‘And no point, alas, in believing that we can stay here for long, unless I can find work,’ Glenys said ruefully. ‘When I went down to the basement kitchen to pay Mrs Buttermilk – I’ve booked us in for two nights’ supper, bed and breakfast – I asked if there was any chance of a teaching job around here, and, to be blunt, there isn’t. Then I mentioned Griffiths, and oh, Jimmy, there are hundreds of them.’ She peered out of the window and up into the sky. ‘Mrs Buttermilk says it always snows here, so there’s no point our searching for a dry and cosy barn because there’s no such thing. However, she did think that one of the outlying farms might give us beds in what they call bunkhouses, which the holidaymakers hire when the weather’s warmer. And, she says, someone on those farms might have work for a strong young woman.’ She giggled. ‘She meant me, of course. So immediately after breakfast tomorrow I think we should start visiting.’

Mo, who had curled up on a chair with eyes shut and toes pointed at the fire, suddenly opened her eyes. ‘Cyril will be real cross when they haul him off to the police station,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Serves him right for frightenin’ little girls. Serves him right for pokin’ his long nose into other people’s railway carriages . . .’

Glenys and Jimmy exchanged indulgent looks. It was clear to them both that the cosy armchair, the roaring fire and the welcome Mrs Buttermilk had given them were rapidly sending Mo into the land of nod. ‘Serves him right, serves him right . . .’ she said dreamily, as Glenys lifted her up and carried her to the bedroom – and the big double bed – which they were to share. She was still murmuring ‘serves him right’ as Glenys helped her out of her travelling clothes and into a white cotton nightie. The last thing Glenys heard, before she closed the door and went downstairs for supper, was Mo’s small, smug voice: ‘Serves him jolly well right.’

After hearing Mo’s description of her horrible experience Jimmy did not expect to fall asleep without a struggle, for losing Mo and then hearing how she had been pursued by a man whose description certainly fitted that of Cyril Huxtable had upset Jimmy deeply. Tossing and turning in his small but comfortable bed he told himself that now they were beyond the reach of both parents it was even more his duty to look after Mo and see she came to no harm. And what had he done? He had let her get off the train and trot around looking after some puppy or other. Of course it was not his fault that Cyril had come on to the platform to search the train and had got between Mo and the guard’s van, but he told himself he should have checked that she was aboard and not merely taken it for granted. When he thought of all the things which might have happened to a little girl of six, apparently abandoned by her companions, his blood ran cold. It was not just Cyril who might have harmed her. He had read stories in the newspaper . . . but he refused to allow himself to think of them now. What had happened was bad enough without letting his imagination run wild, and anyway they had been lucky. Mo had returned to them unscathed, and now all they had to do was find their mother’s family and ask to be taken in. Once the Griffiths were convinced that they were speaking the truth about the Huxtables, the scuffers could be called in to find whatever it was Cyril believed he and Mo had taken, and all would be well.