‘I’m sorry,’ Ellen said again, but an answer swiftly came back.

‘Not your fault. We are not from here. We are from Poland. We have all papers but my husband cannot get work.’

‘Where are you living now?’

‘We have room. It is a – what you call – a piwnica, a cellar, under ground.’

Ellen stared, her lips parted. ‘Under ’ground?’

She nodded. ‘Tak! Yes. It is, erm – odour, stink. Wet?’

‘Damp?’ Ellen asked.

‘Tak – yes. Your husband give us money and the man – he take the money and let us have this room.’

Ellen gave a soft exclamation. Harry had said that he was worried the family would have to make the choice between food or rent. Perhaps someone gave them food; the parish, maybe?

‘Would you like to come back with me for a cup of tea?’ she asked. ‘But first I must buy bread; as you know, there isn’t an oven in the room for me to make any. Is there a baker’s shop anywhere near here?’

The woman nodded. ‘Come, I will show you.’

Ellen and the children walked by the woman’s side and the children all gazed shyly at each other. There was a girl and a boy about the same age as Sarah and Mary, and a boy roughly Thomas’s age being carried by his mother.

‘I’m Ellen,’ she said after a moment. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Anna Bosco.’ She pointed a hand at her children. ‘Zofia,’ she said of the eldest girl, ‘and Jakub, and this,’ she jiggled the littlest, ‘is Aron. My husband is Filip.’

Soon the older children were giggling at each other, although not speaking, and Ellen wondered if Zofia and Jakub spoke English. ‘When did you come to England?’ she asked.

‘One month ago. We came on ship from Rotterdam. We stay near railway station and are given food, but then we leave so Filip can find work. Some friends, they go to Liverpool and then America but we want to stay in England; we look for our …’ She struggled to find the words. ‘Erm – Filip’s cowsuns?’

Ellen looked at her. ‘Cousins?’

‘Yes! But we cannot find them. Perhaps they leave to go somewhere else, we think.’

They had left the street and cut down another and now they were led on by the tantalizing smell of freshly baked bread. All the children eagerly looked up, even though Sarah and Mary had eaten breakfast.

‘It is someone’s house,’ Anna said. ‘It is good bread. Made with water, not milk.’

‘You’ve tried it?’

‘Yes.’ Anna’s face fell and Ellen suspected she had no money to buy more. She was aware that she didn’t have much money either, not until Harry collected his wages on Saturday, but she thought she had enough to buy an extra loaf.

‘In Poland I make good bread,’ Anna said. ‘Rye bread; you like it?’