Alas, though, it is still fairly cold outside, and Susan would rather be warmly ensconced in Lancelot's bed. She pulls away reluctantly and smiles at him - the easy, flirtatious one, but she does mean it. "Well-sealed," she says, a little breathlessly, and reaches up to cover his hands, squeezing his fingers lightly before continuing on toward the Mansion. "So. Age six. It was 1934. Lucy was two; Edmund was nearly four. Naturally they still had nap-times, unlike Peter and I. It was - a queer time in Britain. The world over, I believe; industry was hobbled after the first World War and many parts of the country were destitute. London was mostly fine, to my childish memory, but there were - demonstrations."

She pauses. "I mean only to set the stage for a multi-day pageant at the Crystal Palace. It was a remarkable building, all pane-glass and wrought iron. Much like the greenhouses here, but ever so much more enormous." And eminently flammable, God forbid. "On the opposite side of London from where we grew up, and difficult to get to, but we heard that there would be ballet and music, and so Peter and I were keen to go. My parents weren't terribly impressed by the prospect of taking their young children to The Pageant of Labour, but my horrid Uncle Harold and Aunt Alberta were rather eager to drop their colicky baby, my cousin Eustace, off with my parents to go, and they were willing to take Peter and I with them, so we made a day of it."