As she sat drinking her tea, Jennet stared at the pile of laundered clothes that were waiting to be pressed, at the clothes on the rack above the range, the sheets flapping on the line in the yard, and the bedding that was soaking in the tub waiting to be boiled and then mangled and hung up to dry. She put her cup down and sank her face into her hands, trying to cry in silence so that Bessie wouldn’t be alarmed. It was too much, and she had no idea how she was going to get it all done and nurse Peggy too – and Titus would be back later, expecting his tea on the table so he could go out to his Reform meeting.

‘Mam?’ She felt the little hand on her knee and looked to see Bessie’s bewildered face staring up at her.

‘It’s all right,’ she said, lifting her daughter on to her knee and kissing the top of her head. ‘It’s all right.’ It was far from all right though. She didn’t know how she would go on if anything happened to either of her children. She pushed the thought aside. It was too painful to even think about.

Peggy woke later, whimpering and pleading for a drink.

‘Not yet,’ Jennet told her, stroking her hair back from her damp forehead. ‘Doctor says tha’s to have nowt until tha’s better.’

‘But I’m thirsty!’ complained Peggy.

‘It’ll only make thee sick again. Try to sleep for a bit,’ she soothed her. But Peggy wouldn’t settle and every time Jennet went down to try to get on with her work she kept calling out and crying and crying and Jennet kept having to break off to go up to comfort her.

When she came down for the umpteenth time she smelled the burning. She ran to lift the hot iron, burning her hand on the handle because she forgot to use a rag. She’d left it face down on the back of the blouse and the cotton was brown and singed and the smell pervaded the parlour.

‘No!’ Jennet stared at the ruined garment in horror, unable to believe that she’d been so careless. She tried to recall who it belonged to and for a moment or two, as she stood there, she couldn’t bring to mind the names of any of her customers. Then it came to her. Mrs Pickering from Richmond Terrace. Oh God. Why did it have to be her? She was amongst the fussiest of the women Jennet did washing for. She was always complaining and picking fault when there was nothing wrong. What was she going to say about this? She was a gossip too, and nasty with it. As soon as Jennet confessed what had happened it would be all over town and she’d be telling everyone not to trust Mrs Eastwood with their laundry. The blouse would have to be replaced too. Jennet fingered the cotton. It was good quality. It would be expensive. And the hems were neater than she could manage; she wondered if she could persuade Hannah to make a new one for her.