‘Ah, Sunday, here you are.’

At a glance Sunday saw that Tom was looking concerned and the smile froze on her face as the woman rose to greet her.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Branning. I’m Miss Fox – Phyllis Fox.’ The woman had a London accent – Sunday recognised the sound of it from her holiday there, aged fifteen, and also from the weekend she and Tom had spent in the city when London had hosted the Summer Olympics in 1908. They’d had a wonderful time. But what could this woman want with them?

‘How do you do, Miss Fox,’ Sunday answered, somewhat bemused. And then as she noted the way Tom was fidgeting a cold finger ran up and down her spine.

‘Miss Fox has come because …’ Tom seemed reluctant to go on ‘… because of Kitty.’

‘What – our Kitty?’ Sunday’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. ‘But what could Kitty possibly have to do with you?’ she asked.

‘I’m the one who has brought the money for her keep each year,’ the kind-faced woman told her. ‘And of course you’ll have noticed that there wasn’t an envelope this Christmas past, and you must have wondered why. The long and the short of it is, her mother is now in a position to have her back.’

Giddy from the shock, Sunday swayed, and Tom rushed forward to catch her and help her into the nearest chair. Inside, her heart was crying, No, no, I can’t lose Kitty! Little by little she felt as if her life was falling apart. First she had lost Maggie, then her special loving relationship with Tom, and now it looked as if Kitty was to be taken from her too. Just the thought of it was almost more than she could bear.

Chapter Twelve

‘Would you care to explain yourself?’ After managing to pull herself together with an incredible effort, Sunday eyed the woman coldly. ‘You can’t just expect to turn up here out of the blue saying Kitty’s mother suddenly wants her back after all this time. You could be anyone, for all we know!’

Miss Fox began to delve into her handbag and after a moment she produced a list of all the dates when she had left the money for Kitty’s keep, along with the correct sums.

‘I’ve also got her birth certificate here, although her mother called her Katherine. You’ll see it’s all legal like, if you care to look, Mrs Branning.’

Sunday took it from her with shaking fingers and was forced to admit it did look official. It read: Father Unknown; and the mother was: Ruby Smith, Professional Singer. Before she could look for an address, Miss Fox took it from her and replaced it in her bag, which she closed with a snap.

‘But our Kitty is a young woman now and she’s lived here all her life,’ Sunday said with a note of desperation in her voice. ‘I doubt very much indeed if she will wish to leave Treetops. This is her home.’