I must have slept hours, she thought. She felt very feeble but clear-headed now. Her feet were still stiff with cold. With the blanket still round her, she stepped to the big log and sat down with her feet on the hearthstone. The sour pungency from her dress rose to her nostrils in the warmer air. She sat, breathing heavily, enduring. The birds had quietened. Only a constant cheeping of sparrows on the roof and occasionally a distant squawking of hens down the garden (Peter must have let them out) reached her ears.

Soon she caught the sounds of Peter’s voice and of a spade being struck into the ground, and then Peterkin’s more plaintive child’s voice, ‘But I can’t carry it when it’s any fuller,’ and more distant grumbling from Peter. Clearing out the goat shed, she thought, taking the muck to the midden – hope he doesn’t disturb the sitting hens – making Peterkin carry the buckets of muck.

The blessings of warmth gradually penetrated her feet. She pulled up her dress and let the warmth spread to her shins and fill the cave created by her thighs and skirt. She glanced at the shelf. The fat earthenware pot, which, standing inverted over bread, protected it from mice, was on its side, and the bread, a pile of flat scones, had been reduced, telling Marion that they had breakfasted. She wondered how far advanced the day was. The cottage dimmed as Peterkin appeared at the door, even his small body taking the light.

‘Mam – are you awake? Father said I was to look in and not wake you if you wasn’t.’

‘Yes, I’m awake. Did you have some bread?’

‘Yes, and Hilda Shepherd gave me some milk. Her bucket’s just outside, and father got a bucket of water up. You did sleep, Mam.’

‘How’s Nanny?’

‘She hasn’t had her kid yet. Father gave her more water.’ He turned and called out, ‘Mam’s awake.’

Peter appeared at the door, dimming the cottage. He bowed his head and came in, spade in hand, and asked how she was.

‘I’m all right,’ she said, tradition forbidding complaints, specially from women. ‘I slept.’

‘You did indeed,’ said Peter. ‘So did the little one. She woke up soon after light and I gave her a bit of bread sloppy in water and she slept again. She’s in a real stinking state.’

‘I’ll wash her stuff,’ said Marion, wondering how she would find strength to do so, and even if she had the strength, would the stream at the water-place be frozen over, and how would she get Alice’s clothes dry?

‘Will you come to Mass?’ Peter asked.

‘Is it noon already?’

‘Can’t be far off. I told you, you slept.’

Marion stretched out a hand to the boot-drying rack under the shelf and pulled her sheepskin boots to her. Once they had been a treasure; now they were mostly worn clear of wool inside and had a large split by the toes on the left boot. She pushed her superficially warmed feet into them, rose, threw back the blanket on to the bed, picked up a small roll of woollen material from the supports under the shelf and lifted Alice from the cradle.