‘How long did you live in Africa?’ Katie asked.

‘Oh, I was born there, stayed until I was seven, when we came back here, the whole gaggle of us: seven children. If you’re not careful, I’ll bore you with the family albums – of which I seem to be custodian.’

‘I’d like that,’ Katie said. Sybil’s life seemed so exotic.

‘Oh, I’ll dig them out one of these days . . . Anyway, my parents thought I needed rescuing. I had no concept of race – you don’t, until someone tells you you’re supposed to, I don’t think, though of course they start on you very young. But I used to play with anyone and everyone. I was quite native, really! Much more so than my other siblings. My best friend, Nancy – well, that was her English name; I expect she had another one – was the cook’s daughter. We were of an age. But that wasn’t the reason we left. I was about to be sent home to some ghastly boarding school anyway. No, my mother was having my youngest sister, and her health grew worse and worse. The missions were all a great trial to her really. Not that she wasn’t an open-minded woman – she liked to see the world, and she was some sort of Christian. But she did get so poorly at times. One of the mission doctors said to my father, “You have two options, Cyril. You stay with the mission here in Uganda – or you go home and save your wife.” So home we came, I’m glad to say. Which saved me from boarding school and proved to me that my father was sensible at heart and not a religious fanatic. He was stern at times, but he didn’t put his ideals or his so-called vocation before real people – that’s always such a bad idea.’

Katie had been listening, fascinated. ‘I had an uncle who was a missionary in Uganda,’ she said.

Sybil’s head swivelled round, eyes gleaming with curiosity under her dark brows. ‘Oh? Who? Do tell!’ Then she remembered. ‘Ah, of course. He wasn’t one of ours.’

‘He was a White Father. Well, Brother. But they sent him home – it didn’t suit his health, either.’ Katie found tears spring unexpectedly into her eyes.

‘You were attached to him?’

‘Yes. You see he lived with us while I was growing up. My father died when I was very young, and Uncle Patrick came and helped look after us. He suffered . . . Well, mentally, really.’ Again, this tough admission. Blood flooded her cheeks. ‘And then he . . . He died as well . . .’

‘Leaving how many?’

‘Oh, not many – just my mother and me.’

There was a silence. Sybil, circling her glass round between her hands, stared into the fire. Her familiar smell, of lavender water mixed with whisky, was comforting.

‘That’s why she – my mother – took up sewing, you see. Even when Uncle Patrick was alive she needed a living. She made lovely things.’