Nutty stared, eyes rounding. ‘Surely he wouldn’t hit a kid like Mo?’ he asked incredulously. ‘She’s only a baby, when all’s said and done, and me mam says she’s that underfed that Mrs Huxtable ought to be prosecuted.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is your dad comin’ home for the holiday? If so, you’ve got to tell ’im how you’re treated, so—’

Jimmy snorted; he couldn’t help it. ‘Dad thinks sending money is all he has to do,’ he said bitterly. ‘Our mam died more’n a year ago and he’s not been home once since then; he only stayed for a couple of days after the funeral, just long enough to agree to the Huxtables moving in to our house.’ He lowered his voice. ‘That’s why me an’ Mo’s goin’ to make ourselves scarce until after Cyril’s ship sails. I dunno quite what we’re goin’ to do yet, but I’ll think of summat.’

‘And I won’t breathe a word to a soul,’ Nutty promised. ‘Wish I could do more to help, old feller, but me and my brother Sammy is goin’ to put our money together to buy our mam one of them lovely cookin’ aprons what I see’d on a stall next but one to Mrs Apply’s. Tell you what, though, why don’t the pair of us nip out when the market’s quietened down an’ cut some holly in Princes Park? Mam says that’s stealing, but me da says it’s no more stealing than a blackbird pickin’ off hawthorn berries. Trees belong to everyone, he says.’

Jimmy grinned. ‘Mo an’ me always get our holly from them thick hedges what keeps us out of the rich people’s gardens. Thanks, Nutty; that’s a good idea of yours. I were goin’ to go anyway, but between the pair of us we’ll be able to cut a really good bunch and sell it door to door. It’s funny really; most of the customers are buying their own holly back, when you come to think. Anyway, why don’t you an’ me meet in Princes Park when the markets shut, and if Mo an’ myself can make enough gelt sellin’ my half tomorrow then maybe our Christmas won’t be too bad after all.’

Miss Trent tried every labour exchange in the city, but though some of the staff were sympathetic she was not offered work. She had explained that she had been deputy head at the Peabody Academy, that she had been ‘last in, first out’, having only joined the school in September, that she had references from both her previous employer and a governor of the Academy, but it had been useless.

‘Put yourself on the supply list,’ a friendly clerk advised her. ‘After Christmas there’s always flu or tummy bugs and schools need replacement teachers for weeks, sometimes. Only you’ll need to go to the education department; we don’t deal with short-term temporary jobs here. And if I were you I’d leave it until the new term starts.’ The clerk, a middle-aged woman with a round face and twinkling dark eyes, smiled conspiratorially. ‘Wait until they’re desperate. Good luck, Miss . . .’ she glanced down at the papers before her, ‘Miss Trent.’