Anyway, now coming towards her was the daughter of the woman who had sold her father ginger kisses all those years ago. Dulcie was two years older than Oriwia. They had attended the same school. She came across the road pushing a barrow of bread. Dulcie had a dough face and raisin eyes. Of course it was unkind to think of Dulcie in that way, Oriwia thought. However, Dulcie’s face was pale, round and pliable with dark eyes, pressed in. Here was someone else who had come to nose into her cart.

‘You got eggs for sale Oriwia?’

‘Not for sale. Taking them to my sister.’

‘But you have plenty? Plenty of eggs?’

‘For Moana-Rose.’

‘And butter. You have butter for shortbread?’

‘Home-made butter.’

‘What’s in the tin?’

‘Fruit cake.’

‘Hmm.’

Dulcie continued to stare in at the goods while Oriwia went to get her horse.

‘I miss the cakes,’ Dulcie said when Oriwia returned. ‘I want to get cakes back on the shelves. Times are getting better since the government brought in the Christmas bonus. I reckon I could sell cakes again now the old folks have got their pensions back and farmers have guaranteed dairy prices.’ Dulcie was prattling on. ‘They say there’s going to be a forty-hour week. And there’s people around, like these bachelor farmers, who wouldn’t mind a large cake or a few small ones. But we got a couple of problems. First, one oven has had it. Kerplunk. Second, no supply of butter and eggs, or cream.’ The train was coming. ‘Wait here Oriwia.’

Dulcie went off to deliver her bread to the train. Oriwia returned the horse between the shafts, thinking that she probably could supply eggs and butter to Dulcie.

But it wasn’t really raw goods that Dulcie wanted.

‘With Mum sick, Dad and I don’t have time. And only one oven. But people do ask about cakes. I do a wedding cake occasionally as long as they give me butter and eggs.’

What Dulcie wanted, once a fortnight, was three jars of shortbread, ‘because it keeps’, and a large cake – Madeira, caraway or gingerbread – that she could cut into quarters for sale. Perhaps eighths. The raisin eyes were glittering. She took up one of the jars, unscrewed the lid, sniffed into it, then took out a piece of the shortbread, broke it in half, examined it and tasted it.

‘Oh,’ she said, noticing Oriwia’s disapproval, ‘they’re perfect. Look, don’t worry, I’ll take this jarful and sell them for you. I’ll give you pies and currant buns for your sister instead.’