In truth nothing agreed with Sybil. Neither the Home nor the inmates nor pregnancy itself. The nauseous months were well past, giving way to enlarged, painful breasts, indigestion, backache, sleepless nights, and rushing to the lavatory almost every hour. All pretence of being a glamour girl fell away as Sybil’s depressing life engulfed her. She had stopped caring about what she looked like: her long, dark, lustrous hair was becoming thin and straggly, and her previously fine-spirited green eyes showed more defeat than pride these days. She had run out of foundation, rouge and mascara, and had not the slightest interest in replacing any make-up; really, what was the point? For now, life was on hold until she returned to London, where she would grasp life again with a passion – though NOT with Monty by her side, Sybil vowed.

To her everlasting shame, Sybil had overheard some of the residents gossiping about a local girl who worked in the Smugglers’ Inn, where Sybil and Monty had argued when he had last visited.

‘She said he paid her ten bob to spend the night with him, gave her a packet of fags too,’ one of the residents said loudly as Sybil passed by. ‘The fella said he were visiting his girlfriend’ – she winked cheekily in Sybil’s direction – ‘but she was sick – up the duff, so not in’t mood for any slap and tickle.’

Sybil’s pale cheeks flared crimson. ‘God! How utterly humiliating,’ she seethed as she stalked past the gossips with her head held high.

As if her public shaming weren’t enough, loud praise for the Brigadier regularly grated on Sybil’s frayed nerves.

‘Thanks to the Brigadier’s kind intervention,’ she overheard Matron telling an anxious resident, ‘there’s less fear of the Home’s closure, though I must stress,’ she added cautiously, ‘we’re nowhere near out of the woods.’

‘So, are we staying put, then?’ the nervous girl enquired.

‘As I just said,’ Matron answered patiently. ‘We’re still holding our breath and hoping for the best. If the Brigadier succeeds in persuading the powers that be to look elsewhere, hopefully the sword of Damocles hanging over our heads will pass us by, and we shall be saved.’

The questioner gave an irritated shrug – she hadn’t a clue who the hell Damocles was or why he was waving his sword over Mary Vale; all she wanted was a straight yes or no. While Matron was speaking, Ada caught sight of Sybil’s bitter expression. Feeling sorry for her patient, Ada shot her a smile that was not reciprocated.

‘Poor woman,’ Ada thought compassionately. ‘She must be the loneliest woman in Mary Vale.’