Joseph forced his lips onto hers. Teeth clenched, Philomena took a deep breath, stood tall, and drove her knee into his groin. Joseph doubled up, grunting. A two-handed thrust launched him across the room. He crashed into the flimsy wall and lay still, shocked and gasping. A grey snow of loose plaster rained down, speckling the head and shoulders of his fustian waistcoat.

Triumphant, Philomena laughed. “Don’t you dare touch me again or you’ll be sorry.”

Joseph stumbled to his feet and sneered, lips curled over a jungle of mismatched yellow teeth and a single black stump. “Little fool. You’ll give in soon enough. Make no mistake about that.” Blobs of congealed fat from last night’s dinner fell from his coarse cotton shirt as he lurched out of the room. The door crashed shut.

Philomena’s mind raced, sharp and clear. She’d managed to get the upper hand this once, but next time would be another matter. The city she called home offered precious little protection to a lone woman. The time had come to leave. Her chin lifted. “Tomorrow,” she whispered, “I’ll be in Bristol.”

Skilful with a needle and thrifty enough to have saved a few sovereigns over the years, she could build a new life. The new Great Western Railway would whisk her to the other side of the country in less time than a cab took to cross London. Joseph would come after her, of course. He needed her expertise in the tailor shop, for he lacked any talent. Philomena must take care to draw no attention.

She snatched his Sunday best clothes from a hook. Lord, the smell was terrible. The clothing hadn’t had the benefit of the laundress’s tub for many a month. She breathed through her mouth and dressed in the heavy fustian trousers, tightening a length of string around her waist to prevent them falling off. Fastening the jacket snugly with a pin across the chest, she turned back the sleeves. A flat cap led to a struggle. No sooner was one handful of raven-black curls tucked inside than another escaped. Philomena’s fingers fumbled, as fat and lazy as slugs.

She pulled a pair of Samuel’s scissors from a table, took a deep breath, grasped a heavy lock of curls, and chopped hard. Hair tumbled to the floor. She worked fast, wasting no energy on regrets until a heap of curls lay on the wooden floor.

Goodbye, Philomena. A grin spread from ear to ear as she slammed the door of the lodgings.

Night closed in before she reached Bishop’s Bridge Road Station, tired and footsore, to clamber aboard the train. Heavy rain plummeted down. She shivered in the open wagon. For more than an hour, the train rattled onward. Philomena’s weary eyes closed, lulled by the regular rhythm of the wheels. At last, head nodding and chin resting on her chest, she slept.

The train lurched, pitching her awake. A cry, so shrill with fright that it was impossible to tell if it came from a man or a woman, pierced the night. “Gawd ’elp us all, it’s a landslide.”