“But it’s his only daughter in trouble. It’s my betting he won’t let you down. He’ll want to look after you.”

I agonised over this. Even if my father forgave me, I could never go and live with him. I imagined Miss Honeywell’s horrified looks and the schoolgirls’ giggles. There didn’t seem to be any way out. I almost relented and went to tell Adrian he was right. Except that I couldn’t.

I wandered aimlessly around London, debating whether to go down to Surrey and see my father or not, trying to come up with some kind of solution . . . And I didn’t see the taxi come speeding around the corner as I stepped out to cross King’s Road in Chelsea. I remember the sensation of flying, then of lying on the pavement with faces staring down at me, and a kind man covering me with his jacket, and an ambulance. Then nothing much for a couple of days. Scarlet came to see me in hospital. She asked if she should telephone my father, but I didn’t want her to. I felt too weak to face him. It wasn’t until a few days later that I learned that among my other injuries—broken ribs, broken collarbone, a severe concussion—I’d had a miscarriage and lost the baby. I should have been relieved, but instead I wept.

Adrian came to see me, too, and sat on the side of my bed, holding my hand awkwardly and muttering pleasantries that it was all for the best, wasn’t it, and I’d be as good as new in no time. Actually, it took quite a while for me to heal. I had dizzy spells. Terrible headaches. It hurt me to breathe. Adrian came to see me daily at first, then less frequently. When I was due to come out of hospital, he came and sat at my bedside and said he thought it would be better if I went home to my father to recuperate. He had something he’d wanted to tell me for some time, but he’d waited until I was strong enough. He had fallen in love with someone else. He was going to get married—to the daughter of the senior partner at his law firm.

And that was that. I collected my things and fled to the only safe haven I could think of: Scarlet’s flat. She, bless her heart, welcomed me with open arms. She let me curl up on her sofa and recover. But I was still too fragile to go back to work. My solicitors were understanding to start with. They realised I’d had a bad accident and wished me well. But lately they’d made it clear that they wouldn’t wait forever.

The physical wounds were healed, but there was still a big, empty void inside me. It felt as if I had been going around like a shadow of my former self, like a hollow person with no clear purpose and frankly not much hope. What I wanted was my mother. I suppose my father had never allowed me to grieve properly when she died. We had to make the best of things and soldier on, to be a credit to the family. That was what I’d been told, and it was only now that I was grieving for her. I wanted someone like Paola to love me.

Eventually I cried myself to sleep. I awoke the next morning to the sounds of the countryside: a rooster crowing, a dawn chorus of birdsong. Sunlight was streaming in through slatted blinds. I got up feeling strangely energised and refreshed, looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, and was horrified at the puffy, misshapen face I saw staring back at me. I’d definitely need a shower before I allowed Paola to see me.

I pulled on the shower handle. A small trickle of water came out and then stopped altogether. I thought maybe I’d got the mechanism wrong, and tried turning it in the other direction. Whatever I did I could get no water.

Frustrated now, I put on yesterday’s clothes, brushed my hair, tried to cover my blotchy face with powder, and went to look at the well. Had the pump somehow ceased to function? The well was housed inside a wooden structure, the lid of it held in place with a large stone. I removed the stone, then tried to raise the lid. It was too heavy for one person to lift, or at least for me to do so. I tried several times, then gave up, admitted defeat, and went up to the farmhouse. I wondered if Paola would be awake this early, but as I approached the kitchen, I heard her singing. Through the open window I watched her kneading dough at the table. Such a warm and comforting scene. I tapped on the back door so that she wasn’t startled, then entered. She turned to me, a big, welcoming smile on her face. “Ah, my little one, you are awake with the sun. Did you sleep well last night?”

If she noticed my face was not looking its best, she did not betray the fact.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but the shower. It gives no water. I have turned the handle this way and that way and still no water. I tried to see if there is a fault with the well, but I cannot lift the cover alone.”

She looked puzzled. “That is strange. Maybe there is something wrong with the pump in the well, but it was working perfectly when I tested it a few days ago. Come, we shall see.”

I followed her through the garden to a small shelter behind my little house. “Come, we shall lift the cover together,” she said. I took one side and she the other and we lifted it.

“Now, let us see what is the matter,” she said.

We peered inside. I’m not sure which of us screamed. I heard the sound piercing through my head, and I know my own mouth was open. A man’s body had been jammed into the top of the well.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

HUGO

December 1944

Miraculously, the aspirin did seem to bring down Hugo’s fever a little. He felt like a limp rag, but remembering Sofia’s stern admonition, he forced himself to sip at the soup. Then he lay back, gasping, his forehead beaded with sweat. What will happen now? he worried. What if gangrene had set in and his leg had to be amputated? It was obvious he’d never make it past the Germans to the Allies, and Sofia had been right—if the Germans came upon him in this condition, they would see him as a hindrance and a liability and would dispatch him instantly. He realised there was little hope of surviving. He wondered if he should do the right thing and try to make his way down to that road below and await his fate rather than risk any more visits from Sofia.