Susan was living with her elderly parents in the north of England and Stanford was to attend Reggie’s old boarding school. Hugh had kept up a constant barrage of requests to be allowed to join Stanford but, at only five years old, Evie told him it was out of the question. How could she send her little boy to a distant place where the discipline was probably tough and where he would grow up too quickly and too far from her? The thought of Hugh becoming as emotionally stunted as his father had been was intolerable.

Usually Hugh could prevail on his mother to get his own way, but in this one decision Evie was determined not to budge. In a war of attrition, Hugh had won the concession that, if he still wished to board once he turned eight, he could join his friend. She hoped and prayed that, by then, time and distance would have caused Hugh and Stanford to grow apart and each of them to form new attachments. Meanwhile she would make the most of keeping her son at home with her and Jasmine, who was to attend the local girl’s grammar school.

The café windows were steamed over, and the place was crowded with shoppers and theatre-goers, all divesting themselves of coats and hats and drinking cups of tea served to them by the Lyons’ nippies in their neat black uniforms and starched white caps and aprons. Evie took a sip of her tea and, under the table, gratefully slipped off her shoes, seizing the chance to take the weight off her feet before they had to set off for Waterloo and the journey home to Surrey.

‘In the war, Lyons used to make bombs,’ announced Hugh. He was always a gatherer of facts and information and was developing an encyclopaedic brain.

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Jasmine. ‘It’s a restaurant. Maybe they made food in the war but not bombs.’

‘They did too. They had a great big factory.’

A passing nippy looked over her shoulder and said, ‘Your little brother’s right. Lyons was in charge of running a bomb factory. I know ‘cause I worked in it. My sister too.’ She winked at Hugh and went off to whisk another table clear of crockery.

Jasmine rolled her eyes then pulled one of her woollen gloves from her coat pocket and rubbed the steamy window so she could look out. Crowds of people were trudging by, collars turned up against the chill air. None of them appeared to be enjoying the experience. Red double-decker buses and motor cars splashed puddles of water up from the road. It all felt depressing to Evie and she found herself feeling nostalgic for the sunlight of Penang, for the colours and noise and the bustle of Marine Drive.

Yet when she had paid her brief visit back to George Town en route to England from Australia, she had felt dispirited there too. The island had taken a hammering – not only from the Japanese when they invaded, but more significantly from the Allies in 1945. Evie had intended to visit the Temple of Harmony, but it had been badly damaged in the first round of bombing. Of the monk there was no sign. She’d stood outside the ruined remains of the colourful building and said a silent prayer that he hadn’t been harmed.