Jean had never felt quite comfortable calling her by her first name at all. But from the time she had come to her, Mrs Saunders had been quite clear. 'Call me Florrie,' she had said. 'Everybody else does.'

It was her background, of course. Stage people were notoriously lax about such things. And although it must be seventy years since she had last trodden the boards, the music hall artiste, the old vaudevillian, was still there, struggling to get out.

Jean, though, wished she wouldn't talk about her death. For that made her think about what was going to happen to her when Florrie passed over. She had hardly any savings and it was many years before she would qualify for a small state pension. With no qualifications, she would have little chance of getting any job, except one as companion. And most paid companions were really no better than nurse and housemaid combined. But otherwise, what would she do? After twenty- three years in this lovely detached house, on the river, just outside London, it would be very hard to settle in some pokey bed-setter, even if she could afford the rent. Oh, if only she knew whether Florrie—

'Penny for 'em,' Florrie said suddenly.

Jean gave a slight start. 'I was just thinking what a remarkable life you've had,' she said, untruthfully. 'Tell me, would you change anything?'

Florrie shook her head firmly. 'I had a wonderful time on the halls. Never made the West End, but might have done, if I hadn't got married. And I certainly don't regret that. People thought I was just Bertie's little bit of fluff and I craftily trapped him into marriage. Not so. It was a love match, even though he was a good bit older than me. And I worked hard to make sure he'd never be ashamed of me. In a few months I could speak and dress so you wouldn't know the difference between me and a Duchess. And I gave him a son. John was the apple of his eye. May sound shocking, but I'm always grateful Bertie died when he did. He saw John happily married to a lovely girl like Emma, with two daughters of his own. Then he passed away, less than nine months later Emma died, eighteen months after that John remarried - and within a few months was killed himself. It was a - a terrible time.'

Her voice quavered and stopped. Jean wisely remained silent while Florrie collected herself. She had, of course, listened to all this many times before.