HE stood, smiling, in the fading November light. “So you want to work for me, do you?” JB Priestley asked the shy woman facing him across his drawing-room.

Her shyness soon vanished in the company of the man she recalls as a “roly-poly Pickwickian figure of good nature”, and from then onward the pair enjoyed not just a busy working relationship, but a touching friendship too.

JB Priestley was 74 when Rosalie Batten became his secretary in 1968. She remained so until his death in 1984, working at his home, Kissing Tree House, in Alveston, Warwickshire, where she came to know the author, playwright, essayist and social commentator and his routines, eccentricities, contradictions, charm, warmth and wisdom.

In June 1979, Priestley said: “One day I very much hope Mrs Batten will write a book about me because, as I have pointed out to her, she knows me better than anyone else...”

In 1986 Rosalie did just that. Unable to find a publisher, she set it aside. Now, over 30 years later, her beautifully written memoir, Priestley at Kissing Tree House - an intimate, affectionate portrait of the Bradford-born writer over the last 16 years of his life, and an insight into his working and domestic life - has been published. Candid and moving, it reveals Priestley’s daily routines, writing habits, hobbies, travels and correspondence with an array of organisations and people, including renowned 20th century figures such as actor Sir Ralph Richardson.

It was after Rosalie’s death in 2015 that her daughter, Sophie Fyson, picked up the memoir. “She showed it to me once. She tried two publishers but both said no. In 2008, when she was getting frail, I found an agent who was keen but the recession took hold and there wasn’t a big enough market,” says Sophie. “After she died I was clearing the house and found the memoir. I thought: ‘This deserves to be published’.”

Sophie contacted Priestley’s stepson, Nicholas Hawkes, who showed the manuscript to the JB Priestley Society, leading to its publication. Sophie says the book returns to “a time of housekeepers, parlour maids, gardeners, chauffeurs, a formal protocol of how people spoke to each other.”

“It was the final era of that way of living,” she says. “As PA, my mother was halfway between family and staff. She and Priestley knew each other so well. At first he dictated everything but gradually, over time, he realised she was capable of writing a letter as he liked it. He tried out new writing on her, she made suggestions. She knew how his mind worked.”

The memoir reveals not just JB’s life as an in-demand writer, including his exhausting travelling and work commitments, but also his wit, kindness, sense of mischief, melancholy and, for a man in his 70s and 80s, remarkable energy.

“Once she was unhappy and he said, ‘If I were to give you £100 what would you do?’ She replied, ‘I’d go to Crete’. He wrote her a cheque for £100 and off she went to Crete. It was out of character for him - as the book reveals, he was careful with money! It shows how much he cared for her,” smiles Sophie. “She came back from Crete a different person. She fell in love with Greece, and went to Greek classes.”

Sophie was 11 when her mother started working for Priestley. “She’d been a stay-at-home mother, then my brother and I were letting ourselves in after school. In her first year with him she had two days off for Christmas, and he was reluctant to allow even that! In the beginning he could be difficult, but they developed a mutual respect. They enjoyed each others’ company.”

Sophie met JB once, at his 75th birthday party. “He was sitting in his flat, everyone around him. He was large, like a benevolent toad,” she says. “I was terrified of putting a foot wrong. But he had such warmth, he was quite a comforting person. He’d grant you a short moment and for that time you were fully in his presence. I thought, ‘My goodness, I know why she likes him’.”

“She cared for him enormously. He was extremely demanding, he wanted her to work all hours, at first her life was completely taken over by him. There were battles, but she had a stubborn streak which he admired. He did things like paying for taxis and allowing her little dog at work..”

Recalling the day she introduced her Pekinese, Rosalie writes: “Dogs are not my idea of company,” he said. “They are like drunken men, pawing you, putting their faces close to yours, refusing to go away when you suggest it.” This did not sound too good a start, I held my breath as SuSu approached him. “Hello DOG!” His voice was generally deep but when he addressed her it dropped into his boots.”

After JB’s death, Rosalie visited his Bradford home at Saltburn Place where, in his attic room, he’d started to write. “There was a gas fire to which I would draw up close and write, never doubting that an eager world was waiting for my words,” he’d told her. * Next week’s Remember When looks at Rosalie Batten’s memoir.

* Priestley at Kissing Tree House: A Memoir, published by Great Northern Books, £9.99, along with new editions of Angel Pavement, Bright Day, The Good Companions and Lost Empires.