‘Your father would turn in his grave. I can’t let those opportunist whatsits cash in on this place. Your father’s parents ran the shop before we took it over. It’s part of our family history. I feel like I’d be letting them all down. They fought so hard for the place.’

Agnieszka fidgeted and sighed as she picked up the array of photos which covered the floor. She passed me one. ‘Look. That’s the four of us. Mum, Dad, Tomasz and I. Opposite the newsagent’s, in the Jewish bakery. We loved their bagels.’

I studied the photo. It was exactly as I recalled it all those years ago when we used to go as kids. The glass display cabinet with all the bagels on trays. The racks of mouth-watering loaves. The sweet smell of baking. ‘It’s such a shame.’

Her face clouded over and her whole energy shifted, tightened, as though something had prodded her into a different mental space. ‘Mum was telling me about the flash mob. It sounds frightening. Was it connected to the fire?’

‘Almost certainly. It’s partly what I wanted to ask your mother about.’

‘The young couple who ran the soup shop were kind to Mum. I met them a few times. Mum has had a few emergencies. The electricity went off once. It’s so damp downstairs, the fuse board keeps tripping when she uses the sockets. Another time, she got locked out. The husband came straight over and helped her. When she lost her keys, they took her into their flat and gave her soup.’

‘He was very charming,’ Rosa added.

My thoughts slipped back to Agnieszka’s comment about someone pressurising her mother. ‘Who wants you to give up the shop, Mrs Feldman?’

Rosa began humming, pretending she hadn’t heard me.

‘Mrs Feldman?’

‘Hmm?’ she said, feigning absent-mindedness. I recognised the signs of denial from Mum. Clearly it was a conversation Rosa had had many a time with her daughter, and didn’t want to repeat.

‘The freeholders, of course,’ Agnieszka blurted out. ‘They’re complete shits—’

‘Agnieszka.’

‘Na litość Boską. They are and you know it. They’re leaving this place to get more and more unpleasant for you so you’re desperate, and agree to hand it back to them cheap. Even Tomasz can’t get them to see sense. They’ll get you out and do exactly what they’ve done with that stupid soup place: give it an upgrade and flog it to some trendy outfit. You wait. We’ll have brioche-bakers selling a loaf full of sugar and butter for four quid. Or another vintage clothes shop.’

Rosa was squirming in her seat, and her lips were moving, as though protests were forming and falling away.