‘Sit, please.’ He filled a kettle through its stubby spout and placed it on the gas burner, which he lit with a match. There was a woof of blue flame and he shook the match out, emptied tea leaves from an old china teapot into the sink and fetched a tin of evaporated milk from a sturdy old fridge in the corner.

‘Can I do anything?’ I asked, as much to cover the silence as anything. I watched him pour the thick, yellowish milk into two china mugs with misgiving. I wasn’t looking forward to this tea.

‘No, no,’ he assured me. ‘You sit. I am slow. I break hip at Christmas − in hospital six weeks.’

‘Oh dear!’ I responded dutifully. Could this really be the convicted criminal Ricky and Morris had told me about, this old man, shuffling about in his slippers, making me tea?

‘When I come home, they send woman.’ His face wrinkled in disgust. ‘Social services.’

‘An occupational therapist?’ I suggested.

He nodded. ‘She say to me, take up all your rugs. Rugs trip hazard. I tell her, is my rugs, piss off!’ He chuckled and I laughed. He gave me a long appraising stare. ‘What for you do this job? You beautiful girl, be model.’

I laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not? You tall … red hair is beautiful, like autumn gone crazy.’

It’s important to put things in perspective here. I am tall. I have long red hair, which curls riotously and which everyone, except me, seems to think is beautiful.

I would probably think it was beautiful too, if it grew on someone else. Admittedly, I have nice teeth. Apart from that I am not in any way remarkable. I learnt, as I grew up, that to be a tall redhead is no bad thing, but I am certainly not model-girl material. For one thing, I am too robust, and for another, I’d rather stick nails in my eyes.

To my relief the kettle, which had been warbling gently in the background, began a shrill whistle and Mr Nickolai was forced to turn his attention to making the tea, which he did, very methodically, warming the pot and spooning in four heaped spoonfuls of very black leaves before pouring in the water, and placing a knitted cosy over the pot.

‘You work for those old queens up at Druid Lodge.’ He slid a sly glance at me. ‘Those Jew boys.’

‘Yes,’ I answered, taken aback. I tensed slightly, wondering what casual racism might be coming next.

‘I see concert they give for charity’ – he chuckled – ‘very clever, very funny!’

I relaxed a little. ‘Yes, they are.’

‘You married?’ he asked, blue eyes twinkling.

‘You proposing?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘Mr Nickolai, I—’

‘Nick. Call me Nick.’