‘Yes,’ replied Lily, putting down her cup and saucer. ‘It was a wrench for her leaving Buckinghamshire, but she loves her new home. I left her making bedroom curtains this morning.’

‘I heard she is a talented seamstress,’ said Vera with enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps she might be interested in our cross-stitch club. My friend Millicent Merryweather is a member and lives in your village. I’m sure she could offer a lift.’

‘That’s kind, Vera. I’ll mention it to her. She has more time now that my little brother has started school.’

‘Mr Pruett mentioned you have two brothers.’

Lily had noticed that Vera always referred to John as Mr Pruett. ‘Yes, George is nineteen and doing his National Service, and little Freddie is just six. He started today at Kirkby Steepleton Primary School.’

Vera nodded in approval. ‘He will be fine there.’

‘Sadly, my father only knew him for a short time,’ added Lily.

‘Oh dear,’ said Vera. There was a moment’s silence. ‘I heard in the village that it was pneumonia.’

‘Yes, last year,’ said Lily with a sigh. ‘It was a terrible time. I miss him.’

Vera saw the pain in her face. ‘I’m sure you do,’ she said quietly.

Lily stared out of the window. ‘Then we decided on a fresh start. So we sold our house and moved to Yorkshire when I was appointed to Ragley.’

‘I’m sure the school will benefit,’ said Vera, ‘and do remember I’m always here to help.’

Lily felt it was the beginning of a special friendship as they stood side by side drinking tea and watching the children playing on the school field.

A few minutes before one o’clock the oldest boys went into the school hall and erected a line of folding camp beds. It was the norm for the five- and six-year-olds to rest for half an hour in complete silence. Many were puzzled by this enforced rest, as they had boundless energy, but they understood that school life had its own set of customs, ranging from regular doses of cod liver oil to frequent episodes of corporal punishment.

Afternoon school began with a contrast between the two classrooms. In John Pruett’s the eight-, nine- and ten-year-olds made a list of the kings and queens of England. Again there was silence and John wondered why lively noises could be heard from Lily’s class.

Her five-, six- and seven-year-olds were enjoying a painting lesson. Lily had torn the pages from an old wallpaper sample book and mixed up some of the powder paint she had found in a dusty corner of the stock cupboard. Bright pictures were emerging and Lily reflected on the wonderfully imaginative artwork that young children could produce, only for it to be crushed into conformity in later years.