‘I know,’ Lizzie nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking about that and wondering what I could do. Mebbe I could work at ’cotton mill like Edyta. Will she leave when she gets married? I could mebbe have her job if she does.’

Ellen sighed. Her sister had always had big ideas. ‘Edyta’s a foreman, Lizzie.’ She giggled suddenly. ‘Forewoman, I suppose. Anyway, you couldn’t do her work, and besides, you don’t like getting up early.’

Lizzie slid down under the blanket next to Ellen. ‘I don’t. I could mebbe start at eight,’ she mused. ‘But I’d prefer nine. That’s what I’ll look for, Ellen, a job that starts at nine. Or even better, I’ll look out for a rich husband, even though it’s too soon yet after Albert.’

Ellen was shocked that her sister could even think of such a thing. She’d never want to marry again if Harry – well, she wouldn’t even contemplate such an awful possibility, but when she glanced at Lizzie to admonish her she saw she had a gleam in her eyes and her mouth was twitching and realized she was joking. She stuck her elbow in Lizzie’s ribs and said, ‘Naughty girl!’ and they both began to giggle like the schoolgirls they had once been at the impossibility of such a fantasy.

Roland Tannerson arrived at half past eight the following morning as the children were finishing their porridge. Ellen had been up at six, and going into the scullery to fill the kettle had discovered that the little hen who had so obligingly provided them with eggs had expired during the night. She’d picked her up and stroked her soft feathers. So be it, she’d thought. She did well to survive so long, but I can’t consider cooking her. The children thought of her as a pet.

She’d put the hen carefully into a brown paper bag which had previously held bread, put on her coat, shawl and boots and stepped outside into the yard, where she unlocked the gate and carried the parcel down the muddy slope to where a single wizened, gnarled and leafless tree grew near the river bank. An unexpected thin skin of ice lay on the water, but it hadn’t deterred two fishermen who stood on the opposite bank with their rods and lines.

She’d placed the parcel carefully under the tree, murmuring, ‘Thank you, little hen,’ knowing that the creature might save another from starvation, and walked back up the slope, the puddles soaking into her boots. She felt the soles of her stockinged feet become damp and thought that she must find some cardboard to pack inside her boots; repairing them was not an option even though she now had money in her purse. That was spoken for: rent, food and coal for the fire were the essential priorities.