They left the carers, went through a door with condensation on the glass and into a pokey green room with a squat counter along one wall, on top of which was an empty vase, and a black wood-burning stove chugging away nicely in front of the other. A curtain behind the counter was pulled aside and a young man with black water-combed hair and red elastic sleeve garters came in and shook the doctor’s hand, but not the lady’s, her he sent only a discreet nod.

He ushered them towards a blossoming apple orchard in the sunset, made of cardboard and pinned to the back wall. They were asked to pose, each holding the back of a chair with a Gobelin seat and carved sides and legs. The distance between them should be equivalent to the width of the chair.

Ingrid took off her sou’wester, scarves and frieze jacket and knocked the ice out of her plaits while the photographer readied himself behind the tripod, and as she lifted her chin to concentrate, Erik Falc leaned over the back of the chair to whisper in her ear that, when all was said and done, she had been lucky, she had experienced love, he had not.

Ingrid could feel his breath and was looking at him as the flash went off, while Erik had turned back to the camera; the photograph had to be retaken.

They stared intently in the required direction as the snow melted on their clothes and ran to the floor of the apple orchard, the drips were audible before being drowned out by another flash, after which they could be heard again until a third flash well and truly dazzled them, whereupon the photographer straightened up, chewing his lower lip, and said:

“Let’s take another one, shall we?”

Erik Falc Johannesen nodded. Ingrid Barrøy’s mind was blank. They stared into the lens again waiting for the final flash and didn’t look at each other when the photographer clapped his small white hands once and said bravo, nor when they were putting on their outdoor things and getting ready to go.

But after Erik had thanked the photographer and said a few words about payment and delivery and they were out in the liberating snow again, he became talkative and shouted in the wind that the skipper of the boat taking her south was a really tough character, for almost six months now he had transported refugees from Finnmark to various places down the coast and Ingrid would have to be prepared for rough conditions, the weather was already appalling. He also mumbled that he hoped she would drop him a line when she got home, without any spelling mistakes, he added, with what might have been a smile.

Ingrid nodded. He asked her again if she had anyone to go home to.

And Ingrid repeated:

“I do.”