The stockbroker husband was rumoured to have been madly in love with her. Perhaps, in those strange days before the War, Aunt Maxine had been subtle and fascinating, eagerly drinking in life with her big eyes as she hung on the stockbroker’s arm in a lace blouse and a big hat loaded with roses. No one knew for certain. Aunt Maxine referred to the stockbroker as Poor Tom, and always with an intonation as though he had been very lucky to get her, and perhaps he thought that he had.

When the telephone bell rang, Aunt Maxine was having a passionate scene with Beatty, her latest cat.

Beatty had been naughty. So had Soo-soo, Woodles, Lovey, Whiskey, and all the other cats which Aunt Maxine had rescued from the gutters and a fate worse than death; that was why Aunt Maxine’s flat was in the state that it was. Naughtiness was the one thing, Aunt Maxine was telling Beatty, that she could not put up with. Beatty might steal the milk, sleep on the bed, be sick in the bath and Aunt Maxine would understand and forgive. But naughty – no. And Aunt Maxine with a cigarette hanging from one corner of her mouth which dropped ash all over Beatty, gathered Beatty up to the shelf in a passion of reproof.

Beatty, looking very bored, stayed there with her eyes screwed up and a yard of creamy white stomach hanging down, ending in two stiff, protesting feet.

The telephone bell rang.

‘Blast, who’s that?’ said Aunt Maxine, but she looked pleased. She loved people to ring her up, and the longer the conversation, and the more involved, the better she liked it.

‘Oh … oh … Maxine, it is I. Preston. Preston. Yes. I thought you would just like to know about the children. Yes. Eh?’

‘Little devils. What have they been up to now?’ said Aunt Maxine good-naturedly. Old fool, silly old woman, thought Aunt Maxine, unaware that, of the two, the children preferred Uncle Preston’s squeamishness to her coarseness.

‘Oh, nothing. Nothing, I hope … that is, unless of course you have heard anything new? ’

‘I haven’t heard anything. They never ring me up. No one ever does, unless they want something. What about the children? I thought Sophia looked pretty seedy. Girls of that age often do. It’s a tricky time, the early twenties … shouldn’t be surprised if she’s in love. I was, at her age. But you’d never get it out of her, if she was; a man’s no good at talking to girls. I’ve been meaning to have a talk to her for some time … might get her to come for a long weekend, p’raps … do her good.’

‘A very good idea, Maxine. Excellent. We must all see more of each other now poor Hartley has gone. And the children, too; it is very bad for them to be too much alone. After the will is read on Sunday, we must talk things over. Yes. The children will have to live somewhere, of course … I just thought you might like to know that Francis rang up a few moments ago, to say that he and Sophia are all right.’