It all seemed very casual, Harry thought. Not what he’d expected at all, but he supposed that if Tannerson was in the middle of a works meeting it was not surprising he’d forgotten him.

Kirkwood came across to him. ‘How do?’ he said. ‘What trade ’you in?’

‘I was a farmhand,’ Harry said, ‘but there’s no work in ’country so I’ve come to town.’

‘Ah, well, there’s plenty of work in oil and seed crushing if you’re prepared for hard graft. We’re waiting on a delivery coming upriver, and once ’barges get here it’ll be all hands on deck. Are you used to manhandling stuff?’

‘Certainly am,’ Harry grinned. ‘There’s no harder work than being out in ’fields ploughing or handling sacks o’ corn.’

‘Is that right?’ Kirkwood raised bushy grey eyebrows. ‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?’ He paused for a moment and rubbed his chin. ‘Until ’delivery arrives I’m a bit flummoxed as to what I can give you to do, but mebbe you could mek some space in ’yard. Shift some of ’barrows and carts.’

‘Yep, I can do that, owt that’s useful,’ Harry replied, anxious not to be seen as a spare part, and he’d noticed the assortment of equipment scattered about in what seemed to be a haphazard manner. ‘Is there somewhere I can put my things?’

Kirkwood pointed to a room off the loading bay where there were wall hooks and a couple of wooden chairs. Harry deposited his coat and the knapsack containing his lowance, as countrymen called it – his dinner of bread and cheese – and went back out into the yard to find himself a job.

Filip hurried after the woman, who was walking very fast, scurrying in fact as if she wanted to get away from something or someone. When he was only a few yards behind her he called, ‘Excuse me!’

She barely hesitated before putting her head down and hurrying along even faster. He lengthened his stride. ‘Shalom,’ he said quietly, but clearly enough for her to hear.

She reduced her speed and slowly turned her head. ‘Shalom,’ she greeted him in barely a whisper. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘Nothing.’ He smiled. ‘I am Filip Bosco. I am from Poland – and you?’

‘It does not matter where I am from.’ She turned her face away from his gaze. ‘I am Edith Johnson.’ She pronounced the letter J as a Y.

‘Johnson?’ he said, pronouncing it correctly. ‘Edyta Jablonski?’

‘Edith Johnson,’ she repeated. ‘I must go. If I’m late, I lose my job.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the cotton mill to look for work. Perhaps I can walk with you?’

‘No,’ she said frostily. ‘You can’t. There will be gossip.’