Today she found the going much harder than she had the first time she had gone there, for before long the weight of the bags and Charlotte was making her huff and puff and she had to stop frequently to rest her arms and rub her back. Above her seagulls were squawking and wheeling in the sky and once in the distance she spotted old Trampy Ned heading into town, but apart from them Amber felt she and her baby might be the only living things for miles around. It didn’t help that it was not yet fully light so she frequently slipped and slid as her feet caught in potholes. At last, after what seemed like hours, she came to the top of a hill and there was the farm nestled down below her. Negotiating the steep bank was no easy task for the grass was still wet with dew but finally she made it to the farm gate where she dropped her bags and leant heavily against it as she fought to catch her breath. The farm dog instantly appeared from his kennels and his bark was enough to waken the dead – it certainly woke Charlotte who began to wail miserably as Amber jiggled her up and down and tried to comfort her.

‘It’s all right, me little lass,’ she crooned. ‘We’re here now an’ you an’ me are goin’ to be as happy as can be, you just see if we ain’t.’

Mrs Barstow’s son burst out of the kitchen door, adjusting the braces that were dangling about his knees, and wielding a lethal looking shotgun.

‘Oh . . . it’s you!’ Much to Amber’s relief he lowered the barrel and snapped his braces up over his shoulder. He was wearing a dirty grey vest and he looked even worse than Amber remembered from her last visit. ‘You’d best come on in, an’ can’t yer shut that bairn up?’

He opened the gate for her but made no effort to retrieve her bags so Amber wearily lifted them up again and followed him into the kitchen. There she saw Mrs Barstow and two men sitting at a dirty table eating breakfast. There was an older man who Amber assumed was the farmer and another younger one who closely resembled the young man who had just shown her in.

‘So you’ve come then.’ Mrs Barstow lifted a chipped mug and slurped at her tea as she stared at Amber from narrowed eyes. ‘What do yer think of ’er, Herbert?’

The older man looked Amber up and down and shrugged. He was shovelling food into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten for a month and as egg yolk dripped down his chin, Amber felt slightly nauseous. He would certainly never win any awards for table manners.

‘Looks a bit on the skinny side to me. I hope as her can pull ’er weight.’