‘Don’t be too long,’ she said.

‘I won’t.’

Marion was in her element. With sleeves rolled up and one of her mother’s old pinafores tied around her waist, she started organizing the kitchen, then the drawing room and small dining room, then bustled upstairs to make up the waiting brass bed. The bed may have been second- or maybe third-hand, but the mattress was brand new and rather stiff. Plundering the gifts from Dunfermline, she added sheets and blankets, pillows and pillowcases until the whole thing was most inviting. She couldn’t resist lying down on top of the quilt and stretching out.

The day had been long, saying goodbye to Mother and Dad, starting out on the earliest train and now throwing herself into all these jobs. She was tired. Turning on her side, she gazed out at the view from her window. She could see a corner of Kensington Palace, the tall trees of the park beyond and the comforting drone of traffic on the High Street.

She noticed that the curtains at her window, while not of her choice, were of good quality. They would do until she had time to get out her new sewing machine and run something better up.

If only Alah was still alive. She would have shown her how to do that.

The bed really was rather comfortable. George would be back soon, hopefully with a quarter pound of tea and some milk. She could do with a cup of tea.

Marion closed her eyes and thought of all the changes she might make to her new home. Soon she drifted off to sleep.

George had had a wonderful few hours, exploring the pubs of Kensington. He’d met some jolly good fellows too. After several rounds of whisky and, at some point, a decent plate of ham, eggs and chips, he was ready to go home to his wife and claim his conjugal rights. He couldn’t deny he was fond of Marion. She was a good woman, would do anything for him – and he now had a swanky address, even though the cottage was rather shabby. His future looked comfortable, very comfortable indeed.

Approaching the gates of Kensington Palace, he was stopped by the on-duty policeman. ‘Excuse me, sir, are you expected?’

‘Expected? I damn well live here!’

The policeman caught the aroma of whisky. ‘May I have your name, sir?’

George drew himself up and pushed out his chest. ‘I am Major George Buthlay.’

The policeman checked his list of names that were permitted through the gates. ‘And who are you visiting, sir?’

‘My wife. Mrs George Buthlay.’

‘I am sorry, sir, but I cannot find you on my list.’

‘Oh for …’ George mumbled some swear words. ‘We moved in today. Nottingham Cottage.’

The policeman checked his list once more and nodded. ‘Ah yes. Miss Marion Crawford. I met her when she first came to look over Nott Cott, as we call it. A very nice lady. She told me she was marrying.’