He stepped into the scullery and closed the door behind him. ‘I’ll be glad to get indoors for a wee while, and no mistake. This city always lives up to its reputation. Even when it’s sunny, there’s a wind.’

‘I’ll leave you to . . .’ She glanced towards the far end of the scullery where the door to the lavatory was kept firmly closed.

‘Thank you kindly.’ He heaved the canvas mail bag off his shoulder and put it down next to the sink with a groan. ‘I thought things would ease off after the turn of the year, but no, the whole world is sending letters and cards as though there is a second Christmas on the way.’

‘I can give you a scone if you like? I made them yesterday.’

‘If you’re sure you can spare one, that would be most welcome.’

Isobel opened the cake tin and selected the most misshapen scone: golden brown, with crunchy demerara sugar on the top and studded with sultanas. It took only a minute to split it and spread it with butter and raspberry jam. She popped it into a brown paper bag saved from the greengrocer’s delivery and set it down on the table.

Duncan washed his hands at the scullery sink when he was finished. She had always insisted on this, and he went along with her rules.

‘How are things with you then, Isobel?’ He pointed to the door that led to the hall. ‘Is she settling in?’

‘I think so.’

‘No problems?’ He paused. ‘You’re not thinking of moving on?’

‘I’m not. Not yet, anyway.’ She counted the tarts in her head as she transferred them onto a wire rack to cool. ‘She seems alright so far. But a lot of people are nice to begin with, and then they change later.’

‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.’

‘I’m not sure she really knows how to treat me. One minute she seems quite happy with my work, and then an hour later I feel as though she’s checking up on everything I do.’

‘She’s not like the last one, though?’

Isobel shook her head. ‘No. But I’m not counting my chickens.’

‘And she is kind to the young girl? That’s what matters the most.’ He picked up the paper bag and looked inside. ‘A scone and raspberry jam. You have a good heart, Isobel. My wife will be very jealous. She often talks about last year, when you made that cake for her birthday. My grandchildren were happy too, they talked about it for weeks.’ He took hold of the top corners of the bag and twirled it around in the air, twisting it closed.

‘I’m not sure I can promise you a cake this year. It was easier when it was just me, but most days I’ve got Mrs Black for company now.’