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lady once, and she was the same. It’s beauty, you see, it brings out a funny streak in them somehow, and that’s the truth …”
    Beauty is truth, truth beauty … Alice realised she was almost falling asleep; she roused herself with an effort.
    “What about the others?” she asked. “There was a ‘Brian’ you mentioned, and ‘Mary’. Do they have an hour each too?”
    “An hour ?My goodness, no! Listen, my dear, if everyone in this house had an hour to themselves like Miss Dorinda has, there’d be no end to it, the clatter and the clutter, and in-ings and the out-ings, the smells and the boilings-over and the clutter-up round the sink. It’d be midnight before I could set foot in my own kitchen. No, they fit in as best they can, the rest of them. They don’t make a fuss, you see, not like Miss Dorinda does. Not fair? Listen, dear, one thing I have learnt in this job is always to give in, straight away, to the fuss-pots, let them have everything exactly the way they want to right from the beginning, and you save yourself no end of bother. The others will always fit in somehow. Like Brian, I mean, he’s a sweetie, no trouble at all, just brings in his takeaways and pops them in the oven, and is off up to his room with them before you hardly know he’s there …”
    Here she paused, glancing speculatively at her new lodger, and for an uneasy moment Alice felt herself being weighed in the balance: was she going to rate as a fuss-pot, and thus entitled to extra privilege? Or as a sweetie, who could be relied on to be in and out of the kitchen before you hardly knew she was there?
    To postpone this issue, she continued with her queries: “And the girl — Mary — when does she eat?”
    At this Hetty shook her head sadly. “That’s one of my worries, you know. The truth is, she hardly eats a thing, just a bit of toast and a cup of tea, and not always that. I’m quite bothered about that girl, Alice, I really am. She eats like a sparrow, and always in bed by ten. Such a pretty girl, too, can’t be much over twenty. She ought to be out gallivanting till all hours. I always say, if someone in their twenties is getting enough sleep, then what on earth are they going to be like at forty?”
    A difficult question; and one on which Alice felt unable to comment just now. Weariness was once again overcoming her, she felt almost light-headed with tiredness, and so she ventured, as politely as she could, to draw her landlady’s attention to the urgent matters which had originally brought her down to the kitchen. Blankets. An electric fire. A hot-water bottle.
    Hetty was all compunction. Of course Alice must have these things. Heaving herself from her chair, she began pounding around the kitchen and adjoining scullery assembling such adjuncts to Alice’s comfort as she could lay hands on. Then, carrying some of the load, she accompanied Alice up the first flights of stairs, switching lights on as they went, and apologising for the speed at which they switched themselves off again. You’d have to be one of those Olympic chappies to beat them to it, and one day Brian was going to do something about it, when he’d finished his cantata. Cantata? Oh yes, he was a musician, Brian was, a composer, though that wasn’t how he made a living, my goodness no. He taught at the Adult Education Centre most days, and the odd private pupil too, evenings and weekends. It was nice to hear the old piano tinkle-tonking away, Hetty felt, kind of cosy, a bit of life going on; but unfortunately Miss Dorinda didn’t see it that way, and so on and off there could be a bit of trouble. Artistic in her way, Miss Dorinda was, but just notthe tinkle-tonk type, if Alice took her meaning. Well, there you are, dear, you’ll be all right now, won’t you. I’ll be getting on down, if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to see to …
    By the time she reached her attic room, Alice was feeling quite bemused with cold and tiredness. Thankfully she