‘That’s why we reckon he won’t come back no matter what, ’cos he worshipped that Grace and just the sight of the little ’un brings his loss back.’

Jimmy had broken away from the queue with a mumbled excuse. He needed to think. It had never occurred to him that Mo was like anyone but herself, but now he realised the truth of the woman’s statement. Mo was the image of their dead mother, in colouring at least. He thought the resemblance ended there, but could not help despising his father for staying away when he must know how their mother would have reproached him for his behaviour.

But right now, with the toy dog and the biscuits tucked away safely in his shirt, Jimmy decided there was nothing he could do about it, so there was no point in worrying. He was just thinking that if the weather was better the following day he would get Mo to help him cut holly when he saw her small figure tearing along the wet pavement as though the devil himself was on her heels. He guessed she was heading for the wash house to help him carry the laundry home, and stepped out in the middle of the pavement to bar her way.

Far from turning to accompany him back to Solomon Court and asking how his day had gone, however, she tore herself free from his arms, grabbed his hand and began to hustle him back the way he had come. Jimmy protested, reminding Mo that he had to deliver the old girl’s washing so that she could iron the tablecloths and napkins damp and finish off the drying process by spreading them on the old wooden clothes horse before the fire. But Mo interrupted him, tugging as hard as she could on his arm, and Jimmy saw that her eyes were dilated with fear and she was trembling.

‘What’s up?’ Jimmy said, turning at his sister’s imperious pulling. ‘You in Aunt Huxtable’s bad books again? We’ve no need to go back to the wash house; Mrs McTavish has given me a hand and the stuff’s just the way it should be, so you can stop worryin’. It’s all done, right and tight, so let’s go home and see what the old devil’s got us for tea.’

Glancing down at his sister, he realised that Mo was not wet through; even her pale curls were dry and fluffy, so whatever the reason for her flight along the road it was something which had only just happened. ‘Don’t say Mrs Latimer were cross because you and Nelly were playin’ in the woodshed? If so, I’ll have a word . . .’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘Only I reckon there’s more rain and sleet up there, just waitin’ to come tumblin’ down and drench us to the skin. We ought to get back to Solomon Court just as soon as we can.’

Mo pulled him to a halt as a few feathery flakes floated down to land on her crisp curls. ‘I can’t go back to Solomon Court ever,’ she said mournfully. ‘Oh, Jimmy, I never meant to do it, but I’ve been and gone and killed Cyril, and everyone’s after me!’