“I’ve torn a thread,” she said, inspecting the hem of her skirt.

“No time to change.” Sybil tapped the glass partition with the pewter end of her brolly.

“I wasn’t going to. I’ll snap it.” Joan wound the thread around the tip of her finger and pulled sharply. “I’m terribly hot. May I open a window?”

The Rolls pulled out of Bryanston Square onto George Street, and immediately swerved to avoid a bus that had come to an abrupt stop to their right.

“Good Lord,” said Sybil, gripping the leather handle beside her. “London is becoming absolutely hellish.”

“You always say that,” said Joan, letting in an inch of fresh air.

“I shall go up to Scotland for good, you know.”

“You’re always saying, that too. We could send Enid with you.”

“At least she’d have proper staff.”

“I thought you sent her a girl.”

“I did. Will she keep her, is the question.”

“Of course she’ll keep her.” Her mother hadn’t stopped smiling – or worrying – since Douglas came to Bryanston Square last autumn to tell them the terrific news. That was the word he’d used, terrific; grinning with a look of pure fear in his eyes. How apt, Pat had said later, when she’d told her.

“Douglas tells me she sometimes doesn’t get up at all,” said Sybil. They wound through narrow streets, heading for the fast road west.

“The new girl, or Enid?” replied Joan. Cars always made her feel slightly sick. Or was it being encased with her mother, gunning towards Berkshire, unable to get out? She couldn’t tell.

“Enid, of course. One can’t go slopping about. It isn’t good for the servants. One must set an example.”

“She has been pregnant.”

“I was recommended a good stroll every morning. The day after I had you, I was up Dun Na Caiuche.”

“I’m sure you weren’t, mother.” The tower hill that reared above Loch Fyne was too high for any of them. But Ivar used to love it – he’d go up and come back with stories; he’d spun them so well her mother liked to think she’d been there too.

“Very nearly. I certainly got up every day. I wouldn’t hear of staying in bed.”

“Aren’t you the legion.” The way her mother told it, she and Ivar and Enid had simply popped out while she did her embroidery, hardly a blip in her daily life. But Joan had heard the screams when she worked at Charing Cross. The female ward was down the hall and not their domain, but all the Red Cross Girls knew it wasn’t a matter of there we are, a slight spasm and a fresh new baby.

“Do you think she’ll mope?” said Sybil, dabbing her nose with a lilac hankie.

“Of course she’ll mope.”

“If she’s going to mope, I shall have to speak to her.”