Dora felt nauseous at the memory. She staggered back to the car, leaned over, vomited into the gutter until all that came up was bitter yellow bile. She steadied herself, sat down hard in the driver’s seat, her heart pounding, her breath shallow. She needed a paper bag, something to breathe into, steady her, calm her pulse. Memory had been a cheat, all along. A foul, dirty streak in her imagination. She’d justified it to herself, over and over. But she and Agnes. Conspired. Murdered a child. She lifted her arm, bit into it, tearing at the flesh. Punctured her skin so the loathing that squatted like a pus-green demon within her could squeeze its way out. She deserved this pain. Lashed out at herself, at the vile loathsome creature she’d had to drag around for most of her life. Worthless. There was a knock on the windscreen. Dora let go of her arm, lifted her head. It was a policeman.

‘You all right, madam?’

Dora stared at him. A wasp was spinning close to his ear and he swiped it away. He stared at her arm, colouring up.

‘You been stung?’

Can’t you see?

He looked down at the vomit. ‘You had a bad reaction?’ he said. ‘Shall I call an ambulance?’

Dora shook her head. ‘No.’ Her voice was soft. ‘There’s no need.’

‘Then I must ask you to move on,’ he said. ‘Only you’re blocking the way for emergency vehicles. There’s been an incident.’

Dora was hardly listening.

‘Just move your vehicle back there, onto the slipway. You won’t be in anyone’s way then.’

She knew where the slipway was. Behind her, to the right, leading to the beach. She turned on the ignition, put the car into reverse.

Jersey: June 1945

The other women were returned to France by and by, once their papers were sorted.

‘But there’s always one, isn’t there?’ the sergeant said. He was friendly, this Geordie. ‘You being a refugee, and that. Don’t worry, pet,’ he added. ‘That telegram’ll come through any day now. I can feel it in my bones.’