Glenys had seen her point and had promptly gone out in her lunch hour and bought a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles with lenses of blank glass. She was glad she had, because not only did they make her look older and more – oh, more responsible – but when she wanted time to think she took off the spectacles and thoughtfully polished them, keeping a little cloth especially for the purpose. Yes, she would continue wearing the spectacles; she thought it quite possible that she might need to look older and more responsible when she tackled the labour exchange the next day.

Walking fast now, Miss Trent continued to try to count her blessings. There are other savings to be taken into account; I shan’t need to buy the text books which the school seemed to think I had to have in order to teach my ‘young ladies’, nor the exercise books, which I always thought a school provided anyway.

She stopped walking for a moment and looked around her. Where on earth was she? On either side of the road were dozens and dozens of stalls. Miss Trent gave herself a mental shake. She really must pull herself together. Why, she had walked right into the middle of the Great Homer Street market; now she would have to retrace her steps to her lodgings in Orange Street. She had warned Mrs Stockyard that she was intending to move out on the first of January, but now she would have to admit that she had been dismissed and would need to keep her room on for a bit longer if possible. She would be searching for work and ought to be in the centre of Liverpool where most jobs were to be found. So her best move now would be to go back to her lodgings, get a good night’s sleep if she could, and visit the nearest labour exchange in the morning. In her heart she knew that there was no hope of a teaching job at this time of year, but there must be something else she could do, something which would bring in, if not a living wage, at least enough money to keep her until she did find a post. Resolutely, Miss Trent made for Orange Street.

Cyril awoke. He lay in his untidy and rather smelly bed and for a moment could not remember where he was. Slowly, the events of the afternoon came back to him. He was in his ma’s house in Solomon Court and the reason that he ached all over was because he’d had a bad fall. Nothing to do with being drunk, he told himself hazily. No, it was them bloody kids; one of them must have given him a shove and he’d gone arse over tit down the perishing stairs. It were lucky for them he’d not broke a bone, but even so, when he caught up with them . . .

For a moment he simply lay there planning his revenge on the Trewin brats, but then another memory rose sluggishly to the surface. He had been in the pub with his mates, celebrating the start of their shore leave, when another seaman, even drunker than they were, had begun to boast about stealing jewellery from one of the big houses on Princes Avenue. The man had even taken a necklace out of his pocket and shown it off, holding it up to the light so that the sparkling stones flashed fire, and basking in the slurred admiration of his friends. There and then Cyril had known what he was going to do, and two hours later he had been waiting outside when the other man left the pub, had bashed him on the head, and had stolen the necklace . . . the necklace!