Granny suddenly dropped the pretence and shot with impressive speed up to the first floor.

‘Why d’you do it?’ I panted when we were up in her room overlooking the garden and I was rolling her stockings up her legs.

‘Got to get someone to take notice of me somehow, haven’t I?’ she said petulantly, perched on the pale blue candlewick bedspread. ‘Locked away up here.’

I clicked my tongue. ‘You know you can come down any time you like.’

‘Yes, but with her around . . . Heavens, no wonder your father’s wrapped himself up so tight in his work.’

I’d heard these complaints so many times now that I didn’t rise to them. ‘I’ll go and fetch you some tea now, shall I?’

I settled her in the easy chair in what was in fact a light, comfortable room with many of her possessions round her. I carried up tea and slabs of shortbread and stayed while Granny enjoyed them, sitting with the window open over the garden. It had gone quiet outside. I sat on an upright wooden chair, my tanned legs spreading over the seat.

‘I gather you managed to behave yourself while I was away?’

‘You deserted me.’ She looked at me out of the corner of her eye with mock reproach.

‘It was only ten days.’

‘And it was lovely,’ Granny stated.

‘It was . . .’ I hesitated. Since the holiday I had tried to push the disturbing elements of it to the back of my mind. ‘Yes, it was lovely.’

Granny ruminated on her oblong of shortbread.

‘I’d like to marry someone like Alec Kemp,’ I said, dreamily.

Granny snorted. ‘Nonsense. He’s a Tory.’

I giggled. ‘And he’s married already.’

‘And he’s old enough . . .’

‘. . . to be my father!’ I finished for her, laughing.

Granny sat re-stirring her tea. She dropped the spoon noisily into the saucer and said, ‘No. The one you ought to marry is Angus.’

‘Angus?’

‘Yes, Angus. If ever I saw a nice boy it’s Angus.’

‘But he’s only fifteen.’ Set beside the glamour of Alec Kemp, Angus seemed a mere child.

‘And you’re only fourteen.’

‘But Angus is just a friend. I mean he’s just, well – Angus. And he’s so quiet and serious all the time.’

Granny shrugged. ‘You don’t want to get married. Get a job instead. Far better paid. If I hadn’t got myself married and tied down out in the sticks I’d have had a much better time. Out there, marching with them all.’ She held her arm out as if to indicate a column of militant women parading through the garden. It was a cause of continuing regret to her that she hadn’t been able to take an active part in the Women’s Suffrage movement. She switched into her rhetorical tone. ‘Marriage is pure slavery anyway. Look at your mother. Frustration, that’s her problem. Don’t think I don’t sympathize, because I do. Much too full of ideas to be married, that one.’