The familiar sense of inferiority that Edith had carried all her life, the enormous weight of being unloved and feeling inadequate, reared its ugly head. Fortunately, since meeting Charles and finding love, Edith had become more aware of her own self-worth. Theirs might have been an illicit affair, but the effect it had had on Edith had been to turn her world completely upside down. Throughout their time together Edith had always been realistic enough to know that Charles’s feelings for her amounted to nothing more than affection, and she was happy to take without complaint any crumbs that fell from his table. Her feelings for him amounted to adoration, and being wanted, touched and kissed had turned her former bleak emotional landscape into a paradise of joyful fulfilment. Life was indeed grim again without Charles, but at least she had had passion in her otherwise empty life, and for that she would always be grateful.

During the wholesome meal Edith chatted to her neighbours, but her

attention was constantly drawn to Sybil, who remained aloof from the residents gathered around the dining table; the woman wore good shoes, expensive clothes and seemed to ignore everybody in the room. Once she had finished the tasty shepherd’s pie made mostly of suedes, onions, a little well-cooked mince subtly flavoured with fresh herbs and heaped with creamy potatoes, Sybil departed the room without a backward glance.

‘Thank God, her ladyship’s gone,’ a girl said over-loudly.

‘I don’t think the food was up to scratch,’ another tittered. ‘Bloody Southern snob.’

Ada gently rebuked them. ‘Ladies, let’s not be unkind.’

Under her breath Edith tactfully enquired, ‘Who is that proud young woman?’

‘Miss Harwood,’ Ada answered in a whisper. ‘She rather keeps herself to herself.’

‘Mmm, I can see that,’ Edith murmured.

Their exchange was interrupted by the noisy arrival of Rosie with her brood, which caused a stir around the room. The residents shuffled to make way for the restless children, who were kept under reasonable control by their mother and Sister Mary Paul, but, as far as Edith (who had no idea how much the school in Grange had reined in some of the children’s wildness) was concerned, their behaviour was appalling. Little did she know that at least they now washed their hands before meal-times (or they wouldn’t get a crumb, Sister Mary Paul threatened them daily), and they sat down to eat instead of racing around the table throwing crusts of bread at each other.

Edith stole a secret peep at pale, tired Rosie, sitting across the table from her. Again, in a quiet voice, Ada explained, ‘That’s the Pickles family, Rosie, Ronnie and Sally, our only evacuees, who recently arrived from London. The mother has been suffering from anaemia and hyperemesis gravidarum, from which she is slowly recovering.’

‘She looks very poorly indeed,’ Edith quietly commented. ‘Has she shown any improvement since she arrived at the Home?’