Flors’s thoughts turned to her beloved and beautiful daughter, Marjella. Her heart cried out with the pain of missing her, but knowing that she, at least, was safe, staying with Mags in the countryside of Blackburn, helped her to accept the separation. Surely nothing could befall Marjella? If war did come, England would be safe from the fallout, wouldn’t it? It would join with France and beat Hitler back to the borders here, she imagined.

The door to Flors’s chateau was flung open as the kettle boiled.

‘Mama, am I too late? Have Freddy and Randie left?’ Ella and Arnie’s six-year-old daughter Lonia stood in the doorway, a distraught look on her face. She was spoilt by everyone, and everyone loved her, but none of the attention they lavished on her had any effect, for she remained a sweet child, caring and always concerned for everyone.

‘Yes, Lonia, they left a few moments ago.’

‘Oh, Mama, why didn’t they wait to see me? Papa has just brought me from school.’

‘They couldn’t chance missing their train, darling. Once they are in the army, they are under its discipline. An order is an order, and they cannot risk breaking one for the sake of little you.’

‘Oh, Mama, I’m going to miss them. But I’m not going to be sad, because Freddy said that I must be very grown-up and think of others – especially you, Aunt Flors: you’re much sadder than me, and that must hurt a lot.’

‘It does, darling. As does missing Marjella. But we must carry on. Look, I have some nice grape juice cooling on the cold slab in the pantry. I’ll pour you some and we can all sit out under the shade and look after each other.’

The high-pitched whistle of the kettle boiling seemed to seal this as a good idea. True to form, Rowena woke – the one thing that never failed to stir her was the thought of a cup of tea. She sat up and her lips smacked together in her podgy face. ‘Is that there the kettle, honey-child?’

‘Ha, it is, Rowena. Are you coming outside for some fresh air?’

‘There’s nothing good in the fresh air for my old bones. It’s no fun being ninety-one, Missie Flors.’

‘Don’t be silly, you’re just getting lazy – Ella and I will help you outside. The sunshine is good for your bones, and what’s all this “Missie” business? I’m your honey-child, nothing can change that. I hate the term “Missie”; it makes me feel that you think you’re a servant.’

‘No, honey-child, it an old Jamaican way of speaking. I’ve been dreaming I was back on the white sand, gazing out at the sea, and the woman I worked for was going to take a branch to beat me with, for being lazy.’