The writer gave no clue as to why she wished to contact Dora. It wasn’t a name Dora knew. Perhaps Barbara Hummel was one of the babies she’d delivered. She rarely learned what they’d been called. That all happened later, at the christening, and no one invited the midwife to one of those. Nor was Hummel an English name. More Scandinavian, perhaps. Or German. The English was perfect, but then, she thought, the continent was so much better at teaching languages than England. The continent, as if England was not part of it. As if she was not part of it.

Hummel could be a married name, of course.

She’d deal with the letter later: Dear Barbara Hummel. Thank you for your communication dated 24 March 1985.

Or ignore it, pretend it had never arrived, scrunch it up again and throw it into the bin. It could be a made-up name. It could be a criminal syndicate. What if they blackmailed her? She switched off the radio.

It was raining outside, and windy with it. The kettle turned itself off with a click and Dora poured the water into the pot. At least she hadn’t succumbed to the teabag. She wasn’t that English. She still used tea leaves, proper leaves that swelled in water and made good compost. She’d drain the dregs into a tidy in the sink, then add them to the bucket in which she put her peelings and apple cores and empty it all on the compost once a day. Her garden was her pride and joy. Uncle Otto’d had no interest in it. He’d been glad for Dora to take it on, Save me paying, he’d said. But that wasn’t the reason. He saw it as therapy for her, and he’d been right.

It had taken her years to knock it into shape. The shrubs were thick and tall now, the herbaceous border lush and colourful and the cherry tree – her father’s favourite fruit – mature and productive, even if the birds ate the fruit before she could. It wouldn’t be long before the cherry blossomed. It always came with the camellias, after the magnolia, a waterfall of pink that filled the garden from week to week. She’d planted clematis and climbing roses, wisteria and hydrangea, and as the season progressed, they spread a floral palette and filled the garden with the sweet nostalgia of scent.

The daffodils would flower soon, too. Tough, were daffodils. She watched as the wind bent them over and the rain pummelled the buds. The cloudy sky indicated no let-up. She’d have to brave the elements, put on her mackintosh and waterproof hat, her stout walking shoes. She’d be dry enough. She’d shake off the water and bounce right up, like the daffies. Couldn’t abide umbrellas. They took up space and blew inside out.