Ivy had felt uncomfortable and out of place from the moment she’d walked through the door of Dryden House into the wide, panelled hall with its richly coloured oriental rugs on the tiled floor. A highly polished circular table bearing silver salvers and a vase of perfectly arranged flowers stood in the centre, and she couldn’t help but notice the antique furniture and sweeping oak staircase that rose grandly to a galleried landing – neither of which would have looked out of place in a mansion. A grandfather clock’s mellow chimes announced the half-hour, and she could hear classical music coming from beyond one of the many doors leading out of the hall.

Upon her introduction to Marjorie Johnson, Ivy’s sense of being in another world had deepened and she’d become aware of how shabby she must appear to the Johnsons in her cheap clothes and down-at-heel shoes beside the elegance of the soft caramel wool twinset, pearls and tweed skirt. Marjorie was short, dark haired, trim, and vibrant with energy. She was every inch the wife of a successful man, and Ivy had suspected she was probably a stalwart member of the church and WI committees. And yet, despite the disparity between them, Marjorie had welcomed her warmly and with great sympathy for her recent loss before showing her around the house and then up to the lovely room where she would stay for the week.

That week was now almost at an end, and as Ivy sat on the deeply padded window seat in her bedroom and looked out at the riot of colour in the neat back garden, she knew the time for making decisions had come – and once made there could be no turning back.

She opened the window and lit a cigarette, feeling the warmth of the late May day on her face and wishing she could talk to Andy or Peggy – or anyone who might be able to advise her on the best thing to do. As it was, she had to see this through on her own, for there had been no word from her brothers, who she suspected were spending their leave in the local pubs of whatever port they’d anchored in, and she hadn’t liked to ask if she could use the Johnsons’ telephone to make a long-distance call to Peggy – they might see it as a liberty.

Thinking back to that first evening, she felt a twist of sadness. George and Elsie had been very polite but somewhat wary when they’d come back from school in their posh uniforms, and when she’d enthusiastically called her little brother Georgie, she’d been told rather coolly that he was a bit old for such a babyish name and preferred to be called George.