‘When you’re out and about,’ Rachaela said, ‘you know you mustn’t talk to anyone. I remember Emma telling you about that. It still matters.’

‘I sometimes ask the way.’

‘That’s all right. But don’t get into conversations. Always speak to women, not men.’

‘Yes, Mummy.’

Rachaela closed the curtain. She looked at Ruth drinking a mug of tea at the table. She seemed like an average child, a little unusual, wonderful hair, very composed.

‘Never,’ said Rachaela, ‘speak to men.’

Christmas came. They did not celebrate it, although with Emma they always had. Rachaela gave Ruth three books and some multi-coloured paints. Ruth gave Rachaela one of her Ruth-type presents, this time a long candle shaded through vermilion to orange, and this they burnt as their one festive token.

For Ruth’s eleventh birthday, a week or so before, Rachaela had given Ruth a dress she wanted, scarlet and apple green, and Ruth wore it on Christmas Day.

They ate chicken, peas and chips, apple Danish and cream.

Outside the rain, which had taken over again from the snow, fell in grey torrents.

The day was otherwise normal. Rachaela played music, Ruth painted. There was a play on the radio about the Three Wise Men lost on the Ml.

On Christmas night Ruth went for her nightly bath and came out in her nightdress.

‘Mummy.’

‘What is it?’

‘You said I was to tell you.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve started.’

Rachaela took a moment to catch up. Then she said, ‘You’ve got a period?’

‘Yes, Mummy.’

‘Did you manage all right?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Does it hurt? Do you want a paracetamol?’

‘No, it doesn’t hurt.’

‘That’s good.’

Ruth stood looking at her. Rachaela could imagine Emma would have been all congratulations and the joys of womanhood. Ruth had begun early as she, Rachaela, had done. She thought, inadvertently, Bleeding.

‘I’m different now,’ said Ruth.

‘Yes.’ Rachaela could think of nothing more to say.

Ruth walked behind her screen and was gone.

Chapter Fourteen

BY the end of January, Rachaela was working for Mrs Mantini at the antiques shop in Beaumont Street.

Mrs Mantini only wanted her in the afternoons and all day Saturday.

They did a surprisingly brisk trade, although mostly on the little things, the ewers and basins, china dogs, trays of ancient photographs. Certain of these reminded Rachaela of the Scarabae albums, the upright waxwork figures posed before palm trees—yet these people might once have been alive, the Scarabae had looked frozen dead for ever.

Mrs Mantini did not like Rachaela to sit and read in the shop. She wished her to dust the furniture, burnish the coal scuttle, and clean the windows. In spare moments she gave Rachaela boxes of jewellery or coins to sort, unvaluable items often to be highly priced.

The pay was not wonderful, but the job was fairly convenient.