‘I’m eighty next year,’ said Mrs Kitson. ‘One Christmas more or less doesn’t make any difference.’ She peered short-sightedly in her bag for her slippers. ‘Oh I see her Majesty is going to honour your friend, it was in the hush-hush column in the paper, you’re not supposed to tell you know, till New Year’s Day.’

‘What friend?’ said Frances.

But Harry guessed. ‘Dame Juliet Lyall,’ he murmured, ‘England’s best-loved actress.’

‘She may be best-loved,’ said Frances, settling her mother on the sofa, ‘but she’s a greedy actress, grabs the stage.’

Harry looked at her. ‘I’ve never heard you say that before,’ he said. ‘Perhaps stars have to grab the stage, perhaps that’s how they become stars.’

‘Harry, you remember Nicky Abbott’s acting?’

‘Of course.’

‘She didn’t grab the stage like a glutton, like a greedy, greedy person. She filled it, that’s a different kind of acting. If I was a good actress that’s how I’d like to act.’

‘You are a good actress dear,’ said Mrs Kitson. ‘I’ve enjoyed seeing you on those adverts, all my neighbours love them, a bit saucy but you make me laugh. And you made me laugh on that chat-show with Beryl Makepeace, fancy her being a Croatian nun these days, her mother used to drink in the back garden you know, ruby port. You always made me laugh Franny you know, you’re good for my soul, did you know that, I told the vicar.’

‘Thanks Mum,’ said Frances, smiling at her. ‘Did the boys phone this morning?’

‘What’s that dear?’

‘Did the boys phone? Have you got your hearing aid turned up?’

‘Yes, yes they phoned, don’t shout, it’s because you’ve got the radio on, there’s too many noises tuning in at once.’

‘That’s not the radio, that’s a new CD of Christmas carols to make you feel all jolly.’

‘Give me a sherry for goodness’ sake, that’ll do the trick easier,’ and they all laughed.

For years now Christmas day had been the four of them. Frances had wept as she set the table for three.