Blackie fell silent, gazing out of the window, his eyes wide, as the train plowed through the city center and along to Upper Armley and their destination, called Whingate Junction. When they finally got there, about half an hour later, it had grown darker and there weren’t many buildings that Blackie could see as they stepped down.

“So much for a great metropolis,” he said in surprise, glancing at Patrick, a brow lifting. His suitcase was heavy now, banging against his leg.

“They’re in the city,” Patrick shot back quickly. “Upper Armley is something like a large village, with lots of parks and green fields—” He broke off, stopped walking and swung to his right. “See that big field behind those railings?”

Following his uncle’s gaze, Blackie nodded. “I do, even though it’s getting dark now. What field is that then?”

“It’s a football field and it belongs to West Leeds High School. That’s the school just down there. The big black stone building.”

Blackie peered ahead. “Oh, I see it now.”

“And straight ahead of us is Charlie Cake Park—”

“What a funny name,” Blackie cut in. “Who was Charlie Cake?”

Patrick chuckled. “Nobody knows now. But it’s said that years ago a man called Charlie sold cakes in the small park, and eventually everyone just called it that.”

“And what’s that hut-like thing next to the park?”

“The police box, a sort of shelter for the copper on the beat. He can pop in there for a rest, or to shelter from the weather. Now, come on, my lad, here’s Town Street. Let’s get us home.”

Patrick and Blackie strode out, heading for the middle of Town Street. This was the main thoroughfare through Upper Armley. Both sides were lined with buildings; on one side, in the middle of the long street that stretched away, there were a few shops in between the houses and cottages. Lower down, Patrick told Blackie, it was filled with shops of all kinds, from the baker to the ironmongers.

Walking swiftly though they were, Patrick started to talk to Blackie, as they approached his home. He began, “Your aunt isn’t quite like she used to be, lad. She took a really bad cold in February, and it lingered, turned to bronchitis, which did her in a bit. The doctor was careful with her. Afraid of consumption, you see. Such a dreaded disease—”

“Is she all right, though?” Blackie asked, anxious.

“She’s better, Blackie. Much, much better. The doctor put her in St. Mary’s Hospital at Hill Top; that’s just above Whingate Junction, where the tram turns around to go back into Leeds. Anyway, Doctor Robinson kept her in for ten days, and when she got home she was practically better. Now she’s really well, but she’s not as strong on her feet, not as vibrant, as she used to be.”