‘So shy,’ Mr Rashid said. ‘And she doesn’t speak English, never bothered to learn.’ He shook his head as if gravely disappointed, although he clearly relished speaking for them both, and at nineteen to the dozen. They lived above the premises, he told them, and still sent half their income back to Pakistan, where a worrying number of relatives were depending upon it, and if he could go back himself, he would, just for a holiday mind you, because this was home, Attercliffe was home.

Dan, aware of the march of time, said with some finality, ‘Well, thanks for everything, Mr Rashid,’ and they started to move towards the door, saying their goodbyes, but then an elderly man came into the shop, blocking their exit. He was wheezing and thumping his chest, but managed an ‘Ey up’ to Mr Rashid, who said, ‘Ah, right, now this is Mr Higgins, and he knows everybody, don’t you, Mr Higgins?’

‘Postman,’ Mr Higgins said economically, preserving his rationed breath. ‘Retired.’

‘And a local councillor,’ Mr Rashid said, as if this was a matter of personal pride. ‘Very esteemed.’

‘Aye, well.’ Mr Higgins accepted the compliment with a grim smile. ‘Darnall ward, for my sins.’

‘We’re looking for my brother,’ Ali said to him, more from politeness than any real hope. ‘Peter Connor. He used to work at Brown Bayley’s, but that’s probably no help.’

‘Long gone, that,’ Mr Higgins said. ‘There’s no steelworks here any more.’

‘No, we know that. Well, thanks anyway,’ Dan said, and he held open the door so Ali and the dog could beat a retreat, but Mr Higgins wasn’t finished.

‘There’s a Pete Connor runs a chippy not far off, over Tinsley way.’ He paused and took a shallow gulp of air. ‘Big fat lad wi’ a lazy eye, tha can never tell if he’s serving thee or t’next bugger.’

Ali said, ‘Peter wasn’t fat, although I suppose he might be now, but he didn’t have a lazy eye.’ She wouldn’t look at Dan; she didn’t want to laugh. She edged towards the open door. Mr Higgins breathed, preparing to speak again.

‘And there’s a Peter Connor, not Pete, he’s always Peter, up at Northern General,’ he said. ‘Up at hospital, tha knows?’

‘No,’ Ali said. ‘I don’t think so. He wasn’t a medical man.’

‘Porter. Hospital porter.’ He thumped his chest again furiously, frustrated by the inadequacy of his lungs.

Mr Rashid leaned across his counter to join the conversation without leaving his station. ‘Asthma clinic, you see,’ he said. ‘Respiratory problems. Mr Higgins is a regular,’ and Mr Higgins, ready to speak again, said, ‘Peter Connor’s pushed me on them gurneys more’n once, when I’ve not been able to breathe enough to walk. Grand lad. No sister though.’