As they’d all sat down to what Marjorie called ‘high tea’, Ivy had tried to make conversation with them, asking about their school, their friends, and what they liked doing for fun. It was hard going, for their replies were stilted and short, giving her little idea of what their lives were like. So she’d given up and concentrated on not gobbling down the bread and jam and delicious cake, or slurping her tea. But all the while she ate she’d been conscious of them surreptitiously watching her over their teacups with a certain amount of puzzled curiosity before they decided to ignore her completely and chatter to Marjorie and Richard about their plans for half-term the following week.

Ivy had managed to get through the meal without tasting a thing as she’d watched and listened to them. They talked really posh, she realised, and the way they communicated with Marjorie and Richard showed how confident they were in holding an adult conversation. Their manners were impeccable, asking to leave the table when they’d finished and going straight into Richard’s study to do their homework without even being told to.

Ivy had known then that they’d come a very long way from the tenement slums of East London and, despite all efforts, couldn’t hide their shock at the sudden appearance in their home of this long-forgotten sister; especially when she opened her mouth and the broad Cockney accent rang out. She’d tried desperately to modulate her tone and not drop her aitches, but it came out all wrong and she’d seen the children exchanging knowing looks as they tried to smother their giggles.

Over the following days Ivy had done her best to get to know them, and regaled them with stories about their old home in London, their parents and the rest of the family. They’d listened politely but shown no real interest or curiosity, and Ivy noticed sadly how little Elsie clung to Marjorie’s side as if afraid she’d suddenly be snatched away from her.

Now she stubbed out her cigarette against the outside wall and dropped the remains in the flower bed beneath her window. There really was only one right decision, and although it saddened her to make it, she knew without doubt that it was the best one for Elsie and George.

Leaving the bedroom, she slowly went down the stairs and tapped lightly on the door of Richard’s study. At his permission to enter, she stepped inside. ‘Mr Johnson,’ she began, feeling suddenly awkward in the masculine room that was lined with books and redolent with the scent of leather and pipe tobacco. ‘Mr Johnson, I’ve come to tell yer that I agree to you adopting the kids,’ she said in a rush.