‘So when will you be available?’ she asked sarcastically.

Kitty swallowed then and answered, ‘I’m not sure without consulting my diary.’

‘Consulting your diary!’ Sunday was appalled at her flippant attitude. ‘I thought you would be pleased to see us,’ she went on, and there was a wobble in her voice now. Tom, who had said nothing, held her hand – and for once, Sunday didn’t pull away.

‘I am, of course – but I’m so busy, you see? But it was very good of you to call.’ Kitty felt as if her heart was being ripped out but she knew that it was time to let them go once and for all now, for their own sakes. They must never be besmirched by what she had become, and the things she had done. She loved them too much to let that happen.

Sunday’s shoulders sagged as she realised that Kitty was truly gone from her now. She and Tom were no longer needed – or even wanted, if Kitty’s attitude was anything to go by.

‘So,’ Sunday said, ‘I suppose we’d best be off then.’ She desperately wanted Kitty to ask them to stay but the girl merely nodded as she returned to applying her greasepaint.

‘Yes, I mustn’t hold you up,’ came that artificial voice. ‘Goodbye then. Have a safe journey home.’

Blinded by tears, Sunday turned and allowed Tom to lead her from the dressing room and only when she was sure that they had gone did Kitty allow her emotions to bubble to the surface. That night, when she sang the tragic song by Irving Berlin, called ‘When I Lost You’, she gave the words such meaning that the audience wept with her.

One overcast day early in August, Sunday descended the stairs at Treetops to find Tom waiting for her in the hallway. The adults always rose before the children to enjoy a hot drink and ensure that the preparations for the children’s breakfast were well under way and that the fires were lit, for although it was August the early mornings could be chilly in the big house.

‘Good morning,’ Sunday greeted him, much as she would have a stranger. She had grown even more distant since her encounter with Kitty in London, as if it was somehow his fault. Then when there was no answer she noted his grave face and asked, ‘Is something wrong?’

‘I’m afraid there is. Would you come into the day room with me?’

Sunday followed him, closed the door and looked at him questioningly.

‘There is news from Nuneaton. As of eleven o’clock last night, Britain is at war with Germany.’ There seemed no easy way to tell her, so he had just come out with it.

‘Surely not! You must be mistaken.’ Her face paled as she thought of what this might mean to them.

‘I’m afraid there is no mistake,’ he told her soberly. ‘Our Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith, issued an ultimatum to Germany requesting that they get out of Belgium by midnight on August the third – and when they failed to do so he felt that he had no alternative but to declare war. People are already gathering outside Buckingham Palace in London to state their allegiance to the King and Queen, who have appeared on the balcony.’