Mrs McTavish started to wring the worst of the water out of the sheets, and then he helped her to fold the linen and feed it into the maw of the mangle. He quite enjoyed the work, only half listening to the chaff and laughter and letting his thoughts go back to Christmas, only a few days away. Not that it would make much difference to his and Mo’s lives; Aunt Huxtable would see to that. Even if his father sent extra money for the holiday, Jimmy knew he and Mo would never see it.

The Irishwoman’s voice brought Jimmy back to the present. ‘True, ain’t it?’ she said. ‘That woman’s awful quick wit’ a slap or a crack across the legs wit’ a stick.’ Mrs McTavish’s voice was sympathetic, and Jimmy warmed to her. It would be a relief to tell someone of all the mean tricks Aunt Huxtable played on him and his small sister. Promises of food or money if they did her messages or cleaned the house, promises which were never kept; days when he was not allowed out of the house, not even to attend school, because she wanted him to fetch and carry, or to clean the pub on the corner when the landlord was out and would not realise that the two children had done the work for which their ‘aunt’ had been paid. Then there was her scarcely veiled amusement when Jimmy was caned for non-attendance, though it was scarcely his fault since she herself had forbidden him to leave the Court. And he would never forget her spiteful gloating when Mo’s letter to her father, begging him to come home, was destroyed before her six-year-old eyes.

Feena McTavish was looking at him, eyebrows raised, and Jimmy glanced cautiously around him before replying. ‘Yes, she’s hard on me little sister,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘I can take it if I have to – though I can run like the wind when she’s close on me heels – but it’s different for Mo. I tell her over and over not to stand her ground – there’s no point in askin’ for trouble – but the kid won’t listen. And that Cyril near on broke her arm last time he were in port. If our da knew . . .’

He stopped speaking. Another woman had entered the wash house. Jimmy sighed. This was their neighbour, Mrs Grimshaw, and Mrs Huxtable’s crony. She was in her forties, with thin greying hair pulled back from a sharp, spiteful face, and the minute she saw Jimmy she burst into speech. ‘Here, jest you let Mrs Mac mangle her own perishin’ sheets! Your aunt said you’d gi’ me a hand if I fed you a morsel, ’cos she were too busy to go cookin’ treats for two kids what give her nothin’ but cheek! So what did you do after eatin’ more’n your fair share of that there meat and tater pie? Lit out, that’s what, so your aunt said to tell you there’d be no Christmas cheer for you unless me laundry was delivered, dry and ironed, afore the holiday. Now what does I find you doin’? Makin’ yourself a nice little sum by givin’ this good lady a hand wi’ her manglin’ while my tablecloths an’ serviettes wait to be scrubbed. I’m tellin’ you . . .’