‘Besides,’ Dora went on, ‘your eyes and hair are brown. Not very Aryan.’ She gathered up her glass and the bottle of wine and walked towards the kitchen, sensing Barbara behind her. ‘You have your mother’s colouring,’ she said over her shoulder. The end of the matter. She had been harsh. She wasn’t used to company, not awkward company. She wanted to be on her own. Barbara would have to understand that. She put the glass and bottle on the table, as a flash of emotion charged through her. She was going to cry, could feel the tears welling, her nose running. She brushed her eyes with the back of her hand, reached in her pocket for a tissue, and blew her nose.

‘I want you to leave, please.’

She heard Barbara breathe in, limber up. ‘What is it you’re hiding from me?’

‘Nothing.’ Dora’s voice was loud and she could hear it quiver. ‘Go away.’

‘I am very sorry,’ Barbara said, ‘this upsets you. I had no idea.’

‘No,’ Dora said. ‘You have no idea. There are some things best forgotten. I can’t help you. I told you that from the start. Perhaps your friend in Jersey. What was his name?’

‘Mr O’Cleary?’

‘Yes. Perhaps he can tell you more.’

‘He’s not really a friend,’ Barbara said. ‘I’ve only met him once, and that was briefly.’

‘Then go back and ask him,’ Dora said. ‘I can’t think who he is, or how he knew me, or had my address.’

‘Ah,’ Barbara said. ‘He doesn’t know you. It was the old man who lives at the farm who recognised you. Mr O’Cleary just wrote to me. He’s the caretaker. Maybe the carer.’

‘The old man at the farm,’ Dora repeated the words. The old man at the farm. Her breathing became shallow, short, light pants. ‘Did you meet him? What did he look like? What was his name?’

Barbara blinked, put up her hands. Dora wanted to grab her, shake the information from her.

‘Do you think you know him?’

Dora curled her tongue over her lip, her thoughts moiling like an ocean in a storm. ‘I may,’ she said, her voice in quavers. ‘I may.’

‘I only saw him in the distance. White hair. Frail. I think Mr O’Cleary said his name was Geoffrey.’

Dora grabbed the sink again, turned to face the garden. ‘Are you sure?’ she said, throwing the words over her shoulder.

‘Quite sure.’

‘Thank you,’ Dora said. She stared through the window, her mind churning, inchoate shoals of memories jostling her thoughts and reason. She saw them swarming in front of her, synchronised, beyond her control. What did they call it? Group intelligence. Fish. Birds. Ants. Memories. She heard Barbara cough.

‘Please let yourself out,’ Dora said, without turning.

She waited until she heard the front door click shut, then poured herself another glass of wine, wandered back out into the garden.