Mo had been sitting cross-legged behind the makeshift counter – she was clearly the shopkeeper on this occasion and Nelly Latimer the customer – and had risen reluctantly to her feet, but Jimmy had waved her to sit down again. ‘No point both of us getting soaked,’ he had said kindly, ‘so go on wi’ your game.’

And he had set off, slinging the canvas bag across one shoulder as he tried to avoid the worst of the puddles, for the cardboard soles he’d inserted into his ancient boots did not do much to keep his feet dry. He was bound for the tearooms to deliver the clean laundry in his bag and collect the dirty stuff, which he would then take to the wash house. Normally Aunt Huxtable would do the delivery herself, but today she had handed the carefully ironed linen to Jimmy with instructions to take it to the little café and collect the appropriate payment. He had planned to spend the day cutting holly in Princes Park and selling it on Homer Street market to make a bit of money for the holiday, and had just been telling himself that he could still do this when Aunt Huxtable had added a rider to her instructions. ‘And when you’ve delivered the clean linen, just you take all the dirty stuff what she’ll give you straight round to the wash house,’ she had ordered him. ‘Find yourself a sink and put the cloths in it; there’s a bar of yellow soap in the bottom of the bag that you can use to get ’em clean. Then, when there ain’t a stain on ’em, you must rinse ’em well and put ’em through the mangle. When that’s done grab yourself a bit of line and hang ’em out. And don’t you go leaving ’em there else you can be sure someone’ll prig ’em. Gather ’em up whilst they’s still damp but not really wet, and bring ’em home so’s I can iron ’em. Then tomorrer you ‘n’ your sister can take ’em back to Mrs Simpson.’ She had looked at him craftily, her mean little eyes sliding from the top of his head to his leaky boots. ‘If you does as I say I’ll give you a tanner; always provided the stuff’s as clean as a new pin acourse.’

Jimmy had stared at her, aghast. ‘But I’ve never done more’n carry the dirty linen up to the wash house for you,’ he had said. ‘Lads don’t go in the wash house, lerralone do the washin’. Why can’t you do it, Aunt Huxtable? I’m bound to make a mess of it, and then where will we be?’

Mrs Huxtable had laughed harshly and given Jimmy a shove so hard that he staggered. ‘None of that snivellin’!’ she had said sharply. ‘I’ve gorra job in the pub scrubbin’ down, which will take most of the day. There’s nowt to stop a lad usin’ the wash house, ‘specially so near Christmas. If your sister were a bit older . . . but she can give you a hand. I reckon she knows how to wash a dozen or so tablecloths even if you don’t. Where is she, anyroad? It ain’t often the pair of youse is parted.’