‘There is no need to go to the public box; I am on the telephone. It is necessary for bookings in high summer,’ Mrs Hughes said haughtily. ‘You are welcome to ring the Education Department; there’s a box for the money beside the phone, and the exchange will tell you what you owe.’

Later, when Glenys had called the Education Department, been given the necessary details and accepted the job, she went down the road to the station and telephoned the number Frank had given her. It rang out for a long time, but no one picked up at the other end, and Glenys pressed button B to get her money back. Disappointed, she stepped out on to the pavement. Never mind, she told herself, I’ll try again sometime. I’d really like to let Frank know we’re all right and starting afresh.

When term started, Glenys prepared for her first day at the school by eating a hearty breakfast and adjuring Mo to hurry as they had a good walk in front of them. Jimmy had refused point-blank to go with them to what he called ‘the babies’ school’, and Glenys had laughed and agreed that a few extra days’ holiday would do him no harm. ‘So you’re staying here today?’ she said now, helping herself to a round of toast and buttering it. ‘Perhaps you can meet a few of the locals – ask them whether there are many farms in the area,’ she added meaningly, while across the table Mrs Hughes raised her eyebrows.

‘A good thing it is for us – and no doubt for you too – that you was on a walking holiday in our area just in time to step into Miss Teleri Jones’s shoes until she gets over the measles,’ she observed. She gave a grim little chuckle. ‘You didn’t arrange it? No, no, Miss Jones is a very upright woman, a pillar of the chapel, but it does seem strange, don’t you think?’

‘I believe I did tell you we were not on a walking holiday,’ Glenys said rather stiffly. ‘I teach at a private school; they have much longer holidays, so we decided to try to contact relatives who we believe live somewhere in this area . . . the name’s Griffiths. Do you know a family by that name?’

Mrs Hughes chuckled. ‘I know a lot of families by that name, all living within five miles of the town,’ she assured Glenys. ‘Have you anything other than a surname to go by? A trade perhaps, or a nickname?’

Glenys hesitated. ‘The children’s mother was called Grace,’ she admitted at last.

Mrs Hughes shook her head. ‘It generally goes with the fellers, not the girls,’ she said. ‘Do you know how many Dai Hugheses there are just on this one street?’ She began to tick them off on her fingers. ‘Dai the coal, Dai the cane – his father was the schoolmaster – Dai the bread, and the one they call Dai Tacsi . . .’