Barbara Hummel was standing on the doorstep holding a large bunch of lilies in one hand and a carrier bag in the other. It was a hot June day and the sun was high in a cloudless sky. Dora felt better disposed towards her, now she was meeting her on her own terms. She was good-looking, Dora could see that. Tall and dark-haired with a smooth, freckled skin, elegant in a simple white dress with a mandarin collar, and blue sandals, nails painted a deep, dark red. Dora envied her that. Gardening put paid to any notions of a manicure. Or a pedicure, come to think of it.

‘Thank you,’ Dora said, taking the flowers, beckoning Barbara in and closing the door behind her.

‘I thought you would also like this.’ Barbara handed her the bag.

Dora peered inside. White asparagus. She breathed in, a sharp, excited hah. She hadn’t tasted white asparagus since before the war. ‘Thank you,’ Dora said. ‘Let me take it to the kitchen. Come, follow me.’

She had knocked through the front and rear rooms after Uncle Otto died, made a new kitchen at the back overlooking her garden. She placed the asparagus on the draining board and reached for a vase, putting it in the sink and turning on the water.

‘May I ask you a personal question?’ Barbara Hummel said. ‘Are you German, by any chance?’

Dora pulled the lower leaves off the lilies. ‘Why do you think that?’ she said. ‘Is it relevant?’

They were getting off to a bad start again, as if those memory demons were sitting on her shoulder egging her on. Be nasty, make her unwelcome. Dora took a breath. No need to answer the question.

‘I heard your accent–’ said Barbara.

‘I didn’t think I had an accent anymore,’ Dora said.

‘It takes a German to know a German. When was the last time you spoke your own language?’

‘English is my own language now.’ She lived in English, thought and dreamed in it. ‘I haven’t spoken German for many years.’ Not since before the war, apart from the odd endearment with Uncle Otto and the occasional phrase with Charles. ‘Maybe I have forgotten I used to be German.’ She tried to smile.

‘Then we’ll speak in English. I’m a translator. Pretty much bilingual.’

Dora nodded. She didn’t care what this Barbara woman did for a living but understood she was trying to make Dora relaxed. Start again.

‘Thank you for the asparagus,’ she said. ‘Der Spargel. I haven’t had that since I was a child. I shall look forward to it.’ She placed the lilies in the vase and held it to her. ‘My father and I would make a meal of asparagus when it was in season. With melted butter and salt and pepper. New potatoes.’

‘Nice food memories,’ Barbara said. ‘Like Proust.’