Nina smiles. ‘We didn’t allow men to be members of our group – the movement was by women, for women – but sometimes they would come to the demonstrations. Boyfriends and friends of the women, the younger ones. But not really the older ones, especially husbands. Married men, they do not prefer to encourage their wives.’ She leans forward, conspiratorially. ‘That is why I prefer a dog to a husband,’ she says and lets out a peal of laughter.

I smile back at her and look down at the little yappy thing in the basket. Can’t say I can see the appeal. ‘I don’t suppose you remember a British woman who came to visit Evelyne once, in 1976. She was a journalist.’

Nina thinks for a minute, as though trying to dig out a memory, and then shakes her head. ‘Maybe, but… non, désolée. It was a long time ago.’

I take out the article and smooth out the creases, handing it to her. ‘The journalist who visited is my mother. This is what she wrote.’

Nina takes it from me, puts on a pair of reading glasses and studies the print-out. She gives a sharp intake of breath when she sees the photos. ‘C’est moi!’ she says, pointing to a photo of a young woman in scruffy dungarees and an oversized brown cardigan, long dark hair almost to her waist. I smile, unable to equate that figure with the elegant person I see in front of me now.

‘Oui, I remember that day,’ she says. ‘We were in Bern for a demonstration. So many people. It was a very wonderful experience. And yes, perhaps I do remember a British woman, a writer. But I was so excited about the event, I’m sorry, I don’t remember anything about her.’

I take the article and put it back in my bag, deflated. I don’t know what else to ask her. Evelyne’s gone. Nina doesn’t really remember Mum. I don’t know anyone else who spent time with them in Switzerland back then. Frustration curls into a knot in my chest. Perhaps she sees my expression because she pats my knee and disappears, before coming back a few minutes later with a photo album.

‘I think in here there is something of Evelyne. You want to see?’ She motions for me to move closer and opens the album – a bulky affair with tracing paper in between thick pages of black card. As she turns the pages, I see the dates – 1975 Décembre; 1976 Mars – and the pictures, most in black and white, some in faded colour, depicting people in flares and turtle neck knits, kids on long wooden skis.

‘Here!’ Nina points to a picture of a group of people lined up outside a building, which the handwritten note below the photo says is Rue Haldimand 8, Lausanne. ‘This is Evelyne.’