Father clattered a spoonful of marmalade onto his plate so hard it spilled over onto the tablecloth. ‘You will come to the parlour at eleven o’clock sharp, and we will discuss this privately.’ He used his napkin to wipe the crumbs from his luxuriant moustache, got up from the table and left the room. He was followed a minute later by Finlay, who appeared to have lost his appetite. The marmalade spoon was left where it had landed, the tablecloth spattered with sugary preserve.

After she had left enough time to be sure that no one was coming back, Ann seized another piece of toast and spread it thickly with butter because there was now no one to comment or prevent her from doing so. She was just swallowing the last mouthful when there was a knock at the door.

‘Oh!’ The maid stopped in her tracks, unsure whether to stay or to leave. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Ann, I thought everyone had gone upstairs. I’ll clear the table, if you’re finished?’

Ann nodded and reached for the last slice of toast. It didn’t enter her head that like every maid in the street, Isobel would have been up since before six, and might have welcomed some cold leftovers to help her get through the rest of the morning.

Isobel looked at Ann, who still had crumbs around her mouth, and at the sticky tablecloth which would now need to be laundered, and said nothing about any of it.

*

Listening at keyholes often meant you only heard part of a conversation, but practice had taught Ann to be patient. She had developed the fine art of fading into the wallpaper and knew about a lot of things that went on in the house by simply remaining silent when conversations happened around her. Father was not beating around the bush. She recognised the tone.

‘Finlay, you are seventeen, and it’s time for me to give you the same simple advice that your grandfather gave me.’

There was an indistinct interruption from her older brother who, judging by the lower volume, was standing at the far end of the first-floor parlour, beside the window which overlooked the street. He would be able to see the top branches of her little cherry tree in the front garden. In spring there would be tiny new buds on it, and pink blossom would follow. Ann had planted it with Father in the autumn of 1908 when she was ten; they had just moved into 25 Library Terrace, and she thought of the small tree as her own personal property. Cherry was a sweet name which would make people smile, she thought. Her own name felt very plain and boring in comparison.