What could this woman want? Dora had been careful not to include her telephone number. She’d have to write first, and that would give Dora time.

I believe my mother had some connection with Jersey which I am anxious to explore further and hope to meet with Mr Joseph O’Cleary to see if he can shed further light on this.

Well, that explained nothing. Lots of people passed through Jersey. Though she’d like to know who this Joseph O’Cleary was.

Dora fingered the letter. Sometimes, flashes from the past caught her unawares, slammed into focus with exacting detail. Those after events weren’t entirely dormant, they could still ambush her from within. Was that him? Had it been an Irishman who’d saved her? It’d happened so fast. He hadn’t said police. He’d said, ‘Call the gardaí.’ Curled his ‘r’s. Garrdaí. Like the Irish did. Had he told this Hummel woman how he knew her? I rescued her. Thought they’d kill her. She’d told no one. Not a soul. Not even Uncle Otto. Had this O’Cleary chap blabbered her business out loud, where it had no right to be?

She wandered into the sitting room. Uncle Otto’s photo was framed on the piano. It had been taken at the palace when he received his MBE. The pair of them. She in a borrowed panama with a big brim, he with his top hat and tails. He was grinning. Proud. ‘Chuffed,’ he’d said. He’d never lost his accent, made two syllables of the word. Chuff-tt. It was just before he died. A heart attack, like her father. Far too young. Dora always thought that’s how she’d die, but she was already older than either of them, and her heart was as fit as a fiddle, the doctor said. Blood pressure too. She’d go on forever.

She picked the photo up, dusted it with her sleeve. He’d collected her from Southampton. Didn’t recognise her at first. Thin as a rake, and covered in bruises. She’d wrapped a scarf round her head, tied it into a turban so no one could see her. He’d pulled her close, without a word, arms folding round her. He’d smelled like her father, of tobacco and sweat, his tweed jacket scratching her cheek. He was the same size as Vati, the same build, and she didn’t cry until he whispered, Doralein. Meine Doralein, the way her father used to say it.

Only the Hummel woman didn’t write. She was standing on the doorstep one morning, unannounced, expecting to be let in.

‘No,’ Dora said. ‘You can’t just turn up without warning.’