She placed the more colourful cards in a pile ready for taking to New End Infants School and, after wrapping herself in a shawl, started to cut up the others for spills. The house was, as usual, freezing. Mattie never seemed to feel the cold, but then she was built along solid lines, whereas The Flea (as a friend had once remarked) looked rather as if she’d been constructed out of toothpicks. There was a fireplace in every room, of course, but the heat never permeated much beyond the grates and the corridors were a lattice of draughts.

It suited Mattie, though, who required space and air and who would undoubtedly have preferred to live in a tent. ‘Doors should generally be open and the sky visible at all times,’ was one of her maxims, usually uttered while flinging open a casement.

She had bought the house in 1922, after coming into a legacy. ‘I was walking across Hampstead Heath,’ she’d announced at the end of a Women’s Freedom League fundraising concert, ‘and I stumbled across our dear old Mousehole festooned with “For Sale” signs. Been empty since the war, apparently. Plenty of room for anyone who wants to hunker down there.’

Dorothy had nudged The Flea. ‘Didn’t you say you were hoping to move?’

And The Flea, whose bedsit in Tufnell Park had a dark line of mould creeping across the ceiling and a shared kitchen lambent with silverfish, had negotiated a short stay. ‘Thank you, but just while I’m searching for something else.’

Mattie had refused payment. ‘I am not a landlord.’

‘And I am not a charity case. I shall donate a sum to the WFL.’

After a week, it had become clear that Mattie lived on porridge, apples and baked potatoes. The Flea had made a steak-and-kidney pudding.

‘If you stayed for longer,’ said Mattie, scraping her plate like a schoolboy, ‘you could cook in lieu of paying rent.’

‘I’m fully capable of doing both,’ replied The Flea, rather tartly.

That had been six years ago.

‘We’re good companions,’ said Mattie. ‘The arrangement works well.’

From the passage came the clank of a mop bucket being set down, and The Flea felt a flutter of unpleasant anticipation. She put down her scissors, walked over to the door, bracing herself for the interview, and opened it to find Mrs Bowling just inches away, hand poised to knock. Both women flinched.

‘Did you want to speak to me?’ asked The Flea, recovering first.

‘I did, yes, Miss Lee. I’m sorry, but I’ve got some bad news for you.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Mrs Bowling paused, portentously. ‘You see, Miss Lee, I have to hand in my notice.’

‘Oh.’ The Flea tried to rearrange her features into an expression of regret. ‘I do hope there’s nothing wrong.’

‘I wouldn’t say there’s anything wrong, exactly, Miss Lee.’

‘You’ve been offered another job, perhaps?’

‘In a manner of speaking, yes I have.’ Mrs Bowling paused again, her expression enigmatic. (‘The Kentish Town Sphinx,’ Mattie called her. ‘You cannot ask that woman whether she’s seen the bathroom plunger without her reacting as if she holds the Secret of the Ages.’) ‘You see, what happened is that my daughter-in-law Enid went into labour on Boxing Day.’