Amber had been so busy thinking about what she might say to her mother that it was almost a shock when she reached the brow of the hill that led down to her home in Argument’s Yard. The majority of the community lived in such yards, each of them sloping steeply down to the sea. Each yard consisted of flights of steps with small two-up, two-down houses that were crammed together so tightly on either side that the sunshine rarely reached the steps between them. The houses were far from salubrious but to Amber, who had never known any other, it was home and usually when she reached this point on her day off, she would be smiling. But not today. Beyond the boats anchored in the harbour the weak morning sunshine was reflecting off the sea making the crests of the white waves look as if they had been scattered with crushed diamonds, but she could see no joy in anything as she plodded on, a feeling of dread settling about her like a heavy cloak.

‘Mornin’, Amber, lass,’ a neighbour who was outside on the steps beating a carpet shouted when Amber turned into her yard, and although her heart was heavy Amber forced a smile.

‘Mornin’, Mrs Preston. Me mam in, is she?’

‘Oh arr, she’s in all reet, lass, I saw her not half an hour since.’

Much as Amber liked the woman, she was painfully aware that Mrs Preston was the worst gossip in the yard and now she had no doubt word would spread like wildfire that she was home in working hours. Still, there was nothing she could do about it so she moved on and when she reached the door of her home, she took a deep breath and entered.

It was dark in the kitchen-cum-sitting room and her mother was at the scrubbed pine table rolling pastry for a fish pie. She was like an older version of Amber with the same orange-brown eyes and strawberry-blonde hair and she smiled with pleasure as she caught sight of her daughter. It was rare that she got to see her since she’d gone into service, apart from on a Sunday.

‘Why lass, whatever are you doin’ here?’ Alice Ainsley quickly clapped the flour from her hands before rubbing them down the coarse huckaback apron that enveloped her from the waist down. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

‘Aye, I should, Mam . . . but the thing is . . . I have somethin’ to tell you.’ Amber shuffled from foot to foot as shame coloured her cheeks.

Her mother advanced on her and gave her an affectionate squeeze before holding her at arm’s length and saying tightly, ‘Then you’d best spit it out. But first I’ll put t’kettle on. There ain’t nowt seems so bad when you’ve a good strong brew to hand.’