With acceptance from the pilot, Flors felt as though her heart had split in two, but she did as Cyrus bade her to. She boarded the plane and waved through the tiny window, with a smile on her face. She hoped he couldn’t see the tears running down her face, as she could see them running down his. And then the plane was roaring down the runway and Cyrus was gone from view. When they were airborne, she could see the car going back along the road they had come along. In that car was her love. Her life. When she would see her Cyrus again she didn’t know.

Letting herself into her old home in Brixton, Flors felt exhausted in every way. Memories flooded through her: of Rowena and her Nanny Pru. All she could do was collapse into a chair and stare around her. Everything looked shabby and grey, and she shivered with the cold. Even opening the curtains didn’t help, as it was almost Christmas and the grey sky covered a grey-looking world. She wanted to rid the place of the staleness that had permeated every corner, but it made her shiver even more.

‘Hello, love, I saw you get out of a taxi. My, it’s good to see you. Though I can see, from your face, that all’s not well. I brought some tea, but I’ve no milk or sugar – bloody Hitler! Not to worry, though, he’ll go the same way that Kaiser did. We’ll soon kick this one’s arse for him.’

‘Mrs Larch! Oh, Mrs Larch, it’s so good to see you. And you look amazing.’

‘For me age, you mean. Ha, at eighty, I can still beat all these youngsters: me step’s scrubbed before they get out of bed.’

Flors laughed out loud. It was a good feeling – that she was back among friends. Back in Brixton, among those she’d come to think of as her own. ‘Come here and let me give you a cuddle. I feel as though I walked out of the door only a few minutes ago, instead of twenty-odd years ago. Thank you, Mrs Larch, you’ve made me feel that I can cope.’

Coming out of the cuddle, Mrs Larch giggled. ‘Nothing round ’ere’s changed, luv. Well, a few have turned up their toes and I visit them in the graveyard, but there’s still Mrs Harper – you remember, she used to read to us. And Mrs Randall, who lost her son Tommy in the last lot; she’s a wiry little soul, nothing will see her off. Now, let’s get that kettle boiling. I assume you have got one? There’s nothing like a Rosy Lee to put you to rights. And shut those bleedin’ windows – it’s like the Arctic in here.’