Lydia sat in the car looking about her while this was happening, trying to recognise the place. Everything seemed more run-down than her childish memory had painted it. There was a huge new apartment block next to the station, built to house the families sent from other parts of Russia to work the fields. The recent famine had decimated the local population. The church at the end of the street had lost its dome and the windows were boarded up. As they rattled along the main street, she caught sight of the school and that seemed not to have changed.

Kirilhor, when they reached it, shocked her. It looked derelict. The paint was peeling off and half the windows were broken. One end of the building seemed to be falling down. The garden which her mother had been at such pains to cultivate was overgrown. It didn’t seem habitable.

But it was. As they drew to a stop, the door was opened and several small children ran out, screaming and chasing each other. They stopped and stared when they saw the car. Lydia got out, making them stare even harder. She smiled at them. ‘Do you live here?’

They nodded shyly.

‘Where is your mama?’

They pointed to the house. ‘In the kitchen.’

‘Will you fetch her, please?’

Giggling, they ran to obey.

‘This is terrible,’ Kolya said, curling his lip in disgust. ‘I thought we were coming to a considerable dacha.’

‘So it was. Once.’

A woman in a long black skirt and a white blouse emerged from the house, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘What can I do for you, comrade?’ she asked, speaking to Kolya.

‘We are looking for anyone who knew Mikhail Mikhailovich Kirilov,’ he said.

‘Never heard of him.’

‘It would be before the Revolution,’ Lydia put in. ‘He was my father.’

‘Still can’t help you. We’ve only been here eighteen months. You had better ask Grigori Stefanovich. He might know, he’s lived here a long time.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘He’ll be back when he finishes work. Do you want to come in and wait for him?’

Lydia indicated she would and they were led through the house to the kitchen where three women were vying with each other for the use of the cooking stove. ‘This is…’ she started, then turned to Lydia. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Lydia Andropova. This is my husband, Nikolay Nikolayevich Andropov.’

‘And I am Sofia Borisovna.’ She pointed to the other women in turn. ‘That’s Svetlana, Grigori Stefanovich’s wife. That’s Katya Ivanova Safanova, and over there, Olga Denisovna Nahmova. They work night shift in the tractor factory.’ Lydia and Kolya greeted them and shook their hands.

‘Sit down,’ Olga said, fetching out bread and salt, the traditional courtesy offered to guests. ‘Tell us all about yourselves.’

‘We have come from England.’ It was Kolya who answered because Lydia seemed suddenly tongue-tied. She was back in her childhood. Although it was dirtier and more dilapidated, the kitchen had not changed and it was easy to recall playing under the table with Andrei while her mother stitched jewels into their clothes, to feel again the frisson of fear she had felt then and not understood. It was the last place she had seen her mother and father and, in spite of the years between, she felt her eyes filling with tears. She brushed them away impatiently and tried to listen to what Kolya was saying to the women, whose mouths were agape at his story.

‘Lydia was abducted by the Englishman,’ he was saying. ‘She was given no choice and it is only now, when she is old enough and married, that she has been able to come back to search for her parents.’

‘You don’t look as though you have suffered,’ Olga said, looking Lydia up and down and reaching out to finger the material of her coat. ‘You don’t see coats like this hereabouts.’

‘I have been well looked after,’ Lydia said, shrinking from the woman’s exploring fingers.

‘That doesn’t mean she hasn’t suffered,’ Kolya put in. ‘The mental anguish has been unbearable.’

When they had eaten the bread and drunk a glass of tea, Svetlana offered to take them to meet Grigori. They rose and followed her through the house, along a corridor to a separate wing. This was a huge improvement on the rest of the house. All the best of the old furniture had been collected up and brought to furnish what was a comparatively well-ordered apartment.

‘Please sit down,’ Svetlana said. ‘Grigori will be here soon. He’s the head of the Petrovsk Land Department. How long is it since you lived here?’

‘I was four when we left in 1920,’ Lydia told her, perching herself on a sofa. Nikolay went over to the window and stood looking out at the tangled garden.

‘That was a bad time, but there have been worse times since.’

‘How long have you lived here?’ Lydia asked her.

‘Since 1922, the end of the Civil War, soon after I married Grigori. He got promotion and was sent here and we took over this house. Ah, here he is.’ She looked up as the door opened and her husband came in. He was a big, broad man, dressed in a neat grey suit, though his shirt was collarless. ‘Grigori, we have visitors from England. This is Nikolay Nikolayevich Andropov and his wife, Lydia.’

Lydia stood up and Nikolay turned from the window to greet him. They shook hands. ‘All the way from England, eh?’ he said. ‘You are a long way from home.’

‘On the contrary,’ Kolya said. ‘We are home. My wife is the daughter of Mikhail Mikhailovich Kirilov. This was his dacha. She has come back to search for her parents.’

Grigori sank into a chair and stared up at them. He looked shocked and his ruddy face turned pale. ‘The count’s daughter,’ he said, at last.

‘Yes, did you know him?’

‘He was my cousin. On my mother’s side, you understand, but it is not a relationship I boast about.’

‘No, you wouldn’t,’ Kolya said, with a wry smile. ‘But do you know what happened to the count?’

‘Why, in God’s name, did you come back, Lydia Mikhailovna?’ he said, angrily, ignoring Kolya’s question. ‘You are risking your life and ours as well.’

‘Lydia is a good Communist, as I am,’ Kolya said. ‘We have nothing to fear.’

Grigori laughed, though there was no humour in it. ‘The very fact that you have lived in the West is enough to condemn you – and us by association. Go back, Lydia Andropova, go back where you belong.’

‘Not until I find out what happened to my parents,’ she said.

‘I told Pyotr Simenov what happened to them when he came asking questions. Did he not tell you? He said he would.’

‘He said they had been executed for trying to take jewels out of the country.’

‘So they were, and for being counter-revolutionaries. They were shot by a firing squad.’

‘Do you know how they came to be arrested? When? Where were they at the time? Are you sure they were shot and not just imprisoned? Was there a trial? Did no one defend them?’

‘Questions, questions, questions,’ he said irritably. ‘What difference does it make?’

‘I need to know for my peace of mind. I should like to see their graves and say a prayer for them.’

‘Prayers!’ he mocked. ‘There is no religion in Russia now.’

‘Perhaps not officially. I expect people still say their prayers privately. And that is beside the point. Will you help us?’

‘The count and countess were denounced and arrested by the Cheka. They were tried by the People’s Court and found guilty. The death sentence was carried out the next day.’ It was said flatly, as if he were bored with it all.

‘Who denounced them?’

He shrugged. ‘It makes no difference. It was done.’

‘Where were they buried?’

‘Where they were executed in the Cherkassy Forest. I doubt the grave is marked.’

‘But you do know where it is?’

‘Roughly. I couldn’t be exact. If you think I’ll take you there, you are mistaken, Lydia Andropova. I haven’t the time for such sentiment. The harvest is about to begin and I am responsible for meeting the grain quotas, so I shall be very busy. I suggest you go back where you came from.’

‘We’d like to stay awhile,’ Kolya put in. ‘You can put us up for a few days, can’t you? My wife has been looking forward to this visit for years. You’d not deny her that, would you?’

Both Grigori and his wife looked at Lydia. There were tears running down her face. She did not seem aware of them. Kolya took his handkerchief and wiped them away. ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart. Grigori Stefanovich will let us stay a few days, I’m sure.’ He looked at Grigori. ‘Can I have a word with you in private?’

The big man shrugged. ‘Very well. We’ll go next door.’

Kolya followed him from the room, leaving Lydia and Svetlana facing each other. ‘Tell me what life is like in England,’ Svetlana said.

Lydia smiled wanly and obeyed. England seemed a world away and unreachable, and already she regretted leaving it. She wondered what her father would make of the letter she had sent him. He would be heartbroken and Mama angry. She had been wicked to come away in that hole-and-corner way, after all they had done for her. Now, when it was too late, she realised she should never have listened to Kolya. Alex’s father had been right and her parents were dead.

‘After the bandits shot my brother, I was all alone in the world. My brother and nurse were dead and my parents had disappeared. I was only four and so shocked I could not speak. I was taken to England by an English diplomat who adopted me. He has been very good to me…’ She choked on the words. ‘I was brought up like an English child: school, university, a job…’