to show List her photograph. And if she did? Would he try and find her now?

And if he did?

No, Dora thought. No. That could not happen.

Barbara had accepted her word that she didn’t know who the woman in the photograph was. If she asked her again, she’d deny she knew, over and over. This O’Cleary man who claimed to recognise her. What did he know? Dora was puzzled as to how he had her address. If Barbara suspected anything, Dora would suggest that the woman was a friend of her mother’s. Why shouldn’t her mother have a photograph of her friend?

In an odd way, Dora understood Barbara. She was probably lonely. Was reaching out for truth, for family. She would want to indulge her curiosity, if she thought there was a story. Dora couldn’t help her solve her quest, but she understood loneliness. She had done something similar when Uncle Otto died. Tracked down some cousins in New York who had escaped the war. Spread feelers, tentacles, to the world. Let me touch you. You tell me I came from somewhere. Was that the cry of a refugee? The howl of the exiled?

She’d opened her heart to Charles then, too. I don’t want to be alone.

‘I want you as a friend,’ she’d said. She knew it was lame.

‘And a husband is not a friend?’ He’d winked. ‘We could just live together. In sin.’

He had to be more than a friend, and she wasn’t ready. The scars were too deep.