Ginny, her school days behind her, and with respectable exam results to treasure, had considered teaching as a career, but her mother had reacted in horror, protesting that Ginny was needed at home.

‘Such an enormous house to run single-handed, and Mrs Pelham not really pulling her weight any more. And really, you owe it to Andrew.’

Eventually, Ginny had reluctantly agreed, only to find herself caught between her mother’s steely resolve and Mrs Pel’s stony resistance. After three largely unproductive months doing very little, she saw a card in Miss Finn’s window asking for part-time assistance, applied and got the job.

‘You’re going to be a waitress?’ Mrs Charlton had been appalled. ‘But you can’t possibly. Whatever will Andrew say?’

Which had turned out to be ‘Good for you,’ accompanied by a wink and a pat on the shoulder.

To Ginny’s own surprise, she enjoyed working at Miss Finn’s and it wasn’t long before she joyously accepted Miss Emma’s offer of full-time work.

Three years on, Ginny was still enjoying herself, while giving Mrs Pelham unobtrusive and now welcome support at home too.

However, a few months ago, Miss Emma had, to everyone’s astonishment, announced her engagement, with the news that she would be moving to Brussels after her marriage.

So a quick decision about the future of the caf'e was needed. The premises were leased from the Welburn estate, so all she needed was someone to buy the actual business, and she had offered first refusal to Ginny.

‘I suppose it should be Iris Potter,’ she’d confided anxiously, ‘as she’s been here the longest, but she does so rub people up the wrong way. And while you’re young, Ginny, you’re such a capable girl and the customers like you.’

It was, Ginny knew, a wonderful opportunity, but Miss Finn clearly had no idea of her financial position. Andrew, it was true, made her an allowance, which he’d increased once he realised just how much she did in the house, but, apart from her wages, that was it.

She’d gone to the bank with a business plan, but got nowhere. Too young, she was told, and with no collateral.

So, eventually, and reluctantly, she took her plan to Andrew, who had sat quietly and listened while she outlined her requirements and her proposed system of repayments.

‘So,’ he said, when she’d finished. ‘You really want to become the new Miss Finn?’

‘Well, yes,’ she agreed, although that was not how she’d thought of it. ‘It’s a marvellous business, and since they built those two new housing estates over at Lang’s Field we’re nearly rushed off our feet.’

He held out his hand. ‘Give me your paperwork, my dear, and I’ll look it over in detail and let you have my decision.’

But he was away a good deal over the three weeks that followed, and Ginny began to grow anxious, although the last thing she wanted to do was apply any pressure when he was at home.

Miss Emma, however, wanted an answer, and Ginny was just nerving herself to approach Andrew again when he himself broached the subject in the hall one night, just as she was going up to bed.

She heard him call her name and turned to find him standing at the foot of the stairs looking up at her, with his usual gentle smile. He said, ‘Don’t worry, my dear. I haven’t forgotten about the new Miss Finn.’

But he did, thought Ginny, painfully. Because two days later he was dead, without, it seemed, leaving any instructions that would have secured her future. So, she was still—just a waitress, and on Monday she would have to tell Miss Emma that she was out of the running.

As the credits rolled on her mother’s TV series, Mrs Charlton asked plaintively if there was to be any dinner that evening, or if Mrs Pelham was on strike.

‘I told her we could manage for ourselves.’ Ginny paused. ‘There are plenty of cold cuts.’

Her mother pursed her lips. ‘Funeral food. Is a warm meal too much to ask? Even an omelette would do.’

Grating cheese and whisking eggs in a basin, Ginny reflected ruefully how completely her mother had adapted to being a rich man’s wife, and how hard she would find it to cope once more with her own cooking and cleaning.

She was just dividing the golden-brown fluffy omelette in two when she heard a door bang in the distance. And as she slid the two halves on to warmed plates and added grilled tomatoes, Cilla walked in.

‘Is that supper? Thank God. I’m starving.’ She grabbed both plates and a handful of cutlery and marched off, leaving Ginny gasping.

She buttered two thick slices from a crusty loaf, filled them generously with cold ham, and took her sandwich back to the drawing room where it was clear a tale of woe was in progress.