‘It’s my mother who was a Foster,’ she explained as she followed him inside. ‘She’s a Snowden now, but she has brothers who are Fosters, and my brother is named Billy, ’same as you!’

‘Well, isn’t that the oddest thing.’ He went on talking as he led her through the shop. ‘I’m Mark William,’ he disclosed, ‘though I’ve always been known as Bill Foster. And come to think of it, one of my nieces is called Ellen. Now,’ he said, his arms outstretched to show her the gleaming range, ‘isn’t she the loveliest thing?’

Ellen agreed. The range had been scrubbed and polished, and probably black leaded, she thought, for it gleamed as if it had been buffed and burnished, and the formerly tarnished copper pans now shone so brightly that she was sure she could have seen her reflection in them.

‘I even boiled the billy on the hob this morning,’ he told her. ‘I scrubbed it out first and threw out the first lot of water, then boiled it again and made a pot of tea. Perfect. Saved me lighting my little oil stove.’

‘It’s wonderful,’ she said. ‘I’m so excited. I can’t wait to start the first batch of bread.’

‘Well, whenever you want,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave it fired up today and then let the fire out until you’re ready to give it a try. If you’ll excuse me now, my early customers will be along soon and I need to get set up, but stay as long as you like. I found some earthenware pancheons in a cupboard, by the way,’ he added. ‘There are some cream ones and some that are red on the outside and cream on the inside. You’ll know what their use is, I expect, but I’ve washed them and put them in a cupboard, which I’ve also washed out, as you’ll see. I’ve been pretty busy.’ He laughed, and Ellen thought he’d probably enjoyed bringing out all his wife’s baking utensils and giving them a purpose again.

‘One type is for mixing and kneading,’ she said. ‘And the other will be for proving.’

‘Well, if you say so, Ellen.’ He lifted a finger and hurried away into the shop, and she warmed to him for the effort he had made.

She had a look around. Everything in the cupboards had been scrubbed clean and stacked tidily, the floor had been swept and washed, the wooden table in the centre of the room had been scrubbed almost white and the ovens were belting out heat; she took off her shawl and folded it up to make a pad for her hand and carefully opened one of the oven doors. It was just right for baking bread. She bent down to close up the vents beneath the ovens and stop the fire drawing so much, and made a quick decision.