By now Thomas was waking and climbing out of bed. He clambered into his mother’s arms, and Mary insisted she could wash herself just as Sarah had done, so Ellen let her, and thought that wiping up the overspill afterwards was a small price to pay in order to get them all washed and dressed.

Thomas sat in the sink whilst she washed him down and then she wrapped him in a towel and blanket and sat by the fire to feed him, deciding that now was probably the time when she would begin to wean him in earnest. He was old enough, he had all his teeth, and as she had done with Sarah and Mary she would give him bread and milk, pobs as it was called, until after a few months he was eating the same food as the adults.

They were ready: washed, fed and dressed, but it seemed to have taken much longer than usual. Ellen asked Sarah and Mary to take Thomas’s hands whilst she locked up and then shepherded them out of the front door. She picked him up to carry him, for it would be quicker than letting him walk; he struggled to get down but she promised he could walk on the way back.

They headed the way that the workers had gone and she hoped that there would be a baker’s somewhere near. If I were a baker I’d have my shop where people were passing by and the enticing aroma of freshly baked bread would draw them in. It was a very long street of terraced housing, but there were no shops as yet; at the bottom of the street she saw only the tops of tall chimneys and the towers of seed-crushing mills.

Thomas was heavy and he wriggled constantly to get down and walk beside his sisters, so before long her resolution failed and she allowed him, but instead of toddling forward he turned to look back the way they had come and pointed. Ellen sighed and took his hand. ‘Come along, Thomas; you wanted to walk.’ But he pointed back again and Ellen turned to see a tall woman and her children hurrying towards them, the woman signalling for her to wait. Ellen noticed how striking she was, her eyes and the hair showing beneath her shawl a very dark brown, much darker brown than Ellen’s.

‘I think you live in house where we lived. I saw you come out.’

Ellen nodded and pointed up the street. ‘Yes? We moved in on Saturday.’

‘Your husband gave us money, and bread for children.’

‘Did he?’ Harry had said he’d given them something. He didn’t mention giving them his bread. ‘I’m sorry if we took your house,’ Ellen added as an apology.

The woman shook her head. ‘The rent man – he say we had to leave. We have no more money to pay.’