Frustrated Mrs Keating resumed: ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s hard to believe another child could do such a thing. I think you should take her to see a doctor. A psychiatrist probably.’ Still Rachaela did not respond to Mrs Keating’s red rag. Mrs Keating shouted, ‘I think you’d better know, I intend to write to the school about this.’

‘If you like.’

‘Like? You’ve got a funny way of going on, I must say. Just you get your horrible child seen to, Mrs Day, that’s the only advice I can give you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rachaela.

Mrs Keating swore at her and hung up.

Rachaela switched on the radio. She did not want to think any more about Ruth. She would not need to see her until tonight.

A Rachmaninov piano concerto swept through the flat, making the problem of Ruth trivial and vague.

At one o’clock Rachaela ate lunch, and at five past two, half an hour too late, she got up and left for the antiques shop.

Mrs Mantini did not upbraid her, but she pursed her tangerine lips and made a great thing of getting ready to go out in a hurry.

The afternoon was not eventful. A girl came in and tried to haggle over a nineteenth-century vase, but Rachaela told her Mrs Mantini fixed the prices fairly and never reduced items. A handsome young man and a rather glamorous middle-aged woman, perhaps his mother, looked round the shop and finally bought a small brass rocking horse.

At a quarter to five Mrs Mantini came back.

‘Oh Rachaela. I hoped you’d have unloaded that crate.’

The crate was full of heavy objects that really needed the attention of a strong man. Rachaela had ignored it.

‘We’ll do it now,’ said Mrs Mantini with much irritation.

They began to unload the crate, Mrs Mantini puffing and blowing. At five-thirty they were still engaged on the crate. Mrs Mantini shut the shop. She said to Rachaela, ‘You can stay and help with this. It will make up for the thirty-five minutes you were late.’

Rachaela did not argue, and they went on unpacking the crate until a quarter past six.

Mrs Mantini straightened up and puffed out a last breath of her garlic-and-onion lunch. ‘Actually, Rachaela, I want a word with you about this lateness.’ Rachaela was putting on her coat. Mrs Mantini stood hard-yellow amid brazen fire irons and fire screens. ‘I spoke to you yesterday about it, but you don’t seem to have heard me. I don’t pay you to be late, I pay you to be on time.’

‘But you don’t pay very much, do you?’ said Rachaela.

‘If you don’t like the wages, miss, you can go elsewhere.’

‘Very well,’ said Rachaela. She buttoned her coat. ‘Give me what you owe me up until today.’

Mrs Mantini glowered, her eyes roasting.