This was the role that Mother was born for. Bossing people about came naturally to Violet Simmonds and she had sat through enough charity lunches to know how to handle most human needs. Armed with East End experience and a look that brooked no contradiction, she marched into the district council offices on Marylebone Road and demanded to see the Mayor. Within minutes, she had requisitioned a church hall and taken charge of rehousing and relief in an area that she mapped out, between the Finchley and Edgware Roads. With volunteers from her embroidery class, she descended fearsomely on survivors of bombing raids, located their loved ones (if any were left alive), allocated temporary accommodation and provided food and bedding for their first disoriented days and nights. She treated each needy case with curt efficiency, but felt truly fulfilled when the chance arose to extend a helping hand, from a great height, to one of her social superiors.

One winter’s dawn we came home to find Mrs Isaacs (née Sassoon), Johnny’s mother, wailing orientally, ululating almost, upon the broken slabbery of her mock-Palladian front steps, thick smoke billowing from the wreckage beyond as the firemen wound up their hoses. Her husband, a stockbroker by trade, wrung his hands some feet away while Johnny sucked regressively on his thumb.

‘Now, come along, Genevieve,’ said Mother briskly. ‘No time to mope. Henry’ – this to the ineffectual Mr Isaacs – ‘you had better go to work if you don’t want to miss the markets opening. We’ll get this mess dealt with by tonight. Johnny, off to school – Martin, take him to breakfast at our house. Now, dear Genny, I believe I have got just the temporary place for you – a bijou flat in Langford Court, eighth floor, a penthouse the Americans would call it, but quite small. Still, it is admirably situated until you get your bits and pieces in order. Come with me to St Michael’s Hall for a nice hot cup of coffee, and we’ll get you sorted out.’