Before the war, he’d asked friends and business acquaintances to help fund the refugee children – the Kindertransport, as they’d called it – and not a single person had refused. He’d been to America to garner support and asked everyone he knew for sponsorship or to act as host to a child. They’d all agreed.

His requests were always reasonable and sensible, after all. He rewarded loyalty; he cared for his employees. He was housing bank staff in his own home. He’d even incurred the wrath of his wife – something lesser men wouldn’t dare – and vacated rooms to make way for employees.

Of course, he couldn’t offer the same level of care and protection to those other, mostly nameless, people who were working on his behalf on the continent, putting themselves in mortal danger. That was regretful but there was little he could do about that.

But now – he wasn’t sure whether it was irksome or admirable – this diffident young woman, who looked like a puff of wind would blow her down, had said no to him. Or at least, she hadn’t – yet – said yes.

‘Come!’ he barked, without looking up.

The door opened, there was a clink of a cup and saucer. A soft woman’s voice said, ‘Sorry, Sir. I can come back later …’

Joseph’s head snapped up. There, in the doorway, was Gwen, with his morning coffee. She was gazing at him, her head slightly tilted. It was the look he remembered from all those years ago.

He leapt to his feet, dropping his fountain pen on the rug. Half a dozen sheets of paper almost went flying but he grabbed them, shoving them onto the desk, not caring how much they creased.

‘No, no! Do come in!’ He stepped forward to take the cup from her. ‘Please …’ He indicated the armchair next to the fireplace. ‘Sit down for a moment, won’t you?’

He felt strangely ill at ease. He’d been taken by surprise, half expecting to see Gwen around the Hall any day – he’d agreed to her appointment, after all – but not now, not like this.

‘What should I call you?’ he blurted out. She wasn’t ‘Miss Tapper’ any longer, he couldn’t remember her married name and didn’t want to presume anything by calling her ‘Gwen’.

She didn’t answer.

Joseph placed the cup carefully on a shelf of the bookcase and turned to her, spreading his hands. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your mother.’

She thanked him but didn’t move towards the chair. ‘I have to get back, Sir,’ she said politely. ‘It’s my first day.’

‘Ah. The new girl, eh?’

They smiled at one another. Of course, she wasn’t the new girl, not really. She knew this place – Snowden Hall – very well.

She turned to go.

‘I always envied you your mother, you know,’ he said, quickly, before she could disappear.