‘I’m hungover,’ said Pip, giving a smile a mile wide that brightened her tired features no end. ‘First one in as long as I can remember. I wondered if you fancied a walk, help me blow the cobwebs away.’

Evelyn cast a glance back towards the kitchen and Pip added, ‘But if you’re busy that’s no problem. We can make it another time.’ Her eyes followed Evelyn’s, and when they settled on the kitchen she let out a low whistle. ‘You’ve been hard at it,’ she said.

‘I’m having a bit of a clear-out,’ replied Evelyn uncertainly, ‘but I think I deserve a break. Let’s go.’

The walk led them back to the same café as before, and Pip ordered tea for two and two slices of banana bread.

‘I used to make a mean banana bread,’ Pip said as she bit into her slice. ‘I should do that again. Bake, I mean. There never seemed to be time before, but maybe now . . .’

They sat in companionable silence whilst the café hummed around them. It felt good to Evelyn, normal.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Pip asked, once her cake was gone.

A slight queasiness settled in Evelyn’s stomach. This modern desire to share was all very well, but it didn’t get any easier to deal with. ‘All right,’ she replied cagily, ‘but I reserve my right to silence should I not wish to answer your question.’

Pip nodded. ‘That’s fine. It’s just that I was wondering who Scarlet’s father was. Is he still around? I mean, alive?’

So this was it. They had arrived. Evelyn had known they would get to this point eventually. It was an obvious crater in the story she had told Pip so far. But the identity of Scarlet’s father was something she hadn’t revealed to anyone – not Brenda, not Julian, not even Ted, bless him, although it wasn’t for want of asking on his part. She hadn’t even confessed it to her diary, although there was a kind of code to some of her entries that might have given a clue if anyone had read them.

Her reasons for keeping her secret were manifold and had altered with the passing years. To start with, she had worried about getting herself into trouble, then getting Rory MacMillan into trouble, although for the life of her she couldn’t understand why she had ever thought that now. Then she had not wanted Joan to do anything rash. And finally she had worried that it would somehow be bad for Scarlet. And all this added up to not having ever told a living soul.

But what did she have to lose now?

‘He’s still alive,’ she began. ‘Or he is as far as I know, although I have no idea where in the world he might have settled himself. I haven’t seen him since the day Scarlet was conceived.’