Mo gave a sleepy chuckle. ‘Serve her right,’ she said dreamily. ‘Then I’m a murderer and youse a thief . . . Cor, won’t old Huxtable like that!’

Jimmy chuckled. ‘Tomorrer mornin’, right early, before anyone is up, I’ll go back to the Court and find out whether Cyril’s dead or alive,’ he said. ‘I’d take a bet that someone as horrible as him is all right, but I dare say you’ll feel better if you know you’ve not killed him. I’ll leave the washing outside the door. Do you want to come with me, or would you rather stay here? You can duck down under the stall if anyone from the Court comes by.’ He waited for a reply, and presently smiled to himself. Mo, bless her, was fast asleep, and he decided that if the weather was bad next day she would be best tucked away under Mr Theaker’s careful eye. The friendly stallholder would not let her down.

Outside on Great Homer Street the rain began to fall once more, and Jimmy, like a little mouse in its nest, heard the rain pattering on Mr Theaker’s stout canvas and felt happy. He had money in his pocket, the sweet taste of broken biscuits in his mouth and the prospect of cutting enough holly next day to make a nice little sum. Life, it seemed, had taken a turn for the better, for though the idea of setting off to find their Welsh relations might seem unrealistic in the cold light of day, he had made up his mind on another score. It was bad enough being bullied, taunted and half starved by Mrs Huxtable; why should his little sister feel physically threatened as well? No, he would sneak back to No. 4 whilst it was still dark, check on Cyril and dump the washing, and then he and Mo would stay clear of Solomon Court until Cyril was on the high seas once more.

Miss Glenys Trent, until recently deputy headmistress at the Peabody Academy for girls, came out on to the pavement without looking in either direction, and almost bowled over a passing boy. For a moment she just stood there in the rain feeling as though her legs were made of jelly, but then she remembered her umbrella, unfurled it and turned rather blindly away from the school. She must take hold of herself and face the awful truth that she was now one of the great army of unemployed. There were a number of things she would have to do: pay her landlady, settle any bills – for at least the board of governors had had the decency to pay an extra month’s salary for breaking their contract – and go to the labour exchange to see what the prospects of work for an experienced teacher might be. Fortunately she had always lived well within her means, so she still had most of her salary for that term’s teaching, tucked away in her post office savings book. Slogging along without the faintest idea of where she was going, the erstwhile deputy headmistress of the Peabody Academy could have wept with rage and frustration. She had held the post for one term and had received many congratulations on her work, yet the board had merely stared stonily at her as they gave her the bad news.