So much had changed since her long talk with the Egyptian doctor. Taking her courage in both hands she had caught a bus to Leeds and found Rosamund Street where Vida Bloom was still living. The door was opened to her with surprise but the stranger from Scotland ushered in warmly. Number five was one of a line of back-to-back terraced houses on four storeys: cellar kitchen, living room, bedroom and washroom, attic with a roof light in the ceiling. The houses rose up in a sprawl from the city towards the University with its grand steps and clock tower, up to Woodhouse Moor and another warren of terraces: these like sooty lichen clinging to black walls, stretching ever outward to the river valleys and green fells lying just out of sight over the horizon. The names of these posher districts were listed on bus destinations: Headingley, Lawnswood, Adel, Cookridge, Bramhope, Otley, Ilkley and the Dales beyond.

Vida had aged since she was widowed suddenly at the end of the war, her dark eyes heavy and ringed with shadows. Arnold, judging by the line of proud photographs of him in uniform, had shot up several inches, filled out and was fast becoming a mother’s boy, destined to replace Isadore Bloom as Mummy’s favourite companion. He had left the Army Pay Corps and was now articled to a firm of Chartered Accountants in Leeds. How Vida’s face lit up with delight as he pushed his bike through the door. ‘Arnie, you’ll never guess who’s turned up on our doorstep?’

He looked at Netta with disbelief, taking in her shabby coat and ankle socks, her battered hat. He nodded shyly, a look of resignation on his face. Netta recognised the mark of the beast, another offspring who shared duty as their middle name. He shook her hand weakly. ‘Pleased to see you, Nettie. What brings you to our grand city?’ His Scots lilt had been overtaken, flattened by northern vowels.

‘It’s a long story.’ She gave them a sanitised version of events, skipping over the usual difficult areas. Being an unmarried mother, having a breakdown, sent packing from her homeland to find her fortune. ‘Fancied a wee bit of a change. I’m looking for work. I always said I wanted to be a dress designer, didn’t I, Mrs Bloom?’

‘You won’t find any openings for that here, love, just factory work. But what about your baby? You wrote me such a long letter when he was born, so full of plans. How can you leave him behind?’

‘I have to start somewhere. He’s staying at home until I can find suitable accommodation. Do you know of anything?’

‘Leave it with me. We may not be the richest end of the family but Blooms, Frankls and Levys have connections in the trade from buttons to handbags, carpets to threads. Where are you staying?’