When she went back to the kitchen with some empty cups she saw that Alice had come down. She was counting some coins into Mrs Hall’s hand and neither said a word to her. She washed up the cups and went back into the parlour where Alice had joined a man who hadn’t been at the meeting but had somehow managed to get himself a good seat near the fire – his legs stretched out as if he owned the place. He was well dressed, as if he had money, but he didn’t look like gentry. His hastily knotted cravat was too bright and although the other customers treated him with respect they didn’t treat him with deference.

‘Who’s the new lass?’ she heard him ask Alice.

‘Mary,’ she told him. ‘She’s only here to help serve. Nothing more!’

‘Jealous?’ he asked with a grin.

Alice didn’t reply but started to gather the used cups as the men began to say their goodnights.

‘Tha can get to bed now,’ Mrs Hall told Mary. ‘Alice’ll finish up.’

As she climbed the steep steps to her room, Mary wondered if they all thought she was a complete innocent. She could see full well what was going on, although she wanted no part in it. The man had had the same look in his eyes that her father used to get when he came home after drinking in the pub.

It had begun when she started to stay up a bit later, after everyone else had gone to bed. The house was peaceful at that time and it gave her the chance to be alone for a half an hour – a rare luxury. When she heard her father’s clogs coming unsteadily up the street she knew that the peace was over and that it was time for her to get off to bed, if she could push her sisters up far enough to make room for her. At first she’d thought he was being affectionate when he’d come in and put his arms around her and kissed her. She’d liked it because he was never much of a loving father when he was sober. She’d been flattered by his attention, craved it, and kissed him back and let him hold her even though she knew it wasn’t right for a father to touch his own daughter like that. But it had felt nice, so she hadn’t pushed his hands away and nothing much had come of it until one night when she’d been sitting by the embers, straining to see the frock that she wanted to finish sewing because the next day was Sunday. The weather had turned fine and she’d wanted to wear something nice.

He’d come in and greeted her with a smile. Then he’d come across and kissed her, full on the lips, and she’d felt his tongue pushing into her mouth. He’d gripped her arms so tightly that she’d tried to wriggle away because he was hurting her, but it seemed to get him more excited and he’d pulled her down from the chair, on to the rag rug in front of the dying fire, and he’d touched her breast through her blouse.