Ellen gazed at her. How could she possibly tell? She wasn’t completely sure herself; nor had she yet told Harry, as she didn’t want to put more pressure on him just yet. Sarah was guessing, of course. She knew where babies came from, and puppies and kittens too. Ellen smiled; she probably thought there was a cupboard full of babies tucked inside her, and as for its being a boy, well! She was a very imaginative child, a little girl with old wisdom in her eyes.

‘When I next have a baby,’ she compromised, ‘and if it’s a boy, we might call him William, like Uncle Billy.’

‘Oh!’ Sarah said. ‘Is Uncle Billy called William?’

‘He is; sometimes people who are really called William get called Billy instead.’

Sarah considered this carefully and then said, ‘Not like the other William. He was called Will.’

Ellen decided not to consider this remark. Sarah often went off on imaginary flights and she never knew if the child had been listening to adults’ conversation or just making up stories. Her mother had had a brother called William who died before Ellen was born and he it was for whom Billy was named, but Sarah couldn’t possibly know about him.

She sighed. It was going to be a long twenty-four hours before Harry came home and she could have adult conversation.

Mid-afternoon she decided she’d take the children out for a walk by the river bank, taking a sack to gather up kindling and small branches. A change of air will freshen us all and we might see people to talk to. She missed conversation such as she had had with locals in Holmpton. Her days here seemed to follow the same pattern, day in, day out, week in, week out.

Filip was looking after the Bosco children today and Anna was working, so they wouldn’t be calling in, and she remembered that Harry had said Filip was going to look for another room.

As they stepped out of the front door Ellen saw her neighbour, Mrs Johnson’s daughter, hurrying up the street carrying shopping. She waited, holding the door open for her.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said brightly. ‘Have you finished work for the day?’

The woman looked startled. ‘Yes,’ she said briefly.

‘How is your mother? Is she well?’

The woman’s eyes darted about. ‘You know my mother?’

She had an accent, but not as strong as her mother’s; Ellen thought that was probably because she was mixing with other workers whereas her mother seemed to spend all day alone in their room.

‘Yes, did she not say? She had fallen out of bed. My friend and I helped her back in again.’

Miss Johnson stared at Ellen as if confused. ‘No,’ she said. ‘She didn’t say. Thank you,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘You are very kind.’

‘Not at all,’ Ellen said. ‘Just being neighbourly. I was pleased to help.’