Jimmy beamed at the speaker, a big Irish woman who lived in Solomon Court a couple of doors down from No. 4. Her name was Mrs McTavish and Jimmy knew she took in a great deal of laundry, doing not only the washing but also the ironing, and turning out piles of crisp, dazzlingly white sheets, tablecloths and the like every day. She was a hard worker and popular with the other women who used the wash house, but for a moment he hesitated, for Aunt Huxtable was also in the business of laundering for others, though in a very small way as yet. Suppose Mrs McTavish resented the competition and meant to splash him with scalding hot water, or wait until his attention was elsewhere so that she might pull Aunt Huxtable’s laundry out of the sink and on to the dirty, puddled floor? It was the sort of thing Aunt Huxtable would have done herself if she could get away with it, but Mrs McTavish was a very different kettle of fish. He caught the fat woman’s eye and saw only appeal, and a sort of rueful friendliness, and so he took the copper stick from her huge, water-softened fingers and began to fish sheets, pillowslips and a couple of big white handkerchiefs out of the hot water.

‘Where d’you want ’em?’ he said gruffly. ‘Which sink is you rinsin’ in?’

The small, skinny woman on the far side of Mrs McTavish gestured to the sink next to her own. ‘Drop ’em in there, lad,’ she said. ‘We’s all up to our ’oxters in washin’, what wi’ Christmas so close.’ She grinned at the big Irishwoman. ‘I’d gi’ you a hand meself, Feena, only I’s gorra sink full, a-waitin’ for a mangle to come free; the minute that happens I’ll get this lot across.’ She turned back to Jimmy. ‘This near the ’oliday we’s all at full stretch and workin’ our fingers into holes so’s we get paid in time to buy a bit of pork, or even a last-minute bird on Great Homey market.’

‘Aye, that’s why every sink’s in use,’ another woman remarked, twisting round to smile at Jimmy. She was younger than most of the others and was pegging out a line of nappies. ‘When I saw you in here, lad, I thought t’ings is desperate so dey are, else you wouldn’t find a lad in the wash house, not if it were ever so.’ She chuckled and wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘Your mam gorra big order?’ she enquired.

Jimmy shook his head, feeling a blush burn up his neck and invade his face. ‘Nah,’ he said quickly. ‘And she ain’t my mam, neither. She said she’d gimme a tanner if I brought her tablecloths an’ that up to the wash house and stayed until the stuff was dry enough to iron.’