‘Tell me your name then, if you still know it.’

‘I do know my name. I do know it! Who the hell do you think you are?’

‘I’m Lucy Pennant, who are you?’

‘I wrote it down somewhere.’

‘Did you? Well then?’

‘Yes, I wrote it down so that I should never forget it. But when I try to remember my own name I can’t, all I come up with is Lucy Pennant. For five minutes I was sure I was Lucy Pennant. But I’m not, I’m certainly not, I’ve my own name and I’ve written it down.’

‘Where did you write it?’

‘Oh, Lucy Pennant,’ she said and there were tears in her eyes, ‘I can’t remember. I just can’t remember. Though I know I wrote it somewhere, I know that I did. With a knife I scratched it. I was looking for it, you see, when Mr Briggs found me. I was taken to Mrs Piggott straight off and put to the heaps for two whole months as punishment and I’m not to see my tea strainer for two weeks neither, I do not know how I shall make it. And two months in the heaps!’

‘Just for looking about a bit?’

‘They don’t like it, they want you where they put you. And now I don’t think I’ll ever find my name.’

‘You and me,’ I said, ‘we’ll keep looking, we shan’t stop until we find it.’

‘They’ll put you to work in the heaps at the slightest thing,’ she said.

‘Well, they can go to hell, can’t they.’

‘That’s good,’ she said, ‘go to hell with them.’ When she smiled, which was rare, she looked so much more pleasant, even a bit pretty.

‘We shall find your name, I promise it,’ I said.

‘It’s all I can think of, even when I’m out there.’

‘What’s it like in the heaps so far out?’

‘It’s hell, that’s what it is, hell.’

‘Tell me.’

‘You never know if you’ll come back or not. You have to be so careful, suddenly the ground gives under you and you start sinking down. I don’t know what I’ll find tomorrow. P’rhaps I’ll find my own death. You stick to your firegrates, you hold onto them firm for all your life. But be careful up there and do exactly as they say and don’t run into any of the upstairs Iremongers, any of the family, or you’ll find yourself out in the heaps with me. When are you going up?’

‘As soon as Mr Briggs rings the bell.’

8

A LACE DOILY

Clod Iremonger’s narrative continued

The Last Breakfast

I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep. Pinalippy was in my head, and when, next morning came at last, with its thin light, I was already up and moving mournfully towards breakfasting.