‘I’m sure of it, Brigadier,’ Sister Ann replied gratefully. ‘Your efforts to help us keep the Home open are never forgotten – you are always in our prayers.’

Seeing Sybil’s furious expression, the Brigadier beamed as he held his arms out wide to greet her. ‘How lovely to see you, dear,’ he said, as he gave Sybil an avuncular kiss on both cheeks. ‘My, you’ve grown,’ he added with a cheeky wink.

Ignoring his sarcasm, Sybil smiled.

‘Lovely to see you too, Monty,’ she gushed. ‘Shall we?’

Knowing that at least half the residents would be watching her leaving on the arm of a loud, overweight Army officer made Sybil cringe with embarrassment. Guiding him out of the front door, she couldn’t fail to hear some of the comments that followed her.

‘Must be her fancy man.’

‘Wouldn’t fancy him!’ somebody giggled.

‘He’s old enough to be her father,’ another sniggered.

With all the hustle and bustle of the visit, no one had noticed how quiet the newest resident was at the sight of the Brigadier swaggering into Mary Vale. Without any question of doubt, Rosie immediately recognized Brigadier Monty Baldwin – how could she ever forget the man? Florid with thick, wet lips, bald, overweight and overbearing, he had only to open his mouth and his barking voice could be heard half a mile away. Terrified that the Brigadier might see her, Rosie pressed herself against the thick, full-length sitting-room curtains; though realistically, she thought to herself, how on earth would he associate the woman she was now with the pretty lady’s maid she had been, another world away before she had married Mick and become financially destitute? Not that Mick wasn’t a hard grafter and a good husband: he had worked all the hours that God sent on building sites all over London.

The outbreak of war and Mick’s tragic disappearance during armed combat had sent the family he left behind spiralling into poverty. An official letter from his regiment stated that Mick was ‘Missing in Action’, which had left poor Rosie in an agony of uncertainty. She had written back asking for more details, but the Army was unable to supply them. The constant gnawing worry of never knowing whether her husband was dead or alive didn’t help Rosie’s health, either physically or mentally, something that without a doubt had a negative effect on the children she was left alone to bring up.

In those days, when she had worked at Dowry House, one of London’s most fashionable Knightsbridge establishments owned by Earl Stow of Stowupland, she had cut quite a dash in her maid’s black uniform with a pretty white-lace trim that set off her raven-black hair and big dark eyes. She’d had good skin before the babies were born, and good teeth too.