‘Aye,’ he said. ‘That was a generation before, but somehow they finished up in Holderness and Foster’s great-grandfather – I think that’s what he said – upped sticks from there and emigrated to Australia. Are you listening to what I’m saying, Ellen? Lizzie, are you? What was your ma’s name before she wed your da?’

Harry’s gaze swept Ellen’s expression of bewilderment and then Lizzie’s of dawning enlightenment.

‘Foster,’ she cried. ‘We’re related!’

The next morning Ellen traipsed sleepily down Queen’s Road towards Beverley Road to begin her morning chores. She could see a sweep’s brush above the chimney tops and as she turned the corner she saw it was over Bill Foster’s shuttered shop and was immediately enlivened. It was happening. Neither she nor Harry had slept well; Harry had opened the letter that Lizzie had brought home and after reading the contents was completely speechless and handed it over to Ellen instead.

‘What does it mean?’ she whispered after reading it, and looked at Lizzie, who shook her head. It was not for discussion with her, she was saying, except she remarked to Harry, ‘Don’t forget it has to last you until you’re back at work and earning again.’ She smiled. They were not spendthrifts, and it would last them for a long time. It would put them firmly on their feet. This was not to replace lost earnings; those would still be paid. Tannerson had promised. This was compensation for Harry’s injuries and some scars that would stay with him for life.

So many things were rushing through Ellen’s head during the night and she tossed about so much that she was glad to get up, get dressed and make herself tea and toast before leaving the house. Harry slept on, completely exhausted but free at last of worry for their immediate future.

She was early and therefore earlier finishing her work; she gave in her notice, explaining that family circumstances prohibited her from continuing, and walking back along the road she saw smoke coming from the chimney above the shop. The door opened and Bill Foster came out carrying a trestle table, then brought out crates of produce to arrange in front of the window before returning inside again and bringing out sacks of vegetables.

She crossed the road and walked towards him. ‘Good morning, Mr Foster,’ she called. ‘I see you have a good fire going this morning.’

He put down another sack. ‘G’morning, Mrs Randell.’ He grinned. ‘Yes, I’m trying out a small fire and it’s burning well. The ovens are getting hot already.’

‘May I have a look? And as we seem to be related, would you care to call me Ellen?’

He put his hands on his hips. ‘Now isn’t that a coincidence? But yes, come along in, Ellen, and you can see the ovens for yourself.’