How long had it taken her to understand? Forty years. Forty bloody years. And all this time she’d held onto – what? Hope? That he’d find her? What kind of stupidity was that? She was an intelligent woman, yet she had fawned at the memory, licked the boots of a worthless fantasy, just as she had battened onto him in the flesh all those years ago.

Pathetic bloody woman.

She caught the bus home. Didn’t trust herself on the underground. It would be so easy to slip between the platform and the tracks as the train approached. She sat on the top, at the back, smoking. She should give up. That’s what the doctors all said. But it calmed her. Nerves. That was a very old-fashioned thing, these days.

She let herself in. She always left a light on when she went out. She told herself it was to fool a burglar, but it was for her. She couldn’t bear to come into a dark house. She walked towards her bedroom, snapping on more lights.

She kept it now in an old shoebox at the bottom of her wardrobe, with some other mementos, her old midwife’s badge, her nurse’s watch. She hadn’t thought about it for years. The wrapping paper was still stiff and the pencil lines unfaded, but the waxed paper beneath had softened. The soap was now almost odourless, so only the smallest hint of sweetness wafted in the air.

Savon de Violette.

Dora rushed through the house, out of the door, down the steps. She threw the soap into the dustbin, where it landed with a thud, tore up the wrapping paper into shreds and chucked them in after. She went back in, scrubbed her hands until the skin glowed pink, nausea churning and curdling her stomach.

If Val rang tomorrow, she’d say she had a bug, one of those twenty-four-hour things.

Jersey: May 1943

A week after the incident with the soldier, Dora cycled into the farmyard, propped the bike against the wall and knocked. Geoffrey didn’t come. She tried the handle, but it was locked. Something must be wrong. Had she missed a message? He said he’d send word to the hospital if he had to go out, cycle into St Martin and use the telephone box. She knocked again. If he didn’t answer, she’d check the cowshed, or the fields. You never knew, there could be an emergency. Then she heard footsteps, the grind of metal as the bolts were drawn free. He opened the door a crack and beckoned her inside.

‘Dora.’ His voice was hushed and urgent. ‘Thank God.’

She was unbuttoning her cape, pulling off her hat. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I have to trust you.’ He looked at her, studied her face. ‘Can I?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course you can trust me.’