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wrote to the prison authorities in Dorna, Bautzen, Rottstockbei, Berlin, Leipzig, Dresden, Bützow, Ludwigslust, Waldheim, Torgau . . .” The recital had the desperation of her piano-playing. “But without a name – hopeless. And then the Wall went up. Not that that stopped me. Joachim, my music teacher, made persistent enquiries through his contacts in the Party. As did the Foreign Office. Nothing. Not a lead. I tell you, when your father was dragged out of that door, he vanished. But I doubt a single hour passes when I’m not aware of his face looking back at me.”
    She started to undo the watch-strap. “I remember every useless thing he said. But I never knew what he was called apart from Peter or where he came from – or if he told me I can’t remember. All I have of your father is this.”
    In a daze he put on the watch. Only now was she able to look at him through eyes she might have been rubbing. “You can make a life in a night, but that doesn’t mean –”
    â€œOh, Mum,” and put his hand on her shoulder.
    â€œIt’s all right,” she murmured in a low pressed voice, as if he was a child again. “I don’t have a photo, but you are very like him.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œYour eyes, darling. And the corner of your mouth goes down just like his.”
    He felt her chin on his head. Looking down towards the radio mast in Sutton Mandeville. Her arms wrapping him. Endeavouring to keep something from falling apart. “I always thought that if he could, he would have got here. Absolutely, he would have got here. But how was he going to find me? He never knew I was pregnant.”
    â€œDaddy knows all this?”
    â€œYes. If your father . . . if Rodney had had his way I would have told you many years ago, but – I’m going to start crying here – knowing how much he loved you I couldn’t bring myself to because he is your father and he will always be your father, and I think you’ll have to accept that this day is sadder for him than it is for you.”
    This was too much for Peter. He burst into inconsolable tears. He didn’t work out then, not immediately, how much grief it had cost her, how much anguish she and Rodney had been through on the road to deciding when to tell him; nor that he was weeping not least because nothing had changed with his mother.
    How long they sat in their peculiar embrace, he didn’t know. At some point, his mother stirred and when she spoke again he was reminded of how much he had inherited from her. Including a very English ability to tidy away. “You know, I think Rodney’s right,” slapping the grass off her damp yellow dress. “It’s not going to rain any more.”
    He felt strangely suspended as he followed her back through blackberry bushes on which spiders had left their webs and towards the group sitting under the chestnut tree. In the far corner of the lawn, the sun shone on a straw hat.
    â€œI suppose Grandpa knows all about it?”
    â€œYour grandfather’s been an infernal pest all these years. It’s been very difficult –”
    â€œPeter!” Rosalind’s voice floated to him. She was on her feet, hurtling over the grass. “Grandpa’s told me!” and threw her arms around his neck.
    His mother glared at the old man sitting cross-legged on the beach mat. “Dad, what in God’s name have you done?”
    Weathered and grey like a cemetery angel, he looked up. There was a brief benign smile. “Peter.”
    â€œHow are you, Grandpa?” and kissed him on his flaky cheeks.
    â€œWell? Well? Well? Has she told you or hasn’t she?” His questions smelled of beer.
    â€œDo shut up,” said Rodney, and to his wife, “I’m sorry, but there’s a limit.”
    The air was livid with his mother’s concern. “You told Ros? How could you?”
    â€œOf course