Jimmy immediately released his hold on the sheets, but the Irishwoman winked at him and jerked a thumb. ‘Leave off, Mrs Grimshaw,’ she said, her voice calm but authoritative. ‘The lad’s not workin’ for money, though I don’t deny I’ll gladly hand out a copper or two for the help he’s give willingly. You find yourself another to do the work . . . which won’t over-burden you, by the looks.’

Jimmy waited for an explosion of wrath from Mrs Grimshaw, but though she mumbled a complaint beneath her breath she said nothing more, merely crossing the puddled floor and dumping her washing – there was, indeed, not much of it – into the nearest unoccupied sink. Jimmy hastily picked up the next sheet and soon he and the Irishwoman were working once more. Jimmy decided that mangling was quite fun, or it was with Mrs McTavish cracking jokes to make him laugh and discussing the forthcoming holiday as though he, too, might get some enjoyment from it. She did not say a lot whilst Mrs Grimshaw was within hearing, but as soon as the sharp-faced woman had gone she began to talk freely once more.

‘You and your little sister will have some Christmas cheer, don’t you worry, for your pa’s bound to send a bit extry, a few little t’ings for his kids,’ she observed. ‘Tell you what, young feller; I’ll nip round to number four and put a word in. I reckon you’d rather I did that than paid you a few coppers for your help.’

Jimmy smiled politely, but wished he dared remind Mrs McTavish of the existence of Aunt Huxtable’s grown-up son. He, Jimmy, could outrun Mrs Huxtable, but he had suffered many times at Cyril’s hands. Last time he had come back he had accused Jimmy of some small sin, and when Jimmy had shot out of the house had grabbed Mo, dragged her to the door and bellowed out that if Jimmy didn’t return at once he’d break her perishing arm for her. Jimmy knew that if challenged Cyril would say he had been joking, just teasing the kid to keep him in line, but Jimmy had seen his sister’s face drain of colour as her small arm was forced up her back and he had returned at once, saying nothing when Cyril had hauled him into the kitchen and Aunt Huxtable had slashed his legs with the stick she kept handy by the kitchen fire.

But it was pointless worrying about Cyril, so Jimmy thanked Mrs McTavish but said that he hoped his pa might actually come home this year. The Irishwoman looked a little doubtful, but she said nothing more on the subject and the two continued to work in harmony.

An hour later, when Mrs Huxtable’s linen was dry enough to iron, Jimmy tucked the money she had given him into the pocket of his patched trousers. Then he ventured out of the wash house and looked doubtfully up at the darkened sky. The sleet had eased and lazy flakes of snow fell from the lowering clouds, but Jimmy hated the thought of returning to No. 4 without so much as glancing at the stalls on Great Homer Street. He had done the washing in record time, thanks to the kindly Irishwoman, so there could be no harm in a quick look at the second-hand stalls, where he might find some small gift for Mo which he could now afford to buy with the money Mrs McTavish had given him.