‘Yes, three years apart. It . . . well, it takes some adjusting to. Life has been lived by each of them, but in a different way. With differing hopes and dreams, like two separate entities. Longing to be together but having to get on with the way things were.’

‘Is that how it was for you, darling Flors?’

‘Yes, up to a point. But it was a little different. You, poor darling, were in that awful prisoner-of-war camp, unable to live a life; and I had to make a life without you, and for you. There were a few adjustments that I had to make when we were reunited, but I was very happy to make them. For Ella and Arnie, they have both had to live in totally contrasting circumstances.’

They were quiet for a moment. The past has a way of doing that, Flors thought – taking us back into its clutches for a time. Marjie came to her mind. How she must suffer, with all that had happened to her. For though it had never been spoken of, Flors was certain that Marjie had had more to do with Monty’s death than was really known.

Bringing the subject back round to Mags, she said, ‘You know, Mags is still full of her girls, and having them back with her. When I spoke to her last night, she went on and on about how lovely it was, now that Beth and Belinda were home from the farm in Kent. She was so proud of them both for joining the Land Army.’

‘Relieved, too, if the truth be known. I wish Marjie and Sibbie had done that.’

‘Yes. They both went through so much. But they’re happy now. How they’ve put off getting married until now, I don’t know. But both they and Rosie wanted to wait until the world was stable again and everyone was home . . . those that could come home.’

‘Poor Betsy, Rosie and Roderick. There are going to be some moving moments for them. And Angus too, of course.’

Once more they were quiet, as they thought of the two girls they’d never met, but felt as though they knew, through Betsy’s and Rosie’s tales of Daisy and Florrie’s antics. ‘And for us too, darling.’ With a sigh, Flors brushed away the thought of how Monty was rarely included, when talking of those who had been lost. ‘Let’s play for a while, darling; for some reason my fingers are itching to feel the ivory keys, and that hasn’t happened in a long time.’ Without asking which tune, Flors began to play.

After a moment Cyrus touched her arm. ‘Strauss, darling?’

‘Yes, we love this one – remember? “The Blue Danube” waltz.’

‘I do. I won’t be a moment. I’ll be back with my violin.’