‘And you wouldn’t let it be touched again when the rest of the place was done later on. Let’s face it, most of the house hasn’t seen more than a dab of paint in years.’ Isobel reached out to touch the wall with floury fingers. ‘I remember coming here for my interview before you moved from Bruntsfield. The walls were just bare plaster and it all had to dry out before it could be wallpapered. And your mother was ill, so everything was done in a rush. It wasn’t looked at properly again until after the war.’

Ann was briefly transported back to a time when not knowing was worse than certainty. ‘Even then it just got a lick and a promise. We were all still wondering what had happened to Finlay, and none of us were in the slightest interested in wallpaper.’

Isobel left Ann with her thoughts and gathered together the mixing bowl, the knife and the rolling pin, and carried them through to the sink in the scullery. She came back, rubbing her hands on her apron, and dragged the conversation back to the present. ‘Perhaps it’s time to give the place a new life? I mean, in spite of the fact that we have electricity now, the soot from the fires has dulled all the colours. No amount of me brushing the walls down will change that.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’

Isobel took a saucepan down from a shelf. She pushed a bit further. ‘You’ll think I’m being cheeky but if you wanted to invest in a proper gas cooker instead of just that single burner, it would be an improvement.’ She checked inside the pan to make sure it was clean. ‘If you offered Keith a room, he could pay the rent with his time and his skill. You would end up with a nicely decorated house to sell or keep or whatever you want, and he would have a roof over his head.’ It was rare for Isobel to offer such a complete case for anything.

‘You have thought about all this in considerable detail,’ said Ann.

‘It’s true, I have.’

‘If we were to do it, where would he sleep? Which room would he have?’

‘I have some ideas about that.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘He can sleep upstairs, it doesn’t matter which room. He could have any one of them.’

‘Not Finlay’s room.’

‘Alright. Not Finlay’s room.’

Ann seized the opportunity. ‘He could have your room above the scullery that you refuse to move out of, and you could have a nice room upstairs . . .’

‘I suppose I could. But then you and he would be sharing a bathroom and you might not want that.’ Isobel picked up the open jar of plum juice and poured the deep crimson liquid into the saucepan. Tiny splatters of red landed on the tabletop and seeped into the wood.