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“Yes. I think my mother would have approved,” she said, catching a flash of black out of the corner of her eye.

Miss Reid followed her gaze to where Izzie was turning from the grave.

“Miss Shelton has been a great help to your mother,” said Miss Reid. “It’s terrible what happened and far too early for it, but Mrs. Shelton will be happy knowing that the shop is in safe hands with Miss Shelton.”

“I’m certain it is,” she agreed quietly as Izzie came to a stop in front of them.

“Sylvia,” said her sister.

“Hello, Izzie,” she replied.

Miss Reid’s eyes slid from sister to sister. “I’ll give you both a moment, shall I?”

“Thank you,” said Izzie.

As soon as Miss Reid was out of earshot, Izzie said, “I see you decided to come.”

“I said that I would,” she said, studying her younger sister. It had been so long since she’d laid eyes on Izzie, it shouldn’t have surprised her that Izzie was a little taller, her hair a little shorter, and her cheeks a little more hollow thanks to age and the ration. Still, she was taken aback at how Izzie had gone from a girl with open enthusiasm to a prim young woman buttoned into a high-necked black coat and modest heels.

“I’m surprised that you were able to tear yourself away from your busy social schedule. Or has Horrible Hugo given you the day off from playing the perfect wife?” Izzie asked.

“I told you on the telephone that Hugo is serving,” she said, the old instinct to defend her husband rising up in her despite everything. “Tell me, how are things at the shop?”

“Why?” Izzie’s question was sharp as a knife’s edge.

She sighed. “Because I’m curious.”

“You’ve never shown an interest in it before.”

“Izzie, that’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? You could hardly wait to leave the shop when you were younger. The moment Hugo came along you were gone,” said Izzie.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she started, but Izzie cut her off with a shake of the head.

“You haven’t visited once in fourteen years. You hardly write.”

“I write,” she said, stung.

“A card at Christmas? That hardly counts.”

There had been a time, just after her wedding, when Sylvia had dutifully written every month, just as she did to Hugo’s family. However, when her letters had gone unanswered, she assumed that they hadn’t been welcomed. Besides there had been so many things to do as a new wife, from decorating their home to answering the onslaught of correspondence and invitations that seemed to come in the post every day.

“You never telephone,” Izzie pressed.

“Izzie, the shop only had a telephone installed seven years ago,” she said, recalling her mother’s boast at Boxing Day. “Before that you used to have to use the box down the road.”

When Izzie didn’t return her smile, she tried again. “I can imagine that rationing has made things challenging.”

“Miss Reid and I are managing just fine, thank you very much,” said Izzie.

The sound of someone clearing his throat saved Sylvia from a reply, and she glanced over her shoulder to see a man in a double-breasted black suit with sandy hair standing close. There was something familiar about him.

“Mrs. Pearsall, Izzie, please accept my deepest condolences. Your mother was always very kind to me, and I cannot imagine how much you must miss her,” he said.

“Thank you, Willie,” said Izzie.

That was William Gray, their neighbor from a few doors down in Glengall Road? It hardly seemed possible that this could be the same reedy boy in striped jumpers who had tagged along behind Sylvia and her sister on their way to school every morning.