They went through the shelves of jars and cans together. It was tempting to make a proper list of what was there, but now she was standing looking at the packets and bags and tins, Ursula could see that the kitchen was operating with a very limited palette of ingredients. It hadn’t escaped her notice that the food served was plain to say the least, but until now she had left the meals and routines as they were, unwilling to be too much of a new broom.

She turned to Isobel. ‘Is this it?’

The young woman nodded.

‘So how does it work, with Mr Black’s preferences?’

‘I always do the best I can with what is ordered.’ Isobel frowned before continuing. ‘On Monday I make pie from the leftovers of the joint we have on Sunday; quite often that’s mutton, or sometimes it’s beef.’

Ursula smiled encouragement. ‘I have noticed that you have a light touch with pastry.’

Isobel barely noticed the compliment. ‘Or sometimes I use a layer of sliced tatties instead of the pastry.’ She paused. ‘I mean potatoes, sorry. And vegetables. Cabbage or carrots. On Tuesday and Wednesday there are faggots. I make those with minced beef and pork from the butcher, and there’s mashed potatoes and turnip and gravy. In the winter months I make enough for two days and put the dish on the cold stone shelf in the larder at the back of the scullery. But in the summer they won’t keep for a second day, so I make them fresh each morning.’

‘Go on.’

‘Thursday is braised liver. Friday is fish. And on Saturdays Mr Black used to take the children out for lunch when he got home from the office, and they had a big plate of sandwiches and cakes and biscuits for tea instead of a proper meal. That was before you . . .’

‘Right.’

‘And in the mornings, there’s porridge and toast and marmalade, except for Sunday when there is the big breakfast: tattie scones, sliced sausage, bacon, eggs, and more toast and marmalade, and sometimes honey as well. But of course you know that.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Every day Mr Black takes a sandwich to work, two slices of bread with cheddar cheese and chopped dates. He always has the same thing.’

Ursula forgot her mother’s advice and smiled to herself. She had seen John sit at his desk every day and unwrap his sandwiches, and watched as he folded the greaseproof paper into a precise rectangle afterwards before throwing it in the wastepaper basket. Sometimes he missed.

‘Since,’ Isobel hesitated, ‘since the late Mrs Black has been gone, I’ve had to make plans for what is eaten, and I’ve offered to put other things in the sandwiches but Mr Black always says no.’